I didn’t get to do much when I was a young’un. I was brought up in a fairly dodgy area, surrounded by neighbours with pervy eyeballing movements and the odd Polish person. People would sometimes hang about after dark and try to steal cars (often failing quite miserably), and there was an old couple a few doors down that persisted in calling me Bartley. My parents never dared to be so rude as to correct them.

I was never allowed to go outside on my own until I was about 10. My poor mother lived in fear of me heading down to the park, sniffing some pritt stick and pretending to get all “high” and stuff. Either that or manically fingering some slightly older but downright skanky, chip-pan faced sod-for-brains girl behind the bushes. With her Puma popper trackie bottoms and shouting racist but still awkwardly irrelevant words at passing cars and getting “well pissed” on a J20.

PAH! Oh Pritt you old wally, you.

I never done none of that fun stuff. At 12 I was an ugly, disgustingly fat kid who for some strange reason shaved my bonce off completely, thought Korn were the shizznit and had a rack of teeth strikingly similar to a handful of broken hula hoops (that was until I got the black coloured braces due to me being such a devoted “grunger”, oh what a social statement to make in those days).

BOO! Guess whoooo?

I was never naughty at junior school, and if I got told off I’d probably cry for an hour and try forcing a little wee out into my pants. I’d never go playing on the railway tracks or anything. Hell, I practically pooed myself one time when I went to the newsagents to buy some matches at the age of 11.

What I’m basically saying then, is that I was a right massive shameful pussy… and I pretty much still am, albeit taller, skinner and with slightly better teeth. But at least I’m honest about it.

Yet when I occasionally stagger my way out of these four walls covered in my own dried faeces, I often stumble upon a few people from my secondary school years (which was notably an all boys school and certainly prolonged my entry in to the sexually active world by about, hmm… two years? …and I’m still feeling the effects).

So when I gradually move forward to make conversation with some of these people – once some form of intoxication has taken place of course, I only really talk to about nine people when I’m sober – I’m fully expecting a little frilly, high-pitched girl’s voice to pop right on out of their face traps, just like how I remember from the olden times. I start hoping that they’ll jabber on about some HIGHLARIOUS Warhammer nonsense, or how awesome Papa Roach are, or boasting about how many wanks they managed in one day, just to give me some kind of excuse to subtly take the Mitchell without them coming to any kind of realisation… and resulting in nobody getting upset or hurt.*

But what do I get instead? I’m stopped in my tracks with a deep, gravelly voice, words chopped apart and forced out into the open with an angry, turbulent thud. A true Sittingbourne accent, one that sounds like these people have been brought up on some windowlicker farm where everyone has a wildly mutated Adam’s apple and just drink handfuls of bleach. A place where people don’t look at dictionaries, they just bash the keyboard in their brain until a sequence of letters comes out that just about make enough sense to roll of their tongues.

Suddenly my initial giddy excitement turns into some minor form of slight intimidation. Next thing I know, I’m trying to defer my attention away whilst remaining politely responsive, as I’m told a story about how they recently beat the living crud sticks out of some really old aged pensioner, just because he had a large lower lip that was capable of engulfing half a face and he quite liked to show it off.

This is Shoebox. We don’t know where she came from, but we do know she has beautiful eyes.

But the problem is I kind of do it too, at least when I’m drinking. All of a sudden I lose the ability to pronounce my ‘t’ or ‘h’, and this weird, half-arsed attempt at being cockney flops out, like I’m some kind of lout who drinks a shedload of lager, pulls some orange girl and drills her by the bins. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done that. But that’s how you might imagine me to be if you couldn’t really see me properly, but for some strange reason you could hear my drunken voice.

Sadly though, I don’t really have the stories about scary fights or car crashes that I usually have to cringe to. Although there was this one time I donked my pathetic excuse for a fist into some ginger kid’s face on New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago. But immediately after this I found myself getting slapped back by several of his friends. This lead to my cheek swelling up so much it looked like I was sucking on a light bulb for three days and really, really enjoying it. My poor mother cried when she found out as well, wishing she’d never even let me go outside on my own in the first place. Poor lady.

IT’S EVIL.

But! I do have a good story which involves me finding a dildo and thinking it was my Christmas present when I was about four. But I guess that’ll have to wait.

You are the Egg Men. I am the Walrus. Goo Goo G’Joob.

