All stuff, images, text, falsehoods, troof contained on this page (C)(P)2007 ZIMPOON.
Never speak to people you don't know - they might be strangers.
Read about all favourite ZIMPOON and related CHUMS right here and now.  Amaze your friend
with your broad and vast knowledge of these Ker-ay-zee kats and their zany antics.  Then go
down the pub for a swift fezziwig or nine! Some artistic creativity has been used with some
more of the risque cruder language spelling incase the folks that host this site and
Southampton residents take offence.  Oh hello, Clive!
What prey exactly is Zimpoon?
Some say it is a mixture of a zebra, blimp (a kind of airship... I like airships. Do you like
airships? They fascinate me. In fact when I was a wee lad I always wanted to be an airship
when I grew up. Anyway, I digress), and an abbreviation of the word "spoon". Others brought
up on the puppet sci-fi adventures of
Steve Zodiac and Zuni the Lazzoon in the classic space
Fireball XL5 may be reminded of a couple of no good aliens who used the Zimpoon as a
galactic measurement for destruction. It might be both it might be neither! In fact it's a kind of
record label based on the south coast of England, which is part of the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and that's in Europe, right?
The label roster includes many of the south coasts finest and most esoteric artists as well as
featuring classic re-issues nicked from the archives of the defunct legendary
FGAC, Bruised
Banana, Slime Studios, Genital Cola
and Happy-Go-Lucky Puppy vaults. To find out how to get
your mitts on your own  personal handmade individual Zimpoon CD-Rs from us simply Email:
The following pieces are not in any chronicle order.
HERE'S A CUTE ARTICLE from German fanzine Blitzkrieg Pop from 2002 translated and sent in
by regular Happee Ranch reader Horst Bucholz. 
Tucker "The Beerboon" Nodes - vocals, guitar
Benny "Funklet Pie" Benchead - bass, guitar
Binky "The Human Stomach" Renegedes - vocals, guitars
Hitman "Moskow Kowfest" Immenso - Drums
Nardo "Kung Fu Fish Boy" Dink Balti (sometimes called Spanky) - guitar, vocals, phantom
As the pop group Blowfly
1996 God's Holy Trousers (FGAC1996-6) cassette on the Facial Growth Acceptance Corp. label.
Trent Geese/Round Things/Fisheads & Sailors/Big Guitar Fight/Sad Losers Club/Theme From
"Surf Vet"/Bomber/The Good Die Young/Mr. Hit/ Billy/S**t & Fried Eggs/Here Comes The Bride
1997 God's Holy Trousers (Cat no. 00002) re-issue on Genital Cola Tapes.
Fisheads & Sailors (Mk. 1)/Big Guitar Fight/Dean Martin/Theme From "Surf Vet"/Sad Losers
Club/666 Squadron (Pointless!)/Intellectual Scum Of Jazz/Round Things/Young Gifted &
Slack/New Target For Squid Eye/Deep Throat Of God (Tit Biter) (Formerly known as "Billy")/Mr.
Hit/Yak Builder/Daddy Don't Buy A Gun For Christmas/The Day The Magic Died
Daddy Don't Buy A Gun… credited to Costa Del Blowfly and also features The Tin Ram.  The
Day the Magic Died with Those Naughty Klaxons from the First of the Sad Men sessions.
W**kmag/Pussy (Cat no. 00005) on Genital Cola Tapes.
Headbutt Won in Raffle/The Irreligious Dog Grenade/Crazy Fai Is Dealing In Dynamite/Ditto/The
Big Wife/Welcome to the Month of Knees/Deaf People at the Movies/Like A Horse/Succulent
Creosote/Introducing Mr. Sands of Iwa Jima (sic.)/Pig Kitten Monkey Boys/Up in the Clouds,
Gentlemen Freeze/A Comparison of Murder Raps/Peculiar after Luncheon Wager/Let Me Kill
You before You Die/Horse Camembert Blues/Ned Flanderz Big Day Out/The Might-Have-Been
Verifiability of Daphne the Man
Changed name to TROMBONIST due to sudden discovery of at least two other extant artistes.
1999    Round Thing 1994 - 1997 & Beyond (Zimp - 001) CD compilation issued on the Zimpoon
Round Things/Fisheads & Sailors/Sad Losers Club/Theme From "Surf Vet"/ Deep Throat Of
God (formerly known as "Billy")/Big Guitar Fight/Introducing Mr. Sands Of Iwa Jima/Crazy Fai is
Dealing In Dynamite/The Big Wife/Prom Queuer/Up In The Clouds, Gentlemen Freeze/A
Comparison Of Murder Raps/Potato Fucker (formerly known as "Ned Flanderz Big Day
Out)/The Irreligious Dog Grenade/Horse Camembert Blues/Like A Horse/Succulent
Creosote/Dean Martin/New Target For Squid Eye/Intellectual Scum Of Jazz/Yak Builder
(edit)/The Day The Magic Died/Daddy Don't Buy A Gun For Christmas
2000        Shite Christmas (Zimp - 008) CD mini-album co-release by Zimpoon and Cross
Lapins du bébé Meurent Singes Semblables/Nuit silencieuse #1/Les Canards de la Chasse
Éteints de Betty/J'ai Vu Le Futur Vingt Minutes Après qu'Il s'est Passé/Enfants Avec a Dilaté
Ventres/Maurice Le Mason/Le Marigold Qui a Avalé Une Fourmi/Nuit silencieuse #2
The cassettes are out of print.
Live, they are superb.  Shambolically ramshackle teetering on the edge of self-implosion. 
Instruments are swapped with fierce regularity to create a manic scattergun attack of post -
punk, detuned unrock music.  There is no discipline like our own German groups.   Early gigs
of pop were fraught with errors and fear making members reluctant to turn up, but undeterred
Trombonist persevered creating new fresh versions of classic songs.  I with my very own eyes
have witnessed such performances on the video format; they scare me and yet are very
My ears hear The Birthday Party, The Fall, The Pop Group, Captain Beefheart, Pavement and
Slint in amongst the warped sounds.  But there is many new things added to the music by the
band themselves.  Often Trombonist have been accused of being retro, but how can this be? 
The English "Brit Pop" scene tried so hard to emulate the 1965 sound of The Kinks¸ and The
Who, whilst American rock bands like Green Day, Offspring and their ilk try to emulate the punk
rock of The Ramones and Clash circa 1976.  So if Trombonist are so 1980 at least they are
being forward in their retrospectives.
The Christmas of 2000 saw the release of "Shite Christmas" the first new material to be
recorded and released under the name of "Trombonist".  Due to lack of transport and illness
this improvised CD of festive sickness was recorded live next to the sick bed of Binky in his
damp quarters with kazoo overdubs added later.  Most of the band were there except for
Spanky who was out delivering papers and fighting a rare species of monkeys in the New
Forest of Hampshire, England. 
The record was co-released between Zimpoon and Cross records, and just to piss off the
Trombonist detractors (of which there are several) came in a tribute/mock Crass (another
70's/80's reference) poster sleeve. 
A lot of the lyrics are in French, as are the titles a lot of the music is not. The Hitman bereft of his
drum kit utilised a drum machine playing along live with good results to the horrendous
anti-Santa music.  Alas, he could not master the kazoo claiming it was broken.
