Fucking hell, if I was getting paid per word (rather than not getting paid at all and performing this whole exercise as a ridiculously pointless vanity project) I could probably clock off for the weekend now after writing that title. If the length in some way intimidates you (ooh Matron. You know; ‘length’. Like a penis’s length? You see? Very funny) then perhaps ‘Fuck Off…’ is not the album for you, as it hardly considers brevity a virtue- three of its five tracks break the ten minute mark and the record is not afraid of sounding EPIC. It is an absolute fantastic noise though, frequently and thrillingly dancing with the possibility of becoming unlistenable but instead always remaining absolutely and violently exhilarating. It’s a breathtaking and perhaps radical theory of what a punk rock orchestra would sound like and the music wriggles through your skull and lays eggs in your brain that spawn and mutate for many hours after listening. I accept that perhaps it’s not for everyone, but there exist people who don’t like olives or drinking or oral sex or football- some people, and I can’t stress this enough, are fucking idiots.
Fucking hell, I mean there’s red-eye and then there’s red-eye and then there’s…
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