Everything about this scream fracturing, fraying and fragmenting, the way it sickly seesaws cowered in a shadowy edginess, all the time distressed, angular and decidedly unhinged, quite perfect. Us being typically awkward have opted for the sets sore thumb, the parting and punishing ‘petrol head’ from Thank’s ridiculously limited cassette through the wonderful Cruel Nature imprint of Newcastle entitled ‘Sexghost Hellscape’. This blighter instils a chill, both primal and primitive, its weary mantra culturing the kind of freeform feral disquiet that hints both of seriously scowling Boys Next Door and Virgin Prunes, in truth much reminding us of the Vukovar live experience, yet scratch away a little deeper and we’ve an overwhelming urge to go rooting out forgotten platters by the criminally neglected Pure Morning for favourable comparison.

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