Who are Trombonist?  It's a question many people ask.  Why do they play such colourful pop
The Beerboon an enigma or dogmatic foreign Englishman?  Lives in the south of France,
here he drinks with locals and operates a Whacker pneumatic drill, those recent reports about
the local Pyrenees mountains shrinking by about a foot might be down to him.  In his spare
time he is the curator to the Ille Surtet Spanish Civil War Museum.  They have many odd
helmets amongst the exhibits, but that's all
right The Beerboon has a very odd shaped head!
Benchead has strong fingers, like Spanky he is in the trade of news.  He can hold many
papers at one time.  When presented with a musical instrument with more than four strings or
no strings he panics, sometimes this is good, sometimes this is bad.  Benchead's mind is
broken --thanks to bad drugs.  Due to the damn fine therapeutic nature of Trombonist's music,
he is nearly better.
Binky is the fattest member of Trombonist.  Former Video Code Desk Operator, Binky has
ensured that millions of postal items have reached their correct destinations. If the group ever
made any money, Binky would hire a fillet roadie.  Somebody to remove the
bones from all the fish the band consume on the road, that's all they would do - fillet fish,
nothing else.
Spanky, comes from a sinister background of heavy metal worship, he has allied himself (or
should that be alloyed?) to the cause of Iron Maiden and thrash.  He has dexterity that makes
many guitars weep in sonic orgasm.  He currently enjoys obscure American independent
music and has more hair than Benchead.
Whilst we are on the subject of "metal",
The Hitman (more hair than Benchead and Spanky
put together) plays drums for local pop band "Leash", which as one Trombonist fan noted in
an email to Uncle Nail has the connotation of being a gay rock band.  The Hitman hits the
drums in the engine room of Trombonist and drinks tea on Thursdays.
The song "Dean Martin" is about a man named Dean with the surname Martin.  For the benefit
of our younger readers Mr. Martin was an American and Italian lounge singer and the very
epitome of cool.  Trombonist would like some of Mr. Martin's cool to rub off on them.  Other
tributes have been paid in sort to Marvin Gaye the dead soul singer and aquatic veterinarian
surgeons as performed on the soundtrack to the motion picture "Surf Vet". 
This is an article from the scrapped final
paper edition of UNCLE NAIL'S HAPPEE
The page where we glean interesting things
from the people who make Your kind of music!
Light Sabre Lady, Buffkin Luneworker,
Shaved Head Barbie Girl, Amber Martinez,
Jackie O Anus, Special Combat Agent Jism
Balustrade, Lash Tinter, Mildred Fierce,
Nuggets The Bear, Toni Frazzle, Ann Jovi, I.
Empress Mynki, Hilly Stetson, Alison
Stalingrad, No. 4, Susan Peel
I'm 14, Denzil Figgis & Light Sabre    Lady,
Lash Tinter & The Fruity Earthlings, The
Silicone Breasts, The Bottoms, 29, Luke
Sidewalker & The Car Whores, The Beat Ups,
Sniffles The Friendly Chill, Sweet Mushroom
Cloud Of Heavenly Joy, Whorehouse,  Thorax
Hird & The John Wayne Faggot Army, Million
Ilb Rabbit Tray, Apron, The Toot Sweets, Liver
Bunny, The Hairy Pitstops, Nipple!
Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady that. 
But seeing as I'm not a lady I'm going to tell
you to eff off!
At the moment I reside in a mobile home on
the south coast of Sussex near the sea,
sometimes in it depending on stormy weather
and flooding.  I share it with my two cats
Wellington and Beefheart; one is named after
my hometown in New Zealand, the other after
the duke who won the Battle of Waterloo.  I
also have a large collection of unwanted
seaweed where my lovely garden should be.
I'm a simple girl at heart, I like being near the
sea and at one with nature but I'm definitely
not a hippie!  I like to watch drag and stock
car racing. Musically, I don't really have a
great affinity with any particular movement
per se, although punk was a great influence
on me, especially the attitude and energy. 
For a while growing up in the remoteness of
New Zealand I thought punk was going to
change the world.  My favourite groups were
The Slits, Ramones, Crass, Au Pairs,
Raincoats and oh God, this is going to sound
so cheesy The Bay City Rollers.  In my naïve
defence I thought they were punks because
they had spiky hair! The girl groups made me
aware of a more feminine political stance that
seemed to highlight the pitfalls of a male
dominated industry.
Seaweed.  Every fucking time there's a slight
breeze you can bet your spotty ass, my lovely
little vegetable garden is going to be drowned
in the stuff.  Riot Girls, what a waste of talent
gone awry.  If they had been more organised
and promoted by more mature individuals I'm
sure it would have achieved more than giving
a slogan to those Spice Twats. The public
transport system in this country is ridiculous.
Why does this once great nation shut at
11P.M? Daytime TV - And just how many
house/garden/antique/quiz/vets cooking pets
programmes do yer need for fucks sake?
Phanta - Child of the Kosmos facts compiled
by John Game.
Hello, my darlink rocknik Happi Ranch reader.  My homing breasts of entertainment
fulfilment have found these for you. So until next time -   Suckle on these babies!
Duo from Colchester.  File under Pygmy Techno.  They'll eff your arm in like a head bucket
of masturbating typewriters.
Hail from Blackpool and are at the vanguard of the Botulist Candy-floss movement.  Their
subtle minimalist ambient masterpiece 'TDK' tape is available as single cassette, 3 or 5 pack
remix in either C60 or extended C90 formats from all major high street retail outlets.
Eight piece kazoo tribute orchestra that worships at the shrine of Japanese noise
uber-meister Merzbow.  File under "B" for suspect oriental shirtlifters.
Deep in the cranial gaol of this seemingly cute seven
year old girl languishes the malignant spectre of the
"Unexploded Comedian".  Together they serenade
us with their abstract songs of piano pop, barking,
yoga and toffees. In Swahili, with sign language for
the hard of intelligence.
Disgusting.  Signed to a major label for £25,000 before they had even advertised, met
formed and rehearsed.  Then promptly dropped when the A & R department realised they
had made a mistake. A lentil hamster in a whores hair shirt?  Nah!
Formed from the ashes of Nuneaton's first all black sensible oi band The Buggers, this
unconventional music ensemble cum theatre workshop tackle modern issues such as
racism, sexism, homophobia with hard-core beats, irony and hang-gliders.
Faltering dark seams of wobbly Canute iridescence and black ho down country from the
Nashville of Kent, Tunbridge Wells.  Wear bricks as part of their menacing attestation.  Do
not mention The Tuntuns…
3/4 human half lightbulb.  The self-confessed
cyber ice sponge made of Styrofoam.  An
orchestra of toy offal. Genetically changed
appearence to Gabbi Drake in able to gain
access to sci-fi comic fairs cheaply.  
Mmmn, restricted access to the pre-post-post rock ambient elephant lift scene.  From
Chicago, the most communist city of America and featuring Dave Squid formerly of
Spinal Arachnid Press Kid.
The crucified head of Adam Rickett mounted upon a giant pulsating lung of a sturgeon,
possibly high on mind altering filth drugs, not sure.  The music? Who the eff cares!
Fell walking, tor spotting hike punks.  Starring
Phlegm, Typhus, Lucy and Qwik Fit.  A great big
Swarfega of frothy handshakes and mutton
coma inducements.