Brad x

*Yeah, a lot of any such people could probably hurt me quite a lot, which is why I’m not writing about anyone in particular… as such… or am I? **

**No.

Every now and then a song comes out with a perfectly descriptive song title, like it's the musical equivalent of Ronseal or something, it does exactly what it says on the tin.

The fact is, Riton & Primary1's latest track, Radiates, kind of, well, radiates from your speakers. It sounds like plenty of stuff you've heard before, sure. But it's short, sweet, fast and horribly catchy, to the point where you'll either: a) raise a smile whenever you hear it, thinking happy thoughts and being at peace with the world, or, b) want to punch yourself in the face repeatedly until the sounds you hear are no longer recognisable and pain is no longer an issue. Now only the most emotionally fragile may take up the latter, but a few of us that 'might not mind it' now will no doubt be sniping it down with our nasty words in a mere few weeks.

AA

Verdict: Alright but potentially a pile of poo

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Listening to Acoustic Ladyland can be a little confusing at the best of times. It's like it's jazz, but it's not really jazz, instead it's some kind of scary, slightly mental hybrid pretending to be a post-rock band. It's jazz if saxophones were the coolest instruments in the world, if Jimi Hendrix had used his mouth instead of his spindly fingers, if 'Baker Street' was the greatest anthem ever recorded.

Initially 'The Mighty Q' starts off as a slow, dark and dreary track, yet just as you think this song's about to burst into some angst-riddled monster of a rock bastard, we're treated to a build up of more uplifting, colourful sounds, an unusual twist which grips your ears with strange, warm bewilderment. It's really splendid, but if I were to pitch this to my friends as a starting point for a band, they'd only point and laugh. Kudos for making it work.

AAA

Verdict: Alright

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Within the first few seconds of pressing play on this record, you know full well what you've got yourself in to. Jangly, echoed guitars briefly mess with your ears before a rather jumpy beat takes over and leaves you tapping at least two parts of your body against the nearest surface (probably annoying someone near you in the process – or getting funny looks depending on the body part). It's certainly one for the dancefloor, and if Robot Disaster were a superhero, this would be their super power, the ability to get you moving as their poppy, indie disco leaks into your pumping veins like a toned down, less painful and much chummier Test Icicles. That or it's like heroin decorated with tiny little thunderbolts and neon love hearts.

AAAA
Verdict: Good

Written for Artrocker Magazine

Elliot Minor have taken their fair share of flak in their short careers. After the release of their debut in 2008, they've been accused of immaturity and selling records primarily aimed at the swooning teen fangirl market, with classically influenced pop/emo/punk/crap songs ready to be chewed up and screamed out by the horrible, spotty faces of ugly 13-year-olds with monstrous, stupid looking hair, bemusingly colourful, poorly applied eye shadow and strange, cheap, fluorescent leggings that make everyone look like a prick from the future.

So you can forgive them for trying to sound a little bit more 'adult' for this, their second album and honest stab at trying to be genuine, 'Solaris'.

It's no real stark difference, only instead of going over the top and drowning our ears with over-emphasised string sections, the orchestral element becomes far more subtle, leading to a better balanced bunch of songs to make up the tracklisting.

Recent single 'Electric High' shows that they can attempt a decent rock effort with some slightly more glamorous guitar playing, where as title track 'Solaris' is emphatic and loud, showing off some nice production and sounding like a song you would easily find on a future Twilight soundtrack, which could also be said for much of the album.

It's still not good though. It's clear that effort has been made to be taken more seriously, and the album probably just about surpasses it's predecessor. But maybe it's all down to the likeability factor and their astounding lack of it, because you still can't help but think they're a little, err, uninteresting. Which is harsh, but it's likely any self-respecting music listener probably won't bother to carry on after track five or six, such is the mundane, arduous feeling that surrounds this entire record. But hey, it's the thought that counts, and you can't fault them for giving it a go. Bless.

Verdict: Shit

Written for Rivmixx.com

The final words written on the press release for Converge's 'Axe To Fall' read as follows: “Prepare yourself for the year's most vicious album.” Now, come on, that's a bit heavy, isn't it? Vicious? Do I want to encounter a vicious album in this modern world? Won't that be a little bit scary? Shall I just play it quietly just in case the neighbours say something?

