This is frantic, fibrous, a Kat Bjelland-like vocal blender. All hot potato vowel action, roller-coasting a gnarly pickle of a backing.
over-the-cliff spontaneity
A Meredith Monk cave painting of multi-erupting misrule, spitting feathers and glutinous jelly tangling up and clawing on old school Arto Lindsay-like fret lunacy and buck-a-roo grunts. The bush fire insanity of those guitars fills me with so much joy — that thrown-over-the-cliff spontaneity stapling a biro(ed) fixed grin.
The Mule Peasants’ Revolt Of 12,067 is an enormous overwhelming racket of an album, full throttle loon. When it dials it down, it’s all sweet burbling barbs and nervousness, the splattering of beats spiriting a slobbering collection of mis-shapes through a delicious bucket of fried goods mid-tickle.
riot of scribbled crayon
This Manchester four piece have produced a slapped fish face of an album, like a next generation Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 and then some. An elbowing riot of scribbled crayon that breathes plenty of originality, its fractured rhythms far removed from manufactured.
mostly unintelligible
I’m lost in the primal gargling glow of it all — a Don van Vliet-filleted enormity weaselling troubling artwork. The lyrics are mostly unintelligible until just after the half-way mark, then you hit the hilariously titled “I Could Not Look In My Lung” and you actually begin to piece together what’s being sung ( though I’m not sure that’s the correct word for what’s happening).
The acapella break-down on “The Greasy Wheels of Industry” is another brilliant moment, a chanted call-to-arms anthem that gets inside your head and never leaves. Yeah, this is great – an apple cart of upset to any rhythm.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