3 guys, a girl and a portion of stale flapjack.  My what an ugly mutated baby that would
make.  A mixture of  glad melodies, fuzz pony and pure upstart hat attitude.  They come from
the downy part of Nottingham.   Their debut LP "Mrs" was produced by The Man Who
Forgot Himself Regularly.
A veritable cornucopia of modern art fluxus, dance macabre, painting and bodily sculpture. 
You name it - they can't handle it.  The electro/acoustic soundscape is provided by an
elderly man in a tweed girdle.  Vocal mantras fall from the throat of Thad Gelb - a retired
Texas Ranger who gently strokes himself off whilst reading the country code.  Loudly.
Now go wash your hands!
The essay below was originally set to accompany the Zimpoon issue of Johnson's Gridling
Band's "Firm Clothin' Winky Elves" CDR in 2000 (See
HOME for further details).
However, Trevor due to it's author THE ENTIRE TOP SHELF having a "mad" period
(including at various points thinking he was a little wooden stool made of acrynoline, the
Hawiian space exploration team, a London Routemaster bus that read Keats and reaked of
cider, a science fiction radio play called "Lucy") we never recieved the darn thing until 2002. 
Even then it was episodically transmitted to us in fragmented email form.  So now after
minutes of editing, collating, cutting and pasting the finished translation is printed below for
your edification and enjoyment...
Johnson's Gridling Band began life as a two piece collective of two people dissatisfied with
the reality that was the late 1960's. The first ever Gridling song was a rendition of Ave Maria,
played on a Day-Glo red and green kitchen chair and an Old Holborn bacco tin. 
This fantastic piece of sound art was performed in the hallway at my dad's house and
recorded on a Co-op Defiant tape recorder.   My mum gave me a guitar so I learnt three vital
chords - G, C and D.  This was all I needed to start my rock and roll career by writing 'Bile in
my Vomit'. Spot, being an ex choirboy, sang it beautifully.
I recall it had two choruses - the first was
Spew up your dinner spew up your tea,
But best of all baby spew over me.  
And then...  
I've left my vomit on the floor for everyone to see,
So come on baby do your thing and vomit over me.

We were not overkeen on the sixties love and elves culture.   Other songs included:
Mongolian Foot Rot; Lord Geeson; Willy Wombat; Chemical Toilet Blues; Giant Vinyl Mats...I
can't remember any more but there were effing loads of them.
The art school daze of the late sixties brought a short-lived change of name to the so-called
duo - we became Jake Entrails and the Frustrated Porcupines.  Unfortunately the artfartoids
of Pompey College didn't like the name so we reverted to the Gridling thingy.
Here's a song of the time called 'The Ammo Dump' -
'The ammo dump blew up in my face,
But I wore asbestos clothing - a present from my aunty,
Oh my aunty,
Oh my aunty,
At about this time Spot decided to run away from home and live in the Second World War
gun emplacement at Browndown. He loaded his bike (a Sun Snipe) with Primus stove and
pot, wrapped himself in a demob coat and two days later returned to his mum.
I wrote Firm Clothin' Trolleybus as a poem. We then recorded it as a sort of song thing, using
the vocal drone of Steven the Goose, Pencil the Elephant etc in the background. For
acoustic reasons the song was recorded in my dad's bathroom. Flushing lavatories and the
sounds of waste elimination seemed to herald the way forward in our struggle for a musical
identity. I consider 'The Sound of Music', our sixty minutes of farting, crapping and urinating
to be a valuable social sound document to this day.
Three Trunks Rowlands wrote the 'Stoon... grant grant hankey bag' verse of Firm Clothin'.
Spot bought a Jazz style lectric guitar so we went lectric with our friend the Penguin who
worked for Fareham council. He was (probably still is) a groovy slide player. I remember he
had enormous knees and something wrong with his bladder.
Penguin was the significant player in the Gridling squad; other people had joined in but only
on a part time basis. The part time availability team became known as the Omnisexual Bleeg
sisters. Bleeg sisters were handy for chorus singing.
They would be required to sing things like: 'Hi ho tiddly-oh, I'll slash yer face with a razor'
That's the chorus from The Space Shanty, a song about a rodent called Meccano Set whose
life was very boring.
Other Bleeg choruses from the early seventies included-
'Germolene, Germolene, Germolee-ee-een, antiseptic ointment'
'Mucous is terrific fun, you really just can't beat it,
Don't flick your bogies on the wall pick yer nose and eat it'.
Not to mention
'We are the now generation, waaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh'.
The classic seventies lectric Gridling period is documented on the tape: Squid Rock by
Gordon and the Oafs. Featuring me, Spot, Penguin and ace head chef Sprinkler.

Sprinkler narrated extracts from The Winged Eyeball, until, overcome by the heady Gridling
ambience, he began to tell the listeners that he would like to be an electric leopard - truly a
great moment in avant- rock.
Did you know?
That the duckaphone, unique to Johnson's Gridling Whatsit, had only one string which was
stretched over a tin bucket and tremeloed with a drum stick.
Did you know…?
That the classic acoustic blues number, Blues on a Corset, featured yours truly playing a
'corset guitar' - an ordinary domestic guitar over which a ladies shape enhancer was fitted.
The instrument was played by sort of flapping the hand over it, pressing the back palm onto
the garment to adjust the mute effect.
Did you know…?
That the 'Snake 6 in Jar' instrument was originally a child's toy whistling snake blown into a
bathroom sink.
I believe that Johnson's Gridling Band was the first punk band in the area. Our extremely
famous concert at the Great Harry pub in Warsash featured songs about vomit, festering
dead rats, holiday camps, Ovaltine etc etc. This was several years before the magnificent
Sex Pistols.
Gold Lame joined the Gridling group and contributed his unique vocal style and heavy
progressive Jaw Harp playing. When Sprinkler stole a trumpet we did a reggae thing called
'Suck me up in your Hoover of Love'. Gold Lame turned in a great performance as a pretend
Another fabulous artiste involved at this 1970's period was Janet, the Lizard Suited
Extremist, an ex policeman and fan of Jethro Tull. No world would be complete without a
Lizard Suited Extremist.
Janet the Lizard Suited Extremist was the missing link between Homo Sapien and
HomoSexual. He rode a motorcycle at speeds un-natural and face melting yet he wrote
poetry that could make iron rottweiler excrement cry; for instance-
Three emus crept inside my tent,
I slept quite well,
And then they went.
Janet's ginger jazz beard jutted forward from his chin like a pirate plank upon which a
saxophone would walk and screech in divine parody of pain. When Janet blew the sax even
dead people phoned up and complained.
Although officially a Bleeg sister, Janet could justifiably be called a band member.
Here's a Gridling chant or mantra:
"I'm not happy coz I'm sad I'm a lemur,
Oh yes, we were a right bunch of controversial bastards in those far off Travoltine days.
More info. than you could possibly need can be gleaned from this email address:
In 2004 the Hairy Fish mob contacted
Zimpoon with the express interest of
putting something out. No, it wasn't a
small fire.
Recordings took place with plans  for
an elaborate CDR/7"/Book package,
then inexplicably nothing.
It was if the collective had simply
vanished without a trace.  If you can
shed any light on their wellbeing and
or whereabouts please contact us at:
The article below was originally a
fanfare to introduce Hairy Fish to the
unsuspecting Zimpoon masses.