Nah, sod it, let's see how this one pans out. Right, first track, 'Dark Horse'. Ah drumming and bass, that's a good start. Nice bit of steady drumming, bit of bass, maybe this'll be fine, oh, wait no, he's shredding, 15 seconds and the guitarist is fully shredding. Enter vocals, lots of incoherent screaming and madness ensues like a bubble being burst by a torrent of the most hardcore fireworks you can afford. It's the musical equivalent to being smacked in the face repeatedly by the spikey fist of Satan himself. We're talking mentalist head banging right here, you probably get the picture.

Again, dipping into the press release we're fed words such as “fierce” and “aggressive”, themes that flow through the entire album. It's clever, that's for sure, as the lightning paced guitar riffs change and mutate throughout each song, linking up with the impressive drumming skills on show, and the noise created can only be described as immense.

Obviously if you're buying or listening to the album you'd have a pretty good idea as to how it's going to sound. Tracks like 'Effigy' and the title track are short, frenetic, fast-paced bundles of horrific energy and borderline insanity, and 'Damages' shows a true sense of ability and creativity song-writing wise, giving the listener a brief period of respite before lashing back out and seemlessly battering away like a nuclear bomb conveniently exploding on a mass of amplifiers.

It's well structured, hyperactive mayhem, absolute carnage all wrapped up in a little bundle of CD goodness, and for fans of the hardcore genres it'll swiftly fit right in with the rest of your music collection.

Verdict: Shit

Written for Rivmixx.com

Psst, come here! Yeah, you, over there, with the yellow tinge running all over your face and far too much time on your hands, sitting there, idly trolling through the web looking for your next fix of pointless information to repeat to your friends in an even more pointless fashion, thus rendering you completely and utterly pointless to the point where you’re basically an oversized orange casually sitting on a chair. Yeah, that’s it, you! Let me tell you a little secret… one that I’ve really tried to keep quiet for the best part of the year, not that I’m ashamed or anything, and not that you’re probably not already aware, but just because it may be a little bit boring, but anyway… I fucking love Twitter.

Like, I really love it. I spend more time on it than anything else, I tweet more than I sleep. I tweet outside, inside, upside down, whilst having sex, whilst on the toilet, I tweet trying on shoes, making toast and shaving. Hell, I’ve tweeted in my dreams three times before. But I love it for reasons you may not quite expect.

Twitter is the best thing on the internet right now, and I really don’t care if you disagree. You hear the same thing all the time from the boring doubters; “It’s not as good as Facebook, it doesn’t have pictures”, “It’s just a load of people talking at each other”, “It’s only good for celebrities”. It’s this latter part that completely defines Twitter for me: Celebrities. But I don’t mean following them or caring about anything at all that comes from their scabby, money-grabbing fingers (even though Peter Serafinowicz is absolutely HIGHLARRYOOS on there). Oh God no. As if I care about the words of some egotistical, vain, self-obsessed show off who only cares about his own opinions and isn’t a single bit arsed about anyone else’s (err…).

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The true reason I totally bum Twitter to death isn’t to hear, acknowledge or understand why Jonathan Ross is still banging on about Sachs-gate, or why Stephen Fry wants to make love to a tiny chimp-like creature, no, I bum Twitter ‘cos I like the celebrity death rumours that seem to occur almost all the time.

With this ever growing list of famous people dying throughout the year, people across the globe seem to have really been inspired by all these dead celebrities. One bored person decides to make a mock up of a popular, trusted news provider and, usually never actually intending on it going further than a few friends who are no doubt ‘in on the joke’, they link it on their Twitter.

Then some numb nuts (usually a slightly stalkerish fanboy/fangirl) happens to search for said celebrity, sees the tweet, believes the hype and passes it on to all their silly little followers.

Just last night, before attempting to enter the land of nod, I saw Zach Braff on the trending topics. Which would be odd ‘cos Zach Braff just left Scrubs and was probably sat at home, crying in the corner, smashing his against the wall screaming “idiot!” whilst waiting for his career to completely nosedive. But people probably wouldn’t have known that.

Actual photo of Braff pre-skull bashing

Within minutes this can be seen all over Twitter. Suddenly you get random people spouting a load of rubbish like “Zach Braff RIP”.

