Shortly before his tragic death Paul Clayden completed what is widely regarded as his most accomplished music. ‘Das Electrik Ponce’ is thought of as his most personal and reflective work. He had reached a stage in his life where his music had touched few people, nowhere near the amount he anticipated. He emigrated to Hamburg, Germany and rented a small flat overlooking the harbour. There he spent 14 months writing in reclusion. The results are a fusion of gerkin slices and rotally bode lyrics.

9/10 - “Tragically underated, I played this album on my home hi-fi the day I bought it. My daughter walked in the room and upon hearing Das Electrik Ponce she emigrated. Yes, it was THAT sandy.” - JT Gladstone (Manchester Mince Matters)

5 Ticks - “How can I explain this album? Its like twelve yes and actual. Biggles rimbow and pants on the left. Nanas tottenham cake from the priceless palace” - Derk Fenel (New York Times)

10/10 - “Clayden crafts his melodies like a russian prostitute flushing a paint enema onto a passport photo of a ching chong chinaman” - Steven Steven (Rat News Live)

Gold Star - “Sweef Chinbag and Lollychocs, one moment you’re touching bubbles and kiddiebics, next you’re sifting through pig turds” - Sidney Normal (Bang-Bang Bin Lads)

Paul is an often overlooked artist when one thinks of electrosheath. This album “Cruel Eyes” was written entirely on a minimoog and with a DMX drum machine. With heavy influence from OMD pauls crisp womanly vocals cut finely through his pitter/patter beats and meld beautifully with the rough gravelly drive of the minimoogs basslines.

7/10 - “Like Pouring Cream into Black Coffee at 4am in a Tokyo Hotel Lobby. Mysterious, Hypnotic and Spaffwang” - James Pinepin (London Logenberry Review)

4 Stars - “Mesmerprise beats rolling out like steel rain falling upwards into a reversed laugh” - Jinny Ninoj (Oxford Lime Tree)

This new album by Brace Jones totally smashes the touting electro scene into a pissy mattress with a laserbell from 1982. Just read some of the gonky reviews I’ve searched the web for. Totally brink/shink/gink.

10/10 - “A Vogal Poseur, Angular-Quiff & Boredumpling Cheeks for the Electrotechs” - Brand Freckenhiem (Stuttgard Alive)

5 Stars - “Dancist and Radicock” - Humbert Falme (Renegade Bonce)

93% - “Blistel Nebulogue Sounds from the Funnel Flushing Affectionado of Ziester Schprackt” - G. Gelden (Boston Daily Grind)

Exclusive demo of the new song by the Bratitudes, download it here

“Totally shathed off your decimal. Globe-panned and dancing naked in front of your full length mirror. Your billmo is spaffing outweird and bellrind to the duice grind. Limpy breaks and a kammy flannel riff. Tonight you found your nan passed out in the bin. “Shit”, you thought. She must have got hold of my TONK and boffed the lot. Should you call the nonny men to blinky redblue up your long thin gravel. “Oh god” you think, should I just wait till this last songs finished. Patter out the bongo tats on the garbage lid as you wheel out your grannybin. ‘She can wait till the morning’ you think. As you donk up another line of naff powder.”

Not all guitar music from the eighties was funnel.

Distance yourself from halloween crepe and some jumbo captain, Roxy Music were sleek, slender and shiny. Brian Ferry’s vocals were spanky zound the zeitguitars were nurbo-specialist. Brians voice warbled and churned like a beamy baton in a tubby barrel of buttercandy.

His cryptic lyrics were bearded in diagonal cream and his harmonies delivered in bendy laserjoints. Like a tapir gobbling at electrik meshwork. As his carnival of disco-zones plumes and pumps your private pool, you feel elevated to the lofty hights of the “prince of tarts”

Download some choice carvings of roxy chunk here you breakvurst boser

In the early 1980s…

Brithe brimcat Steve Strange (major wunk), Boy George (eurogay) and a bloke called Leigh Bowery (total bronk eurogay) would go to this nightclub called bb.b..b.b.b BLITZ.

They were so fucking eurotunk that people started to tunk about them and they became known as the Blitz Kids. (Spritzy, non pascal?)

Later steve strange started up VISAGE with some other faggot and inbetween sucking the alltime mother of cocks actually brinked out some fucking sham-geek-chic tracks. Which was totally chunked.

This post is to celebrate that tunky feeling you get when you’re wearing period costume / minstrel pants / neo vintage japanese garters sham spack off schpracken tudor waistcoatz and douchey dong hats. Flipwide Sang.

Basically Steve Strange was a fucking BROTO for boss stupidfun and I brink tats well wunky.

Download the first Visage album here… VISAGE.ZIP

Rightious Geezerfun for your schmouse brouse.

Mothers Butter - Biography (’81-84)

In October 1981 a young German woman, Luzie Delfard met the Dutch synthist, Bogel Marms at the infamous Crank Clubb in Finnmark, Norway.