THE EPONYMOUS Hairy Fish pop group/art terrorist international collective consists of
many members all called Hairy Fish.  Their self-financed art and recordings on vinyl, CD and
found elements (wood, fish, tin, metal etc.) can be located at their Hairy Fish Mobile
Installations For Mind, Fish and Senses. Which are otherwise known as gigs to you and I.
The musical project has issued a handful of singles and a bucket load of albums all
confusingly titled Hairy Fish.  Every piece of music is called Hairy Fish.  Even the sleeves are
identical - the only exception being the catalogue number.
The output varies from opera, jazz, thrash, techno, punk, rock, improv, a capella, reggae and
anything else often thrown together in a mish mash of style and decadent self-indulgent
tosh.  Samples and everyday sounds frequently duel for pride of place.  Recordings fall
between both rough distorted 1-track affairs to opulent multi-track posh performances.
And yet, like San Francisco's Residents no one knows who these boys and girls are.  Each
participant hides his or her identities behind a different piscine mask.  (Fish face - you
illiterate twerp!).  Apparently, not even the group themselves know who each other are.  Each
member is sworn to the Hairy Fish Code of Silence, a code reminiscent of the Cosa Nostra
code of silence. 
Why, it was only in 1998 that US cable chat show host and radio shock jock Dennis Kam
was found shot to death.  His apparent crime, threatening to reveal the faces and truth
behind the Hairy Fish cult on his "I S**t You Not!"  TV show.  (Perhaps in light ofthe crime
theshow should have been renamed "I Shoot You Not!")  Conspiracies abound some even
suggest that Kam was a member of Hairy Fish himself, others suggest he managed to
infiltrate the group in order to expose them in an act of cheap shoddy sensationalism.  I
guess we'll never know - and who the eff cares?
A simultaneous exhibition of art and music is currently touring the world.  Each installation
features heavy rotation of Hairy Fish tunage to complement the visual output.  Sculptures
made from refuse clash with pictures made from nets, fish bones, fish lard, traditional paints
and human bodily fluids.  Each shares a common subject, you don't have to be Einstein to
guess what it is.  The celestial form of The Hairy Fish.   Some works evoke an air of
tranquillity others a big b*****d wave of nausea. 
The Arthur Stitt Gallery and Artists Workspace of Saxmundham currently holds the UK's
biggest collection of Hairy Fish artefacts and memorabilia. Most notably is a rare print of the
first ever Hairy Fish short entitled Hairy Fish Micro Fische Movie the only time a Hairy Fish
composition has had other words attached to it.  The film features super 8 footage compiled
from many sources (including the above shot, which was forwarded to me supposedly for
press/promotional purposes) intercut with various vintage live performances.  Cut amongst
these are graphic images designed to deliberately provoke shock and yet stimulate. 
Pictures such as a cow masturbating, two topless nuns kickboxing, Buddha shopping for
crisps (he eventually plums for Bovril flavour!), the Grand Canyon awash with obese
American children being watched by a party of special alien space sand, Mother Theresa
donating a golden shower to an ersatz poor Mickey Mouse clone, plus loads of fish wearing
wigs.  Interesting and yet scary. 
Go on check these fish effheads out, I dare you.
Selected Discography
(All catalogue numbers proceeded by Hairy Fish no:-)
1   7"      Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
4   7"      Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
9  LP      Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
               Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
               Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
               Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish/ Hairy Fish
The following piece originally accompanied the "Mobster Lobster" compilation CDR (See HOME for more details). Due to an unnoticed fault at the printers early editions of the album
went out with near un-readable notes. So here they are in a more presentable format.
Hello, from your old pal The One Called Clive Henry, or rather me, Wolf Stuka who is ghost
writing on Mr. H's behalf due to a severe bout of "gentleman's wank angst".Here's the
historical low-down of the tracks on this compilation. Most are fabrications as the "archives"
were shut or genuine distortions of the truth, for that I am truly sorry, or am I?
MOBSTER LOBSTER Recorded live straight to DAT, early 2002.Personnel: Groutski, Mr
Sweets, and Henry
TRASHMAN'S SHOES Possibly recorded in a proper recording studio with twinkly
lights.Personnel: Henry, Christopher J Chandler, Merv Vile, Martin Dukes, Tucker, and John
(Wolf Stuka): Titles like Skinhead In A Taxi and Second World War might suggest you have a
leaning towards racist tendencies, how would you respond to this criticism?
TOCCH (The One Called Clive Henry): There is no racism, Skinhead is a scathing attack on
those who indulge in mindless violence. Also, Trashman's Shoes and later as Catkins of Jazz
formed the anti- Ku Klux Klan.
WS: Did you defeat fascism?
TOCCH: No. We used to wear black masks and capes, so good was this camouflage that we
couldn't see each other in the dark.
C4N15+3R (Pronounced "Canister")No fidelity sessions recorded in the early-mid 1990's in
various safehouses under the "Deaf Witness Protection Scheme".Personnel (in
approximation): Henry, Klan X, Martin Paenus, Mr Love Orbs, Scurvy Midwife, and Bernard
TOCCH: A grunge band set in an iron mongers...
CATKINS OF JAZZ Same line-up as Trashman's Shoes, in fact it is TS!
WS: Why the change of name?
TOCCH: Trashman's Shoes was a shite name.
TROMBONIST (Formerly Blowfly)Recorded on 4-track by Steve Albeano at Rancho
Gasoline, Gosport, Hants, England, 1997. Edited version can be found on "Round Thing"
compilation on Zimpoon.Personnel: Hitman Duke Immenso, Benchead, Henry appearing as
Spanky and alternatively Nardo Dink Balti, Beerboon, Binky.
WS: When Genital Cola Tapes originally released this, you were not pleased.
TOCCH: No, it was the first song I sang when I joined, and they faded it out after one minute
and thirty-seven seconds.
WS: This version is longer?
TOCCH: Yes, by nine seconds.
MY THROAT IS PREGNANT Four-track postal project recorded by four different
geezers in four different places at four different times. Originally released as part of the
"Teeth" tape by Genital Cola Tapes in 1997.
Personnel: Johnny Fleshkettle, Henry as Chess Recording Artist Sandwich Dave, Grainham
Larpipson, and Puppyhead
TOCCH: We could never record together without a fight breaking out. Often over trivial things
like "Puppyhead's quiff is giving me a migraine". Or "Fleshkettle's gut has eclipsed the
microphone" and even "I'm not playing that - it's a rasher of bacon!" Hence the postal
post-post rock project.
ELK PSYCHIATRIST A forgotten four track master tape was unearthed in 2002 dating
back as far as 2000. Elk Psychiatrist and several of the following artists called it the "Dog
Udder Tapes" and featured previously unheard tracks.
Personnel: The Elk Psychiatrist, Henry, Snurt Bington, and Solitaire Weeping Hoof
WS: Who is the Elk Psychiatrist? Is it you? And what's with the masks?
TOCCH: I might be the Elk Psychiatrist, I might not. The truth is we are all the Elk Psychiatrist
each and every one of us! We choose to wear masks as the live line-up is also fluctuating and
visually it gives the audience a sense of continuity.
HAPPI SHIT PUMPKIN A track left over from the 1995 "Brave Soldiers of Disco" session
that was released by Genital Cola Tapes.
