“Some time in the early '90s, I fell asleep in front of the TV and I woke at three in the morning and the TV is flashing these flashing lights and there is some band playing, with smoke and belching flames and horrendous noises. And I thought to myself, That’s what a rock show needs to be. And then I realise, Oh wait, that's us.”
This is the shit. The real shit. The fucked-up shit. The psychedelic, balls-out, untamed, megaphone-wielding, shotgun-blasting, naked pyromania, drug-addled, noise-erupting shit. Cymbals burst alight with stunning suddenness. Scuffles break out stage right as a man in his underpants assaults audience members’ ears with a stream of nonsensical, scary garbage. Trippy cacophonous explosions of looped noise and belching. Dada tape manipulation. Hyper-tinny scratchings of distorted guitars and demented chanting looped around frighteningly hypnotic rhythmic cadences that spin around in helpless abandon. Albums with titles like Psychic.... Powerless.... Another Man's Sac and PCPPEP cos no one knew what the fuck was going on.