Marms was performing his synth-art piece, “Tough My Bradley”. In this performance he would play his gradula synthkord whilst inside a semi transparent white cocoon. On stage was a cross section of an erect penis. Bogels cocoon was positioned in the testes, and as the piece progressed the pod slowly travelled up, along the urethra and finally exiting the urethral orifice.

Luzie was there on his first night and congratulated him. They clicked and 4 months later they formed ‘Mothers Butter’.

Their electrode sound was a layering of brody stabs, lusty drums and con-frunk-tational subjects such as same-sex marriages and euthanasia. Memorable tracks from their first LP were “Wunky Brewster” and “Grody Life (Let me boss it)”

They inspired a huge cult following and pioneered the monthly “Flimsy Bender” nights at the Crank which popularised emerging electro acts.

They enjoyed 14 months of success before Bogel Marms exited the band after meeting a gay Portuguese performance artist known as “Missile Champ”. They left Norway and moved to Lisbon after a public row at the Crank involving Luzie and Bogel.

Luzie is now working for amnesty international and Bogel plans to release an LP under the moniker of ‘Bogue Bogel’ titled “YAD/20 (Feeling Alright Tonight)”. His sound is described as Dutch eurodance and friendly tunk.

[Mothers Butter : Flimsy Forever (Best of Mothers Butter). Avail. Dec 2005, CD/Laserdiss]

In the spring of 1981 a small band of misfits attempted to play at Blitz. Their style was particularly zeitshiest but they engaged a new aesthetic to the riding rhythm that the Blitzen couldn’t handle… It was aptly called ‘Vector Esproten Exposition’ and laid the foundations for Broto beat. Here are some pictures of the Obliterati, their broto brethren…

Crayon

Dream Pilot

B-Rude, Lebanese Break Artist

Limahl’s skinned boff bag was so grossly bloated that I never caught a glimpse of his cohorn… Welcome to the JEZ STRODE node, yode! Sweef wickerd!

Someone was asking me how to BOSCH it. Is there ANYTHING about these guys that tells you they are NOT bosching it?

I didnt think so, bitch bummer.

Check out that fucking BELT. Yes slag, you think you can roll with one of these? Get the blitx out of here chief, Bronski Beat got the Frizzle Dizzle CASH.

Check list:

1. K-rad lips
2. Loose white Broto suit
3. Perm wunk
4. Aviators, ultra lick!
5. Blitz tan
6. Strobbing leg
7. Swinging body lust
8. Megasprod keytar

A picture sells a thousand dreams…

The Paradise Garage in New York is where the term “garage” music originated from.

In 1985 Grace Jones was invited to perform there..

Personally, I think she choose her outfit carefully. She wanted to send out the signal that she was fun, sure. But also a serious singer, with a message. Im pleased with her choice. Fresh and zazzy, but not too over the top. Clearly this was an outfit designed for functionality. Enabling her maximium body movement and freedom to explore the stage. If only we’d have been there to see it.

Listen bitch holmes.

CDs are for the sweedes.

Tapes are grapes.

DVDs are so 90s.

Strap on your geezer goggles and get LASERDISC’d.

WHUNK

You decide to take a trip to Basildon because you hear there is a crazy new sound in the discotechs. Then you see these flimsy benders outstrobbing in the street.

The beaches are a building site yellow. The seaweed is fruity and juicy and black. The walls are mossey and covered in green. I walton to keep going back.

Chinese pears. Hairdressers. Arcades. Pie & Mash. Second Hand Furniture Shops. Go there with a camera for a right old time.

A day out in london to see the queen. What a right old time we had.

I had a pretty boss room, it got rubbish when there was a leak in the light fitting and my shoes got damp and everything went smelly. More smelly.

Near Brentwood, there’s a decommissioned bunker. Its pretty sweef. I like the smell there, of the old metal. Like an army surplus smell. Which incidentally is pretty much where they got the props from. If you like your history inaccurate and mannequins in silly poses then you are in for a treat. Its free entry also, and there’s an honesty box for the canteen. I always feel like im getting value for money when I short change them. The chances are most people pay more than its worth and the burgers are shistee too. They taste like those findus pack of 20 burgers that look like grey saucers after cooking. Horrible, but there’s a cat with a funny eye, so that may compensate, and the tables are formica with little plastic chairs like you had at school.

Have a look at their website. Brultra Shist

I spent a year without speaking to friends and family a great deal. I spent most of my time in my room playing Counterstrike. I went through two major clans before going it alone with the tag “+1 Mother”.

I was a renegade. A loner. Only in it for the fame and recognition. Sure I played dirty. I was “Mother”. I left one clan, only to be kicked out of the second. Why? Because I was too dangerous. I lived life too close to the edge. And that scared people. Im not allowed to install Steam and Counterstrike now. I guess I’ll never experience strafing a terrorist with my MP5 again. Never close my eyes a grit my teeth as I throw a grenade through perfect arc. Never hide like a beautiful curse in the back room and splay limbs as I run out in slow motion. My face animalised.