Conflicted

 

🧨 Monday, June 2nd – Chaos, Chords, and Cucumber Sarnies

Today started with chaos — classic. Forgot to unset my phone alarm, so it went off at 6am like a demon summoning ritual. I didn’t even start work until 8. Roof leak still haunting the to-do list like a specter with a spanner.

🎸 Punk Is Still Alive (And So Is My To-Do List)

Somewhere between washing my bedding and wandering to ASDA for a mooch, I remembered I’ve got a Crapsons LP sleeve to design. Big love to my surrogate sons, forever asking favours of their pretend Dad.

Also need to find three chords and make another album — because hey, that’s how punk works, right?

Got distracted again by music. Always do. Had The Lovely Eggs blasting while trying to recycle (badly). Honestly, might be falling in love with them a little.

USA NAILS also caught my ear — messy, loud, honest. Just how I like it.

🎮 Detox? More Like Detour

Told myself I’m detoxing. Then played PlayStation for hours. The irony isn't lost on me.

Lunch: Cucumber salad sarnies + crisps. Probably the healthiest part of the day.

Tea: Mushroom stir-fry with YouTube synth pop as the soundtrack. Felt like I was in a lo-fi anime for a minute.

💀 Conflict

Got news that Colin Jerwood of Conflict has died.

That hit hard. Massive influence on me growing up. That band screamed what I couldn’t say. DIY punk, anarcho rage, politics with distortion. Rest in power.

*This upload is processing & should be available shortly.

That line hit different today. Feels like me some days.

Kier Starmer the gig promoter

 Woke up confused, my dream did it; Kier Starmer was disappointed with me because I hadn't followed up on the lead he gave me for my band Spam Javelin to play in Hoffenheim. I feigned that I had called the number, but I could tell he knew this wasn't the case.

With the rain mainly falling on the plain, Sunday turned out to be a pyjama day - I like these days - I couldn't do them everyday as the great outdoor forever lures me outward. The kid is online murdering aliens with his mates and I'm sifting through this week's contributions as I prepare my Louder Than War radio show.
An hour's show could easily be chucked together on the hoof, but I enjoy gathering music, listening to new stuff, researching bands - it's what makes me tick. When there was an actual studio to broadcast from there was usually a live band, eager to nervously play on air to the masses - some would travel from afar to appear on a Monday night in North Wales! I think Blanchard travelled the furthest, hailing from Lancaster (the crazy fools! - great session though!). These post-Covid days, the show is done from the comfort of my living room (usually in those said PJs!), and I'll sometimes feature a new album, depends how the mood takes me - There's no rules.

With the playlist in place, I set aside about ten minutes of free space as bands will often send me stuff during the course of Monday once they see the show advertised, and sometimes the track is too good to leave til next week. I then design a flyer for that particular show, yes, I could use the same one, but where's the fun in that? Once done I'll share it on the socials.
All this takes a couple of hours, and normally it'll be all done by around 8am on a Sunday morning!

With the Rain Gods unrelenting I took the opportunity to read the latest issue of Cubesville fanzine #27 with some cool interviews and humour driven views - I took it upon myself to go with Ritual Error's desert island disc choices (basically Cubesville asked them what three albums each of them would take), so I revved up the Spotify (yeah get over it) and skipped over Minutemen and Saccharine Trust to go for the excellent Hoover album 'The Lurid Traversal Of Route' followed by Fugazi's 'In On The Kill Taker' and Unwound's 'New Plastic Ideas.'

I then tore up my new water bill from Dwr Cymru who've increased the theft by £20 a month, and also realised I'm getting pickpocketed an extra £11 by the council. Bastards the lot of them...

Cyclepathic Cash Only Cyclist's Funeral

The weekend was slightly marred by the fact I had to work (yes even rockstars have to work for a living), so the kiddo had to string along. To keep him occupied for four hours while I made money for The Man, I coerced him into cleaning my car with the promise of money and the added bonus of commandeering a hose pipe. I've had the car for almost a year and it's NEVER been washed. Fair play, Charlie took it in his stride and did a sterling job, even vaccing the interior. Talking of sterling, I did try and fob him off with ten Euros left in my wallet after Lisbon, but he wasn't buying into that. We later agreed on a £12 kite from Smyths toys instead - alas not enough huff in the air to fly it, but I'm sure Storm Elon will be along soon.