Personnel (It has to be said, not all are present on this track): Graham "Funki Thumbs" Larry,
Naomi Yanaimoto, Fool Henderson, Todd Stockhausen, Herve Klarpis, The Accessory, Tin
Ram, …His Deutsche Wife, Dale Dale (The Yard of Ale), Mrs. Xenarkis Blit, Don Keyson, Big
Chow, Kagemusha Bratfield, Mr. Lemon The Face, Dr. Marsh Gibbon Fadpipe, Susan "Marine
Boy" Atkins (Henry), Hen Headed Leonard, Marrowpoodle Molestrangler
HAIRDRESSERS OF FUTURE SPACE Recorded at Third Mind Electrical Circuitry by
Steve Albeano, spring 2000.
Personnel: Ethnic Fork, Bill the Bear
WS: This sounds like you and Binky, I presume you are Ethnic Fork and he Bill The Bear
because of his mighty girth?
TOCCH: No, the other way round. We played a couple of gigs mainly on the local lounge
circuit; you know steakhouses, open mike nights, acoustic sets.
WS: How did you go down?
TOCCH: Generally good, until we came to the part where we did a lounge style rendition of the
Sex Pistols' "Bodies", then the aggro would start.
I'M 14 Recorded at Third mind Circuitry by I'm 14, this sinister version was mixed under the
influence "before the keg". The original can be heard on the Zimpoon release "Huge Corsets
Liven up the Soup Football, Yes sir".
Personnel: Gordon Beast, Excellent Malcolm, Sir Cliff Pilchard, Drumkit Steve Baboon,
Phanta Child of the Kosmos, Gentleman Len Motherfucker, The Five Weights of Clive
"Spanky" Henry
TOCCH: I liked the imaginative use of the comma in the album title.
THE SLASH YER FACE RONNIES More from the "Dog Udder Tapes" from 2000.
Personnel: Della Ferrari, Henry, Sue Pearlative, and Binky
WS: Wow! This stuff really rocks! How would you describe this?
TOOCH: Yeah, I 'm the thin one. Three fatties and me, two dames two blokes…Riot Grill,
WUBBLE BRAP "Dog Udder Tapes" again.
Personnel: Downland Gridshell, Henry as Clint Cockmilk
TOCCH: Aha, my short-lived medieval sea shanty grunge phase.
RABBIT ISLAND SCI-FI BOY UNITED Recorded 1999/2000 or thereabouts at Third
Mind Electrical Circuitry, engineered by Mr Bolito.
Personnel: Henry, Renegedes, and Bolito
WS: This is very raw sounding.
TOCCH: Bolito insisted that every recording level be in the red. I like the end result, stops it
sounding you know…too Chicago!
For more information concerning Henry, the Canister organisation and it's related acts such
as Formica, Ginger & Smudge etc, contact Clive, PO Box 129, Totton, SO40 9ZD.
Or email:
Once upon a felch there was a website called These HAPPI S**T
PUMPKIN live reviews have been rescued for your perusal. Enjoy and don't have nightmares.
Dear Filthobop Friends,
Here is the HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN review of the Finsbury Park happening which occurred
back in April 2001.
What a difference 18 or so years can make. The majority of the groups that sprung from the
post-punk/scuzz/grunge detonation now sound sickly when encountered again - irritable
one-dimensional urchins of the revolution long since forgotten. Only precious few sound like
they would still make sense if they were just beginning today, and HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN are
one such crew. Tonight Happy Shit Pumpkin are not stunningly good, but merely stunning
with the sheer dynamism of their personalities packed into feral outbursts. To see HAPPI
S**T PUMPKIN is to encounter something you've never seen before, and you don't forget
them in a hurry.
I can't find a definitive reference; they have NO role models, so they have to be radical.
Tonight the male members stand rigid, legs like tripods, arms blurred across guitars, or
gripping and twisting microphone stands (Oh, the pitiful angst!). The HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN
gals specialise in frolicking, because they know it is enjoyable: Mainly in buoyant good
humour, but leaving room for an infrequent bad-tempered eruption.
The bassist for the bulk of the set was balanced and tactile. The drummer simply pulverised,
loping, looping, and stomping away. Cutting through this assault, the three choppy guitars
broke down or stoked up a momentum, creating sufficient impetus for the jittery vocalists to
expand and dilate. The vocals were created along the lines of all good fire extinguishers to
garrotte octaves. While other bands hunt the illusive chorus, HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN imprison
theirs and execute without clemency.
Evidence of greatness lurked within this performance. Amongst the hitherto unreleased
'Sprawling F**king Mess' crashes along with the singer's throat shredding
spectacularly and the rest galloping into a brick wall. The lustrous
'Easter Bunny' demonstrates how they conceive an engaging mood by stretching existing perimeters.
Watching this gig, it's worth noting that all the Grrrl, grunge and spazzcore bands put
together can't equal the uncultured Joie de Vivre HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN employ and relish.
Which is so unconstrained, because they are only being themselves.
'Blune Moon' is divine to the point of deserving excess. A lovely lucid rendition of 'Semen
Lopez Urinal'
is discharged in a true turbulent form. Always one of their most provocative and
defiant compositions, this song for me marked the pinnacle of the evening's inventiveness.
Tonight HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN are not scorching a trail, so much as digging it up. There's
enough here to instigate a mini-tsunami.
This, ladies and gentlemen, was natural chaos.
July 2001
Uncle Nail writes: Great article Brad, however, for some reason this reminds me of a live
summary of a Slits concert. I suggest you re-write your piece if you don't want a detention!
It's yer old friend Mr Lemon The Face here, with news of a thrilltastic event - HAPPI S**T
PUMPKIN at The King's Head in Fulham (although it might've been The Black Swan - I'm not
up on geography or reading!)

It was a humid and drizzly night and the London Borough of Fulham never looked more
alluring. The show was hastily arranged at short notice, and I wondered what the venue and
its Sunday night crowd of jazz orientated punters would make of our freeform style of
improvised lunacy and punk rock attitude and token eating of crisps.
I liked this venue. It boasted many flavours of crisp, some were old friends and had played
with my palette on many occasions, others like Bunteds Lime and Cuban Chicken variety
offered a new glimpse of exotic and yet horny taste of potato byproducts to come.
HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN have boasted a varied and ever changing international line-up over its
twelve year history. Tonight's line-up proved no exception. The one and only familiar face I
recognised was that of Susan "Marine Boy" Atkins, but when I saw a mirror I knew at least
two of the ensemble. Marine Boy explained that several of his student (cringe!) and muso
chums had heard the "Pot Full O' Cocks" compilation CD (on Zimpoon, (contact  for more details) and wanted to get involved, and it was only
correct to approach me in my capacity as one of the inaugural founder members to get my
blessing. And so, here I was.
Although, it has to be said HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN performed a disastrous gig the previous
night in one of the capitals more damp and salubrious venues. Luckily, due to a birthday
party and a crispy duck bloat out (but pah! no f**king crisps!), I was unable to attend and thus
missed the computer going down under a hail of human mouth gob. Apparently, the
government worried about the epidemic spread of disease shut down the pub and culled
approximately 45 anarcho-punks. The smell of scorched mohicans and leather still
permeated the chill air as it wafted down from Finsbury Park. The rudimentary stage lay-out
featured two drum kits and the afore mentioned computerised electric brain unit, plus guitars,
tape machines, brass, kazoos, home-made stuff and amps and microphones scattered with
wild abandon. Every conceivable square millimetre of space was utilised. F**k knows what
the remaining groups who were due on after us, of which there were several, thought of this.
