Taking drugs…to make music…to take drugs to! Whilst drinking a four pack and burning something in the oven feels like all that is left of our wild years, The Futurians’ latest hammering transmission of degenerate death-trip rock y roll from 10,000 leagues under Dunedin may yet serve to shake up deez increasingly senile proceedings. A ten-minute steamroller of blunt, psychedelic, heavy-space-hooligan musik - shrouded in deranged, slurred football chants and de-calibrated, fucked-over-the-head-with-a-lava-lamp war drumming that churn together with enough incessant menace to make wan feel like their skull has been ground up and scattered on the floor of a particularly boisterous elephant enclosure (eh?).
Circling the vocal / percussive bruise-cruise like some chrome-plated, bionic vulture reconnoitering the astral battlefield is the CJA’s guitar - played with gnarled bloodied claws that are ill-designed for chords or any kinda fragile fretboard finesse, instead plunging into nosedives of SEARING, psychedelic-speed-freak fuzz-drowned threat/torment. FEELS like a band of plastered space-molluscs doing a version of “Blind Baby Has It’s Mothers Eyes”, which you are hearing for the first time in a rowdy Millwall boozer. SOUNDS like fun.
Edish of 200 with postcard pasted sleeve, stamped white labels, insert. 45rpm.