By noon, it was time to close shop and let the leisure begin - I finally fixed the bike rack to the (now pristine) car and mounted our bikes and headed East to Llanfairfechan promenade. We hit the route on our bikes, traversing probably the toughest section of the North Wales Cycle Path around Penmaen Head and into Penmaenmawr. An ice cream on the beach was called for but the sign read 'CASH ONLY' and I sighed at the Euros in my otherwise empty wallet. I had read earlier that the Scandanavian countries were the pioneers in promoting a cashless society, but are now encouraging their populations to start using the green stuff again, and ensure some is also kept at home in case of a cyber attack. Cash should be king, with every card transaction you do, you're tracked and traced by the corporate cookie monster, just waiting to spam you with shit you don't need. Plus, if you're self employed then, money makes the world go round and the taxman, who fucks you senseless already, can't clobber you so easily.

The wonderful Bruise Control sing:

I'd rather see the grave before I see tears for the taxman

I'm gonna knock the jaw off the next toff that tells me to relax man

I'm sick to my fucking gut of you telling me what to do

The best thing i ever did was stop listening to you

Death to the jobsworths, death to the snitches

Death for the taxman, death to his riches

Death for the dead, death for the living

The decision was made to return to the car, completing a six mile cycle, and head to Llandudno pier for an ice cream, which we duly did! 

'Hey Neil!' - it was Adam of Scotch Funeral with two cohorts, also on the pier to soak in the magnificent view. The said cohorts were (I guess), Steve the drummer and cameraman Alex - they were taking a break from filming a video for the forthcoming Scotch Funeral album, called 'Ever & Ever'. This is exciting! On vinyl no less!! Fair do's... I'm really looking forward to hearing that gnarly garage punk offering (and I'm sure you are too).

(Charlie plays harmonica while I ponder over a crisp butty on the cyclepath)

#punk #cycling #northwales #cyclepath #bruisecontrol

Bruise Control / Fuzz Lightyear @ Big Hands, Manchester

 

Big Hands is such a great venue - it has cool staff and a cool vibe. Drinking our way there from the centre of town it turned out the first band weren't on until 10pm. So this meant two hours of supping and chilling out to the best playlist I've never heard... The tunes were perfect for the mood; all dirty, sleazy and all from the garage of life.

Fuzz Lightyear had played a festival earlier today and waded into Big Hands a little flustered, but were ready to rock and roll by the promised 10pm. I'm still pondering as to whether the name Fuzz Lightyear is pure genius or totally ridiculous - probably both. This doesn't detract from the fact they deliver an audacious sound straight outta Leeds. It's noisegaze, post-hardcore, garage-fuzz, call it what you want, I thought it was simply neat. Psychedelic intricate guitars are built around Ben Parry's distinct vocals and the band pull no punches. The recent expansive addition of Alex Calder on guitar / synth brings a hint of the direction they're heading and the destination is exciting. Their volatile debut EP 'Fuzz II' brought a welcome grunge strewn barrage of noise, but there is more to come out the Fuzz locker.

Bruise Control are on home turf and the cruise control is set to max. The pedal is rammed against the metal and there's RedX in the tank. The turbo-goths have necked a fistful of pills from their Nan's medicine cabinet, washed them down with cans of Monster and they're gonna get GTA on your ass.
Fronted by the cartoon character that is Jimbob Taylor, who must live in a tin shack, surrounded by chickens on the side of a dusty highway, Bruise Control rocked my world. They trashed through their repertoire, kicking, screaming, spitting and shagging. Your head is forced down the toilet and is repeatedly flushed as they laugh at your misery.
This is cowpunk hardcore nonsense for deadbeats - YOU are a deadbeat - catch Bruise Control on tour with Sniff in May.
I have just ticked a box I didn't have to tick.

Red Or Dead - Anarchy Is Liberty

Talk about bad timing (or perhaps bad tidings), Red Or Dead (and myself as link2wales records) put this album out just as the whole world decided to impose martial law on a flu ravaged population. 

It was my 22nd release on link2wales, (a kind of record label that upped the ante every now and then when the mood takes me). Never for profit, I let bands use the link2wales platform so long as they paid for the pressing and I got a few copies to cover my own costs. Most pressings were in batches of 100 and (for gigging bands) they usually sold out pretty quick.