F**k them! This is my review.
About eight, a crowd of two dozen or so souls began sauntering in. Some were middle-aged
and nursed goatee beards, bloated beer bellies and faded Miles T's. Others, probably college
lecturing scum clad in polyester suits with suede elbow patches and equally ersatz looking
wives sat in disinterested speculation. Then there were the groups eagerly anticipant "fans"
congealed amongst the first time gig goers who cheered everything during the delayed
soundcheck in their fervid lust for entertainment. Sorry, Bad News fans there was no dog
Nervously, I took the stage. The purple and yellow spotlights creating a garish haze that must
have made my corpulent silhouette actually look like the living human embodiment of a
HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN. That was just one of the crazy things that went through my mind as I
picked up the sax. The other was about a pint 'n' a half of crisp embellished vomit that
cascaded from my gob and splashed behind the monitor, hopefully unnoticed. But hey,
ROCK 'N' F**KEN ROLL! eh kids. Temporarily delirious from my extra-curricular activities I
stared out at the beautifully orchestrated soundtrack that unfurled in front of me.
Marine Boy's light brown corduroy trousers were jiving as if they were sewn from tree bark
entwined with Frazzle crisps. He hammered out a deep rumbling bowel bursting groove on
the three string bass. A ginger tosser we'll call him Easy Fartknocker Five accompanied him
on an equally sleazy sounding guitar ramming household implements along the neck in
rabid motions and throttling the sucker in a post-punk no wave attack. Both drum seats were
full. Men in spotty dresses with spotty faces pummelled poly-rhythmic shades of shit out of
their weakened kits. Both had identical pig-tails and must've looked quite fetching to a deaf
blind man. A young lady we'll call her - Bat Reen Fromage Kitelozenge to avoid
embarrassment began screeching in a feline Siouxsie/Katie Jane Gartside kinda way. Oh
yeah, there were some other folk playing all kindsa wired stuff on guitars, kazoos, tape
samples and shit. Me? I wiped the liquefied crisp soup from the mouthpiece of the sax and
attempted to bellow out a high pitched squeal. The result a fine spray of sonically ruptured
puke bubbled forth like a hot rank stream of mouth lava from the fat bit on the end. Ideally, I'd
like to think the front row took it as part of the act. I'd really like to think this, I really, really
would, but somehow I doubt they feel the same way. I got a slight high pitched skronk out of
the beast that was amplified and distorted by the army of effects pedals that lay at my feet.
The computer kicked in and via the wonder of technology and cheap rate calls at the
weekend and of course a web cam we established a link up with Jon in San Francisco, a city
in the country of America. Jon appeared to be crouching in a tiny room the size of The Tin
Ram's outhouse that was plastered in copies of what looked like The San Francisco Times
here he punched, kicked and assaulted various sauce and frying pans. Mostly, out of sync
with the music, but who cares.
I think, but don't quote me on this, we were attempting to play "Sprawling F**king Mess -
Parts 1 to Infinity" off our "Pot Full O' Cocks" compilation (contact  for more details)  but then again I'm not sure. After about five minutes the "tune" ground it
way down to a sub- Hawkwind chugga-chugga Sterolab motorik groove, which gave us the
opportunity to swap instruments and the audience to show their appreciation.
Which was mixed to say the least, jeers mingled with cheers, heckles died away to stunned
silence. I found myself on bass and vocals and showing initiative crashed through the sonic
road block into the quarantined area that is "Tribute to the King of Music Collecting Tax
Journalists". It turned out to be a more frenetic version than the album one (on "Pot Full O'
Cocks" compilation on Zimpoon, (contact  for more details)
imagine say Sonic Youth fronting an orchestra of Smurfs or the Butthole Surfers as Dean
Martins house band. Yep, that good.
It drew a more reactive response from the crowd who were gradually warming to the show.
Well, the twelve or so hardy souls that remained seemed to enjoy it.
More instrument swapping, I'm on guitar and tape samples - the song "Semen Lopez
Urinal/Spill My P**s Wee" this rendition was a mess of revelatory discordant melliflousness
that at its peak was driven to new heights (lows?) by a cheesy 1970's Grange Hill motive on
the childs piano. The vocals specially effected to Hell delivered in a mock Siamese dialect
didn't do the original Spanish rendition any favours, but I don't think anybody noticed. If I
was to say it was a hybrid of The Sun City Girls and Joe Dolce would anybody understand
the reference. HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN 1 - AUDIENCE 0. For a more detailed version might I
recommend to you "Pot Full O' Cocks" compilation (contact  for
more details).
For the last song of our short improntu set Citizen Ork Attack (kazoo, bass, trumpet, sax, bin)
introduced The Thirteenth Orchestra on to the stage. Thus, we were supplemented with a
Goth string section of cellos, violins, viola and double bass. It was great when they started
doing a version of young Irish rockers Ash's hit Kung Fu. We threw down our instruments
and mimed pretty nifty martial arts moves in a drop kicking, karate chopping kinda way.
Which was very nice. Our time was up and we limped off to a strange muted applause, the
crowd had swelled again and everything seemed right with the world. That is if you don't
include the puddle of acidic barf that was slowly eating its way through the left hand side of
the small but perfectly erected stage.
We must have done something right that evening as three copies of the HAPPI S**T
PUMPKIN "Pot Full O' Cocks" compilation (contact  for more
details) were nicked by interested if not hard up HAPPI S**T PUMPKIN fans. Little bastards!
July 2001
Uncle Nail writes: I'm sorry, but I missed the contact address. Do you think you could print it
Elsewhere in Teflon Tony's Great S**tain, hippies, crusties, students, social workers and the
sort of music mong who admits to actually buying Jools Holland CDs are entrenched in a
no-mans land twixt cow turd and mainstage hell that is the Glastonbury Festival. The switched
on elite and in some cases nearly hip indie kids of Brighton are packed in this sweltering dive
of a venue to celebrate everything that could be cool about the joy of multicultural music in a
totally independent DIY stylee.
So it is here at The ________ (name withheld for safety reasons, this is my local after all and I
would like to be able to enjoy my drink with either or both my hands intact) that a gathering of
the stagnant cream of the worlds' most obscure and topflight and not so topflight combos
have gathered for an all day event. Some will be stars ascending others will remain in the
sewers like rats that thrive on shit. Entrance for this jamboree is a totally punk rock three quid!
But who's paying?
Kicking off at around 11.AM meant that due to reasons of slumber and drug fuelled hangovers
I missed the first few hours, but I made up for it as the day wore on. Apart from Elk
Psychiatrist, I was mainly unfamiliar with the selection of entertainment offered and looked
forward to a fulfilling day of new and exciting sounds.
