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45 GRAVE
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"I love you, That's the truth,  Proving that the earth will yield its secrets over time I set off to
investigate the myth of 45 Grave with all the zeal of a righteous
Victorian antiquarian, fully prepared to dodge old demons and lay to rest
for ever any tormented souls I came across that had been lingering in punk
purgatory, after they were mentioned to me some months back at a party.
The shocked disbelief of the chap who mentioned 'em to me spurred me on
but also that my chum Don Sam who'd played in goth bands supporting the
Nephilim and Creaming Jesus (oh, and The Marionettes!) hadn't heard of
them either, meant this was either bullshit or I had to don my
investigative journo garb and brave all kinds of weather and worn leather
to dig up this resurrected beast.Anyhow, shorn of all this superfluous slurry what I ended up with was this beautifully horrific cataclysmic racket. Trench warfare attrition between Bauhaus' early corpse cold artiness vying with it's unbled Bowie bohemia and The Birthday Party's always crashing the same car carelessly into the spy in the cab set to a narrative of Pete Murphy's arch cackle coming from backstage behind the cold war curtain, sometimes unlistenable, always disconcertingly bewitching. So, veering between sloppy inspiration and amateurish genius they suck you into a vengeful vortex, hypnotic horrorpunk death boogie and bloodlust ballads slashed out with a barely contained restraint like a psycho killer desperately trying to leave a summers day unscarred and unsuffering, flailing in the frenzy of a failing, death-famished dopamine dearth, confrontational yet cute, horrendous spectral skronkitis tempered with a dose of delirium delivered from the hands of Paul Cutler, possessed by Roky Erickson's zombie walking 'Five Runes' record guitar maestro Duane Aslaksen for fleeting moments before returning to his normal rigor-role playing with the hand of Randy Rhoads. The otherworldly schizoid split of gaunt grandeur and growling guard dog spitting your girlfriends gristle at you of tracks like 'Bad Love', 'Dream Hits' - imagine the Manson Family massacring Syndicate of Sounds 'Little Girl' and making skull mountains out of their Nuggets compadres - reminds me of when I fell in love with Bauhaus' 'Press The Eject...' album all those blue moons ago. In comparison to the more effete UK goth brigade it's interesting to note that the caustic cauldron of sub-Stooges riffs, West Coast speedcore of the time and dismembered song structures was born under the same bad sign as the emerging thrash metal scene...some of this isn't too far from some early Slayer, especially when spearheaded with the skin scouring vocals of Dinah Cancer, whose voice aptly swoops like a harpy at the head of her hordes, spreading germs and garroting guitar germs like an invidious disease, causing sores to sprout and suppurate over your body, blistering lungs and infesting intestines, not unlike the evil twin of Tex & The Horseheads Texacala Jones and the elder sister of The Chickenhawks Betsy Badly. Like the arsenic ailing smashed mirror guitar shards slashing seven lifetimes of bad luck into your willing soul Cancer's vocal squall is a deleted scene from an eroticore film, a spine ripped out as a result of back scratching fuck frenzy that'd scare the tattoos off the slayer from Wolf Creek. This psycho deli devil drunk m(or)ass is an unflinching, unforgiving, merciless mauling from the unforgiven. And should thus be heeded heedlessly by any greasy ghouls and spiky souls, backcombed blood bathers and latex licking leather lovers alike. ________________________________________________________ |
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-Stu Gibson |