Link2wales Records are proud to announce the release of the second album from Penmachno’s Red Or Dead.
Anarchy Is Liberty is available on CD in a card wallet and features 9 socially active punk-folk songs that you can shake an angry stick at. It follows on from 2018’s well received debut album Trotsky Waltz.

The Ginger Quiff wrote this about the album:

The new album, Anarchy is Liberty, from North Wales’ acoustic punks Red or Dead is a timely comment on the current state of the planet. It proves you don’t have to scream and shout and thrash on loud electric guitars to make a point as 21st Century anarcho punks.

I believe I made this comparison before, but the band fills the ground somewhere between Wigan folk punks The Tansads and the now legendary Levellers, with a host of ideals and influences shared with original anarcho punks, Crass and taking influence from the music of Joe Strummer and The Clash.

Zombieland

Take the first track for example, Zombieland, with Rob’s vocal delivery paying tribute to The Clash’ Magnificent Seven complete. The track is all about the masses walking around with eyes and minds closed and accepting everything we are spoon fed by the media and government. We close our eyes in Zombieland, do what we’re told in Zombieland… A little closer to home in the current climate.

The theme of standing up and being counted continues throughout the album with Take the Streets a call to arms for the “woke” amongst the population (why have we started shortening words that are already short?). The album takes its title from this song and highlights some of the divine harmonies between Rob and Gala.

Gala takes the lead on In the End to great effect accompanied by some sweet acoustic guitar runs and riffing. Greed takes on a more sinister tone with ominous bass and sombre acoustic guitar introducing the lyrical subject matter which I’m sure you can guess at based on the song title.  There is also some sublime acoustic Spanish guitar riffing later in the track.

Fall Down

Talking of Spanish, Calles Del Delor (Streets of Pain) packs a powerful anti-drugs and corruption message. Sweetly strummed mandolin adds an extra texture to one of the album’s highlights, Fall Down. Its harmonious layered chorus documenting the greed influenced dragging down of protagonist in the song. This maudlin track gives way to the driving incessant driving beat of Limited Vision

The penultimate track is their previous single released around the time of the last Royal Wedding. Inspired by the news stories of homeless people being moved on from the streets, lest the world should see that there are homeless people on the streets of the UK. It attacks the Royal Family and its lack of relevance. A mere publicity machine to bring in the tourists.

A Storm is Coming is the last, the most delicate and the most beautiful, almost prescient song on the album. The repeated refrain rises in volume and pitch and adds a choir at the end. The power of the song finally revealed in all its glory. A storm is coming now, it comes for us all …

This album has been on constant rotation. It gets better every time I listen. The harmonies and melodies are exquisite. The songs demonstrate the capacity and impact of cleverly created lyrics proving you don’t have to play loud guitars to show your anger and passion to get a point across.

Gig Review: Wonk Unit + Laserchrist at The Star & Garter, Manchester

 

Sometimes a night out just escalates.

Saturday 8th December 2019 was one of those nights — when Wonk Unit and Laserchrist took over The Star & Garter in Manchester, and everything descended (or maybe ascended?) into a sweaty, glorious mayhem. I went with Rich and Garry (always a recipe for something), catching the train from Rhyl, and by the time the night was over we were moshing, drenched in beer, and... maybe a tiny bit tipsy.

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🚂 The Journey

We kicked things off catching the train from Rhyl — excited, fresh from our yoga session and drinking herbal tea, and ready for whatever Manchester could throw at us. The Star & Garter, nestled behind Piccadilly Station, is already a venue that feels like it’s held together with spirit, electrician's tape and sweat — the perfect backdrop for what was to come.

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🔊 Wonk Unit: Punk with a Personal Touch

Wonk Unit don’t just play gigs. They create punk-powered parties that blur the lines between performer and audience — just don't ask to be on the guest list. We somehow ended up chatting to Alex, the band’s charismatic frontman, and when he heard we’d be bailing 20 minutes before the end to catch the last train, he literally rewrote the setlist on the spot to include the songs we came to hear. Absolute legend.

The set was chaotic, funny, loud, and full of heart. Moshing broke out, stage-diving kicked off, and somewhere in the madness, someone dressed as a man-sized pigeon started dancing in the pit. There's apparently video evidence out there... unless the herbal tea was a hallucinogen one (Tesco's finest).