I caught the tail end of
THE CURED'S tribute act to well, the Cure. Fine, if you like that sort of
thing, and everything has it's place but not in MY face. Next up for their allotted twenty minutes
of fame were Japan's
POO POO CHUNKS. A blistering punk band from Osaka trading in
buzzsaw riffs and neat looking Joey Ramone wigs. They played about a zillion songs at a
rollicking speed with massive Cheshire cat grins on their faces, only the man at the
merchandise table smiled more as he sold every 'Chunks CD going. A 20 minute allotted set
can seem like an infinity especially in the company of semi-acoustic duo
JOSIE & PHILLIPA from Hove. A smaller twee maudlin imitation of Belle & Seb, cooing about the sweetshop and
spotty boyfriends on mopeds who are scattered in the audience looking equally chuffed and
embarrassed simultaneously.
Are there any punters who paid to get in? At some point it appears that every one in the room
has a go on stage. Some several times with different groups.
A few combos fly past each one more turgid than the last. Student bands imitating what's in
the charts, often soulless and lacking any individual charisma. I did mean to write their names
down, but the firing squads will have to wait as I was chatting up some birds at the bar. Minah
birds that is, screeching loudly in their cage and thusly far more entertaining than what was
being offered on the spit soaked stage.
A load of punks of various ages lurked in front all day, gobbing at acts they disproved of.
Which was nearly everyone. The opaque walls clung with the humid stench of human
perspiration and phlegm hung off the microphones like some talentless music critic ectoplasm.
What made matters worse was the venue policy of not letting performers use their own
microphones or amps - just shovel 'em on stage then off when they've finished like a never
ending production line.
SPANT 'S live UK debut. Is Spant the group name or is he the energetic Nick Cave "Stars In
Their Eyes" wannabe? Spant is/are Dutch and are a prime example of the kind of art a relaxed
drug law can produce. Equally filthy post rock and laid back primal noodling is satisfyingly
hammered out on the most beat up guitars imaginable. An asthmatic man of pensionable age
plays a saxophone. Badly. It is brilliant. The merchandise table man and his ripped flared jeans
are happy bulging with cash from selling out of Spant goodies. Bastard! I left it too late to get a
CD, and although the group said they would send me a free one it has yet to wing it's way to
me. Bastards!  (Still hasn't arrived as of July 2007 - Uncle Nail.)
A truly hideous reggae band is next. Potheads nod sagely to the shuddering bass frequencies.
Pallid white boy rockers carving out a pseudo Clash politico rant with their token black rasta
friend. An ersatz attempt from a bland bunch of Americans whose name I can't and indeed
don't want to remember. Patronisingly naff in the extreme sense and almost as bad as UB40.
Almost. I leave the venue for some fresh air, the surrounding pavements are littered with
refugees from the gig, some like me wishing to escape the turgid group, others suffering from
heat exhaustion and the effects of too many tipples and other substances.
Huddersfield. Can't off the top of me 'ead (and as I type I'm off of my head on fine Spanish
lager) think of the musical influence Huddersfield had on the world. True, the Exploited those
doyens and sole Scottish bastions of the UK punk scene circa 1981 once joked at that cities
expense, but nothing else comes to mind. Like the previously mentioned Jock punks
carve a niche of straight forward punk entwined with sharp bursts of splatter
hard-core. The usual spitting abates as the punk rock throng stage front erupts into a mass of
pogoing and moshing. Stiff Mohicans wilt in the intense heat of leather jackets, ripped denim
and faded Discharge T-shirts.
The less said about one man tsunami
GARY MANILOW and his act of fart lightning, beer
gargling and sexually abusing himself and female members of the audience the better.
Imagine a tourettes inflicted Larry Grayson tutored by GG Allin in a pinky turquoise suit. Only
covered in shit.
SMACKED BACKSIDE cavort like electrocuted retards throughout a set that abruptly ends
after about seven minutes. A boy/girl whirlwind that blends Cramps cool, Babes In Toyland
angst and the filthy guitar sound of Link Wray.
SWIMMING WITH MUTTON offer an equally
short blast. The world they come from is inhabited by robot sex slaves and novelty synthetic
soul singles. A sleazy synth driven apocalypse powered by spastic guitar skronk. I thought
they were American. They were from Neath.
A small crowd of even smaller in height humans dressed in a Day-Glo array of papier mache
animal costumes has invaded the cramped confines of the venue. Performance artists? No,
thank Christ,
GRUNT SPASTIC GRUNT - Japan's answer to the Boredoms (who, er, also
come from Japan. Uncle Nail). Like the Boredoms? I know I do and GSG are more than Eye
and pals equals. Part psychedelic, part rock, part punk part godamn every musical genre ever
invented yet to come and often at the same time. Frazzled synths vie with cranked to buggery
guitars whilst traditional Japanese instruments battle with alternating demure "folky" vocals
and shrieks of incontinent rage. By far the loudest band today. The bass frequency alone
makes a confused reveller vomit in front of me, his liquids congealing with the spilt beer and
gob on the stage floor. One of the Japanese girls presses a piece of paper on the mess then
holds it up for all to see. Behold a lovely print of a psychedelic pavement pizza. I wonder how
much something like that is worth on Ebay?
The penultimate act of the evening to enter this humid sweltering hell hole of rock is Gosport
ELK PSYCHIATRIST they can number between two and upwards, but tonight Matthew
we're going to be a compact and bijou four piece guitar band with occasional synth squiggles.
After a brief altercation with the soundman about the saliva drenched microphones EP attack
with a series of short spikey tunes drawn from the two extant Skrow Tumm/Zimpoon albums
"At The Telepathic Monkey Network" and "Finl&". The group is tight, although the customary
masks and yellow gardening gloves conceal any identity to heap any proficient praise on any
specific member. Imagine a hybrid of The Fall, Swell Maps, Sonic Youth, Bonzo Dog Band, The
Residents mashed into a cacophonous pulp then served through the ears of the three
stooges. "Justly Proud" kicks off the proceedings rapidly followed by a new yet unrecorded
piece of "Metal Box" type dub hysteria, old classics "Locust Man" and "You Drive Me Wild,
Baby" are tossed in a mix with newer pieces. The version of "Exercise Bikes In Make Up"
brings a tear to my eyes, quite simply the best version ever. About twelve minutes in the most
bizarre medley of the night occurs when "One Day at a Time Sweet Jesus/Waiting For My
Gran (the Velvet's go English twee)/1 2 X U" is blasted out with the cool panache of a deaf
rhino. Then, if paying homage to their Gosport roots old Psychic Plankton tune "Where The
F**k is Tigger?" is given an airing. The last couple of minutes sink into a level of feedback as
the guitarist (elephant mask) writhes in front of the amps, bucking and thrashing before lying
still in a prone position allowing the waves of howling noise to wash over him. The crowd look
on agape in awe, thinking it was part of the set. Wrong. The humid, sweaty breathless
conditions made him black out. Thankfully, the warm and yet cooling air of the vomit soaked
seafront of Brighton revived him. All the same what a performance.
