ere... they... come!
10 songs, 25 minutes, wham, bam, fuck you ma’am, less a debut album than a seedy grope in an all-night cinema, The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster are here and they want to fuck your mother. Thrashing out of balmy Brighton like an Elvis Of Death on nasty-assed drugs, they’ve never seen the sunlight that Fatboy Slim or The Electric Soft Parade seem so keen to bask in; a bullet to your dog, Norman!
Coming up from the underground like a rabid animal, Horse Of The Dog is the best and worst excesses of savage guitar noise wrapped up in one buzzing, gnashing package of psychosis, Oedipal lust and affectation, an electric shock charade where the singer looks like Make Up’s Ian Svenonius and hollers his hyper-sexual butcher songs like Jim Morrison gone punk, a howling garage-thrash racket twitching through gonzo-riff after gonzo-riff behind him, everything over and done with inside two-and-a-half minutes. In the dark. With your mother.
When they hit a full-blown tune rather than just a riff, a howl and a clatter, TEMBD are awesome, the band ...Trail Of Dead would be if you stripped away the artifice and feeling with caustic soda. “Morning Has Broken” is fantastic dirty lust-rock, and “Celebrate Your Mother” is the best song about shagging mothers that you’ll hear all year. With titles like “Whack Of Shit” and “Team Meat” they clearly mean brutal business, and know not to outstay their welcome.