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💥 Laserchrist: Angsty Hardcore Fire

Laserchrist were a perfect support act — pretty well spaced out songs, as in, good spaces within their songs (does that make sense?). Their American-style hardcore sound had a dogged punch with memorable tunes. Definitely worth checking out their ‘DIY-Bother EP’ if you like fast, emotional, raw (almost) hardcore punk. They had the crowd riled up early and set the tone for the night ahead.

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🍻 The Aftermath

Did we get too drunk? Yes. Did someone throw up? Probably. Did we care? Not one bit.
This wasn’t just a gig — it was an experience: part punk show, part social experiment, part drunken odyssey. It had heart, laughter, bruises, beers, and a pigeon. Everything you want from a proper underground show. Somehow, I don't know how, we caught the last train home.
When you wake up the following morning and you can't see properly, you know it's gonna be a pyjama day.

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Would I do it again?
In a heartbeat.
With water next time.

Rival Tribal Revel Rebel

 

Driving fast through a quiet town at dawn. Summer light just breaking. It’s 6am, and everyone is safely couped up in their houses. Streets lined with cloned, neatly arranged buildings—a portrait of order.

Society has shaped the human race into something uniform. We all seek shelter from the elements. We all need a place to live. We gather in clusters, tribes, territories. And when it comes to protecting those—our families, our friends, our towns, our football teams, our beliefs—we get defensive.

It’s tribal.
All of it.

We group by religion, nationality, music taste, football allegiance, even political stance. Punk rockers. Catholics. Protestants. Leave. Remain. Fellow countrymen. Fellow outsiders. It’s the same primal instinct dressed up in modern clothes.

We squabble. We divide. We defend.
It’s always been this way.

Brexit? Just another modern tribal fight.
The question isn’t “Which side are you on?”
The question is “Why are there sides at all?”

“Who needs countries anyway?”
We go to war for land. For energy. For flags and anthems and invisible lines on maps.

FUCK THE HUMAN RACE.

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Meanwhile, in the middle of this existential unraveling...
The dripping shower (#2) in my Airbnb is nearly dead.

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Author’s Note:

This entry was pulled from a real-time scribble in a notebook, fueled by too little sleep and too much thinking. I don’t have the answers—but maybe questioning the shape of the world is a good start.

Overthrowing the Government

It began, as all great revolutions do, with a daft idea and a dodgy hotel corridor. Wayne and I had decided that the downfall of John Major’s government could be engineered not with marches or manifestos, but by stealing his latest speech. Cut off the supply of waffle, and the nation might finally rise up.

The corridor outside his room smelt of stale carpet and nervous anticipation. We moved with the brisk, officious air of men who belonged there, clipboards under our arms, dark suits stiff at the shoulders. When the Prime Minister’s personal aide intercepted us, Wayne tapped his earpiece—a prop, of course—and muttered, “Security sweep. We’ve got reports something’s missing.”

Dressed in our best “we-look-like-security” suits, we barged into the Prime Minister’s hotel suite. Major was there in person, polishing his glasses with the weary air of a man who suspected even his spectacles might be plotting against him.

“Everything all right?” he asked mildly, as if two sweaty blokes bursting into his room was part of the day’s itinerary.

“Security check, sir,” I said, puffing out my chest. “We’ve had reports something’s missing.”

That was our excuse. Brilliant in theory, doomed in practice. Because the trouble was, nothing was missing. The desk was perfectly neat, the briefcase locked, the ashtray tragically devoid of drama. Our plan was already creaking like an old bicycle.

Wayne, however, wasn’t the sort to let logic get in the way of a coup. He scanned the room, muttered something about “needing to make it convincing,” and before I could stop him, he grabbed the wardrobe—an enormous mahogany beast—and heaved it across the carpet. With a grunt of triumph, he launched it straight through the window.

Glass exploded, pedestrians screamed, and the wardrobe landed in the street below with a thud that probably registered on the Richter scale.

Major removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said in the tone of a man scolding naughty spaniels, “Gentlemen, if this is security, I’d hate to see burglary.”

We stood there, surrounded by shards of glass, feigning professionalism as if hurling hotel furniture into traffic was all part of the procedure. The speech, naturally, remained un-stolen. The government, un-overthrown. And Wayne, for the record, was banned from every branch of Travelodge in the country.