Now, one must be quick to point out that these people are usually American. Over here in Britain, we usually wait until the BBC has reported it before we accept anything whatsoever, so we’re less inclined to just believe absolutely every little piece of shit we read on a computer screen. Although that doesn’t include every single one of us mind, every nation has its morons. Ours just don’t know how to use computers yet.

Anyway, so news spreads that Braff had died when really he was fine and dandy and probably a tad confused. Apparently it all started from this website – which has now been changed to some kind of statement explaining all what happened, including Braff himself calling the guy a “douchebag”.

I, of course, find it all hilarious, the way such ‘news’ can travel around the world in an instant - to the point where actual news providers have to come out and deflate the claims - just ‘cos some geek in the States knows how to use Photoshop a little bit.

It’s happened tonnes of times though, and always with the most random of celebrities. When Patrick Swayze died a few weeks ago, I remained sceptical for hours until the beeb finally reported it, simply because I was pretty sure I’d heard about him dying at least three times in the past, and I might have already thought he was dead and still not given a shit.

A lot of these hoaxes tend to follow the exact same pattern as well, presumably because of any such web-page generator they’re using. In 2006 – obviously pre-Twitter – Tom Hanks was the subject of a mass e-mail rumour when someone clocked on to a website stating that he’d “fallen off a cliff somewhere in New Zealand”. Obviously this wasn’t true, he was in California or somewhere else utterly generic, but people believed it so his people had to make a statement.

A mere few months later, the same thing happened Tom Cruise. Like, exactly the same. He also conveniently fell off some cliffs in New Zealand. And people still believed it. Admittedly it’s quite a rural country and no doubt those cliffs are some slippery motherflippers, and maybe they weren’t signposted enough or something, but who’d have funk those cliffs would kill two Hollywood stars in a matter of months? If I were famous I’d stay well clear of New Zealand, let alone it’s cliffs.

But wait, hang on, the holy grail of celebrity death hoaxes, and probably Twitter peaking in its own brilliance:

This, right here, is the reason I fell in love with Twitter. In amongst the tragic and downright earth-shattering news of Michael Jackson’s death, some guy on the other side of the world thought it would be "well funny" to pretend that Jeff Goldblum, JEFF GOLDBLUM was dead. Now who the hell conjures up that idea? Someone with the best imagination ever? Totally. Someone I'd probably want to be friends with? Totally.

And guess what? He died in New Zealand! Can you imagine if someone famous actually does fall off a cliff over there? No one in their right mind would believe it anymore. Apart from maybe the Americans. And Channel 9 News.

But you know what they say, so long as you believe in something enough, it'll happen. And so vast is the speed and power of Twitter, anyone can be proclaimed dead within a couple of hours. So I'm gonna start hash tagging #JohnnyBorrellRIP and see what happens. Feel free to join me.

Brad x

Everyone hates unemployed people. “Sponging off the state” you might hear them say, with their Marks and Spencer shopping bags filled with swanky dead animals you never knew were edible. “Lazy scum” scream others from their shiny hybrid Mercs. “The shit on the sole of society’s shoe” yells the conservative voter in the corner there, with his rich daddy who got him his first job in the big wide world and still buys his underwear for him.

Get over it, we’re not all that bad.

It’s not as if I’m unemployed through choice. I mean, I know it’s my fault, I picked a stupid university course to study, an overpriced city to live and study in and a rubbish trade to try and earn my living, that being the scabies-riddled shit heap world of journalism.

Plus, Jesus, didn’t I time it well? Let’s graduate in an economic crisis, the one time when magazines and publishers don’t want to take risks, when employers are downsizing and the only people getting jobs are old timers with cobwebs up their arses and significantly more substance on their hand-written, coffee stained CVs.

I’m not bitter - much. It’s just lame when people pass judgement without actually knowing how difficult the situation is. Some people have worked hard and done well, notably the more talented, well-organised and better connected females with much prettier faces, and the people who aren’t reserved, mumbling, pessimistic arseholes like yours truly.

So when employed friends or family give me stick for not being employed I tend to let it slide. Or force myself to realise they’re only trying to help, without realising all they’re actually doing is coming across as patronising little buggers. There’s not always a simple enough solution to people’s recommendations of “just get off your dirty arse and get a bloody job” …just what the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time?

