I've tried listening to this album about four times now, all the way through, no interruptions. On the fourth attempt I began to realise why this had turned into a Sisyphus-like task; this is not an album, it's a fucking huge boulder of shite.

Mr Experimental Pop Band himself - aka "Davey" - comes across in his press release as a little bit street, a little bit hip hop and a little bit tragic. I'm guessing at his age here, but if, like him, I was trying to make swear words coupled with quirky breakbeats relevant at the age
of forty I'd jump into the nearest bath of ethanol and light up a large cigar.

This is tired music. Song after song crawls past, driven by flaky programmed beats and the odd guitar flourish. I'm briefly reminded of the Jam, with a hint of the Beta Band, but only briefly - just as an opening appears in soundscape for a breath of originality and melody,
Davy pulls us all back down with another childish terrace chant or a speaky speaky bit.

To be honest, I could give a bit of background on this band, how they've tried hard for years for people to notice them, how they've stayed true to their Bristol routes, how they're thankful for Cooking Vinyl for giving them an outlet for their art, but I won't, because I've already wasted far too much of my time listening to this.

words: Pieboy