The final act of the night are from Sweden and like fellow compatriots The Hives ride that coat
tail of garage based punk rock. "Ladies and Gen'lemen, frome Schweedann, tha's een Europa,
roight? THE WHITE F**KEENG KEETENZ!" a heavily camp Scandinavian voice booms from
off stage. Sure enough
THE WHITE KITTENS bounce on stage, and like The Hives they to
have their own uniform. There's is the trade mark pristine leather motorcycle jacket, drainpipe
jeans, black shirt, white tie and bleached blonde quiffs. They number four and make the racket
of at least twice that number. The ignorant and seemingly comatose punks who were
noticeably absent during Elk Psychiatrist's set are awakened and begin hurling furniture and
bodily fluids at them. They take this cooly in their stride and play on - not missing a beat. They
think they are at CBGB's or The Roxy, not a shitty dive on the south coast of England. 1977
punk rock given a vibrant 2002 twist. Then they go and spoil it all be announcing they are
splitting after the current tour has finished. "Or duureeng it, if yoo ur very lerky..." drawls the
laconic singer fag placed perpetually in the corner of his mouth posing as if in a class of the
Johnny Thunders school of rock posturing, as a downpour of gob splatters across his replica
Gibson guitar. "...Thank yoo fer that, thank yoo and ferk auf!" and with that they march off, and
taking that as my cue so do I.
JULY 2002
Uncle Nail writes: I'd just like to mention that as a result of those filthy, disease ridden
conditions the singer with Elk Psychiatrist (was it THE Elk Psychiatrist? Are YOU the Elk
Psychiatrist? Am I the Elk Psychiatrist?) lost his voice for a month. Phew, rock 'n' roll. eh,
This will probably be a bit biased as I'm involved with less than two of these groups.
The first of tonight's two Icelandic bands
REYKJAVIK kick off the proceedings.  Theirs' is a
high octane fusion of Sonic Youth (probably not the last time they'll be mentioned in this
review) type hi-jinx embellished with a healthy dose of Deus when they were at their quirkiest
and then delivered at a fevered Pixies pace.
The bassist looks like Michael Gira of Swans circa 1989, but faster and happier, the guitarist
has the longest blondest fringe I've seen this side of Bryan Gregory, he thrashes away on a
guitar that has clearly seen better days and grins inanely. (The player, not the guitar).  The
singer bounced off the walls and made use of the empty floor space in front of the low slung
stage. Like a ginger Iggy then. The drummer a solid powerhouse had that startled look a
rabbit might have when got in the searchlight of one of her majesty's anti-fishery destroyers. 
Political satire, not here mate. 
Such energy met with a strangely apathetic response from the onlookers who gradually
filtered in to watch.  Muted, near reluctant applause met each song.  One can only assume
that Brighton must be currently awash with Icelandic bands with cool deadpan between
song  "Leningrad Cowboys Go America" style delivery.
After that the first of two short sets from the
Gosport/Totton/Pinner miscievous alliance that is
. As
the name suggests a Filthobop (tm) supergroup
starring Binky and Sgt. Bop from t' Springboks,
Spanky from The Tin Piglet and a myriad of Zimpoon
and C4n15t3r related combos and Marrowpoodle from
the Original Railings, Sperm Bank Martyrs etc.
Ours, yes, it is me was a bowel loosingly meticulated scheme involving toy instruments, found
sounds,brass and guitar.  What the fuck does found sound actually mean? 
The idea was to walk minstrel like through the venue skronking and shouting in a deranged
stylee at the punters. 
The soundcheck was great with a rounded whole of
rumbunctious menace.  Well it would, wouldn't it in an
empty venue?  However with 50 or so bodies in the way the
sound was muffled and stifled and twisted into barks of
seal strangling parps thanks to Spanky's asthmatic sax,
and my own frenetic bleating on penny whistle, bendy
plastic thing and toy guitar. Sgt. Bop cut massive hoops of
turbulence through the beer soaked air with loops, samples
and shit.  Mazzer went for the staring can be fun option. 
Mixed reaction from the indifferent crowd.  I was tapped on
the back and congratulated whilst at the same time advised
by some twat to learn to play guitar!
SKATAR next.  A gang of deranged Icelandic (Sonic) youth (told you!) in white boiler suits
fisting out a twisted guitar driven mess of stop start, start stop Magic Bandesque rythymic
satire.  Masterfull and beguiling in a kind of cool '90's Polvo/Truman's Water shot through the
eyes of Pere Ubu kind of way.  Spanky reckons there's a Devo element in there too, but
Spanky is foolish. You might as well say they're like Pavement fronted by Einar from the
Sugarcubes, but don't 'cause I just did. Due to me having to get ready for next set I missed
most of these frenetic boys performance, but I urge you to go see them next time they're here.
I know I will.
A slight improvement in the comatose audience reaction greets them, I dimly recall a similar
ambivalent aloof atmosphere the last time I was here two years ago.  WAKE UP YOU DOZY
If there is a "I love the '90's" alternatice vibe tonight, who does that make us? The Boredoms,
nah, too tall, too fat.
Us again, tonight Matthew we're going to be The Happy Flowers.  This time a more song
structured set if the word "song" can be applied. Spanky on trombone this time with toy
guitar set to auto-pilot, the nurse lady uniform adding a pantomime dame air of matronly
menace and ding dang wotsit.  Mazzer happy at last clad in his inflatable frog bath hat and red
choirboy threads is laying down a delicate smattering of tinkly bits on that effing horrible red
strat of his in that effing horrible two note technique that he has patented.  Gregson, ever the
Millets man is fumbling about with the sampler and puking out distracting and unsettling
ambience.  Me, doctors coat and naked without my mask, but hiding behind a vast goatee and
lopsided moustache of a face, find myself manning an amped up ukelele and barking at the
top of the small hillock that is one's vocal chords.
We have formed a protective square in the naughty corner and are fending off the native
beard strokers, mildy interested savages, philosophy student types, and onlookers
confronting their fears. 
For 12 or so mini minutes we splay our demonic souls like
buttocks in the wind. A staccatto barrage of parping
detuned out of my face and into yours ire. There is much
laughter.  From ourselves as much as the audience. 
Some move away eager to distance themselves incase
we start sacrificing them to our respective lords of talent.
Others are drawn like moths to a flame.  Not a flame of
heat, but a flame of sickly hot riffola and carefree
innocence gone wrong in an 18 stone white coat.
A handfull of people cheer, perhaps in relief, others clap politely, some look relieved that this
uncomfortable experience is over.  A handfull find the urge to chat to me in an attempt to
flush the trauma they have just witnessed from their feeble minds.
We bring to you Brighton - merchandise.  You buy none of it!  So we hand it out to the scared
and needy, a fanzine and tape (with badge!) here, a poorly executed CDR there. Perplexed
reactions all round.  Fools!  We have saved you the time and expense of having to buy your
mum a present on Mother's Day.
Apologies to headliners
I'M BEING GOOD. Missed a heck of a lot of their antics due to above
chat and gear loading.  What I saw was a ramshackle goulash of chunky thrash melded
un-rock.  Sonic Youth (do I get paid everytime I mention them? No, I bleeding don't!)with a
distinctively Brighton accent and alt. tuning mayhem.  A short set packed to the gills with
frayed skewered moments of frazzled brilliance.
After the gig we bond with our new Icelandic buddies Skatar.  The uneccessary fish carnage
of the cod war forgotten in a hectic blurred frenzy of CD and T-shirt trading.
Colin, from Tatty Seaside Town who organised tonight's shindig looked fetching in a red tee.
MARCH 2005
Uncle Nail writes:  I 'm glad to see that the needless slaughter and ill feeling that was left in
the wake of the Cod War was resolved by simply swapping shirts at full time.  C'mon Bush
and Blair follow the example of these brave alternative rockers!