So what happens? You start doing unpaid internships where you’re sat in the corner of a poorly ventilated room, doing everyone else’s unwanted dirty work and watching them reap the rewards in the form of a monthly wage. It’s all in the name of experience, right? Yeah, sure, here’s a list of all the things I’ve ever learnt from internships and work experience placements:

1) Papercuts hurt like fuck

2) Hot water hurts like fuck

3) Spitting in your editor’s tea will make the days go faster*

4) Stealing is really, really fun and makes you feel A LOT better

Number three is actually a little harsh, as two of the internships I’ve done have actually been useful (stand up Artrocker Magazine and Rocket PR – you guys are safe, this doesn’t apply to you, I’d never spit in your tea), but the rest of them, especially anything based anywhere around Oxford Street, you’re a bunch of goons.

The other thing that really grinds my gears (lame Family Guy reference, I’m just as bad as the rest of them, sorry) are people that work in the job centre. I thought it was the sensible option to go on the dole. I get £52 a week, which ain’t exactly helpful, but the people in there seem to think they’re the love child of Sir Alan Sugar and Simon Cowell.

Yes, this did actually happen

Here’s an example; I was two minutes late for my last sign on – which I cunningly blamed on the Sittingbourne buses that plod along the roads like a bunch of dying raccoons who’ve accidently munched a few skag needles. And oh my, the looks I get walking in there. Waving through the groups of chav scum loitering by the door (you know, the types that still sniff glue and hold their ball sacks all day), the eyes given to me by coffee slurping ‘big shots’ in that building tear through my wirey frame like a flaming samurai sword slicing through a plastic bowl of piss.

My fellow jobcentre peoples

It’s like they’re supposed to be big shots. They’ve got their jobs and we’re causing them some sort of inconvenience for not having jobs and requiring their help. They act like they shouldn’t have to be there. But wait, hang on, don’t they need us just as much as we need them? I mean, fuck, if there weren’t any jobless people there’d be no need for the job centres, so don’t look down on me like I’m causing you problems, arsewipe. I’m giving you work to do so you can feed your inbred children, so do your job and help find me a job rather than jabbering on to eachother about how you think you might be going through the menopause or some shit. Ah thank you!

Plus who are you to judge, Snooty McSmugarse? You work in a bloody job centre. I think that means a nice old ‘nuff said’ is in order.

So sod you lot. As soon as I get a job I’m posting a card through their letter box with some scribbles simply saying “cunts”, poorly scrawled with my own poo, of course.

Brad x

* NOTE TO EDITORS - I didn't actually do any spitting, nor did any of my fruitful bodily fluids reach any tasty beverages

I’ve only ever felt shame in my life a few times.

One of the first times (picked especially from my selective memory) was when I threw up during a school disco in year two. Maybe it was a sure fire sign of things to come, but to cut a long story short I ate some super dodgy wotsits and ended up projectile vomiting across two of those wrestling style fold up tables, all over various bits of food (that may or may not have later been eaten by another child – most likely the snotty kid) and all over the recently varnished glossy gym floor. I remember legging it to the toilets to finish the job properly, only to come back and see half of my mates skidding across it and having a massively amazing time at my sicky expense.

Another time I’ve found myself crying inside with shame was when – in the midst of showing off and trying to be the ‘weird, quirky, crazy kid’ at school, I downed an entire litre of cold chocolate milkshake and munched a load of 29p foam sweets during a lunch break in a Sainsbury's cafe, IN SIXTH FORM. You could kind of tell things were going wrong when the mild tripping started, not to mention when I started sweating brown liquid and smelling like a mouldy Milka bar.

I moved to the toilet relatively sharpish after the stomach spasms began to occur, and obviously did the dirty right there and then. It was like I’d turned into a malfunctioning chocolate fountain, I spewed freezing cold brown milk juice everywhere, rarely actually hitting the water in the toilet. In fact, a majority of it hit the sides of the cubicle, leaving it looking like that loo from the beginning of Trainspotting. It was like joke vomit, like, you know in Guest House Paradiso when Simon Pegg and his family are all vomiting for yards on end because they’ve eaten nuclear fish? Yeah, it was literally like that, only brown and icy with the odd piece of strawberry shaped foam mixed in, not fluorescent green and bubbly.

