Labels: Brew Records – Dance to the Radio
Review by: Morris Breadknife
So in some two birds with one stone kinda trickery comes this headbanging four way split release from Leeds labels Brew and Dance to the Radio commemorating both national record store day and that smashing excuse for a day off work, the Royal Wedding. Long live Kate and William, may they enjoy many fine years of marital bliss and bless our nation with a small horde of blue blooded children, although this record clearly disagrees, “It won’t last seven years” it says on the cover, under two portraits of the special couple daubed with Kiss makeup on a cracked memorial plate. Such cynicism. Such disrespect. Such contempt for tradition.
Anyways, first up are Dolphins, who despite the horrendous possible New Age connotations suggested by their choice of band name offer up a pleasing slice of Fudge Tunnelesque wallop. Short and sweet and rocking a wrong groove like your dad at a dancehall party. Nice.
Then Blacklisters, flirting dangerous with irony’s daughter by covering Kasabian’s Club Foot and transforming it into a meaty Jesus Lizard style crooner except with more screaming and less of the loose twisted jazz that made said band so great. Still, its tight and shiny and I bet they’re awesome live.
Three bands/songs in and we take a surefire trip downhill with Castrovalva and their sample laden rap rock which in mixing up Lighting Bolt’s distorto bass drum clatter and a smorgasbord of modern rap/R&B stylings comes off sounding more like some mid 90s tracksuit metal band or one of Mike Patton’s dodgier incarnations. Probably a wet dream for some folks but it don’t float my boat I’m afraid. Faith No More were to me the last word on this kinda shit.
Finally Chickenhawk who have inexplicably decided to change their name to Hawk Eyes and thus joined the ranks of all them other bands with eyes in their names and who remind me of a time when I used to sit on the floor in my bedroom dressed in black smokin spliffs with about 20ps worth of hash in em and listening to Metal Hammer compilation cds and thinkin that Fear Factory was the coolest goddamn thing in the whole world until I happened one day upon a Tortoise album and started sportin a turtle neck and a bumfluff goatee and calling folks “cats” and smokin’ reefer through an apple. Nostalgia aside this is pretty stompin in a kinda thumpin’ Queens of the Stoneage kinda way. Niiiiiiiice.