Of course, I immediately took a picture and told my friends to come meet me in there to show them the good work I’d produced. Sadly though, all good feeling was spoilt during the incident when a man and his young son came in and heard me throwing up like the girl from The Exorcist. This led to the son awkwardly asked his father: “What’s that noise Dad?” “I don’t know, son” “And what’s that smell?” “I don’t know, let’s just get out of here”. I’m hoping that’s a moment that will scar the poor lad for life. The aftermath photo still exists on one of my old phones, one which I can’t be bothered to find for you.

Vague recreation: Although this looks more like actual poo, and my milkshake mess wasn’t really in the toilet much…

Then there was the time I was forcibly removed from some wanky club in Mayfair only to be put in the back of an ambulance and thoroughly mocked by the paramedics (“look at Pete Doherty in the corner there, ROFL”). Again, to cut a long story short, a swift intake of various mixtures left my stomach eagerly churning, and after spending what felt like five minutes (it was actually closer to an hour) in a plush toilet throwing up everywhere and eroding the suave seat with my bile, I was literally picked up by the huge security goblins and dropped in a gutter like the big massive cliché London is.

After having rich couples in Ferraris sneer past me for about an hour, it was only until a gang of hoodlums stumbled past and called an ambulance on my grateful behalf that my luck eventually turned. This is the same group of lads who openly admitted that on any other day they probably would have just mugged me had they not been in such good spirits, so that was pretty lucky. Not that there was much to mug, and I don’t think my shoes were quite to their taste in fairness. It was the equivalent of a Jewish person offering Hitler some Lemsip because he had the sniffles and it was most probably catching.

Here’s me in a gutter. Notice tag hanging out of bum crack.

The reason I bring all this up, and the point I was intending on making before I inadvertently got really distracted by my horrible history, is because I’ve just had to move back in with my Mum after graduating from university. And I’m confused as to whether I should be ashamed about this or not. I’m fully aware that this has absolutely nothing to do with vomit and yet all previous examples do (that was completely unintentional), but perhaps I feel like I’m ‘puking my life away’.

Having spent the past two years of my life as a semi self-sufficient adult in London, doing my own washing, occasionally cooking my own food, rarely doing my own ironing, I feel a bit silly moving back to this shitty little East Kent town I for some reason know as home. Should I feel ashamed that I wasn’t quick enough out of the blocks to get a job sorted straight after I graduated? Should I feel ashamed that I’m back in my blue bedroom with shit posters fit for a 14-year-old loser, like the one I once was? Should I feel ashamed that my mum is once again washing my dirty pants for me?

Answers on a postcard sent to whoever the fuck you want.

Brad x

Remember when The Cribs used to be the coolest band in the country? When the Jarman trio didn't give a toss about anything at all, be it proper recordings, shunning the music press, slagging off their peers or even physical safety? When everyone in Yorkshire wanted to be seen as their bestest buddies for bonus indie brownie points?

Well, sadly, it seems these days are long gone, at least for the hardcore fans. When this lot first arrived they were something special, they were different, they had an edge over the rest. Their tinny, bedroom-esque recordings were a breath of fresh air that kept the music genuine. And their punk influenced pop songs were miles better than all the other soon-to-become-mainstream bands at the time. But now it seems the unruly saviours have finally succumbed to the pressures of the current music scene, and gone and made an album to forget instead.

It's not a terrible record by any means. Getting Johnny Marr on board has clearly enhanced their technical abilities – something they weren't necessarily recognised for before. Opening track 'We Were Aborted' makes a good first impression with its scratchy guitars and loud, football terrace style chorus, and it'll no doubt be a sure fire hit when played live, but it's definitely no 'Mirror Kissers'. Marr's influence is immediately recognisable in and amongst the thuds usually created by Ryan's often limited, bashful playing style. And whilst this may be great to a Radio 1 listener, those who bought the first two records might be crying a little inside.

The radio-friendly option follows rather quickly, with recent single 'Cheat on Me' – which sounds a little too similar to 'Man's Needs' off their last release. This signifies the worrying thought that, actually, The Cribs haven't really moved on at all, bar perhaps a little bit of fancy guitar playing dumped on top of everything.
The album plods along, with 'Emasculate Me' getting the toes tapping with a load of feedback driven guitar work. However, whilst it's pleasing to see Gary getting a majority of the focus this time around, nothing really helps distinguish this as a masterpiece or a stand out record. Which means, that for the first time, The Cribs have really made rather a massive hash of things.

Verdict: SHIT

Brad x

Rivmixx