Funereal new wave that sticks to the soles of your chucks like ectoplasmic chewing-gum, that’s where the Wicked Awesomes are at. In their new split with the O Voids we stumble upon Test Pattern, a ramshackle hymn for those cats out there who lose their shit in a rather idiosyncratic way to other frosty c-86 stalwarts such as Blank Dogs, with the added bonus of fine guitarwerks that coruscate mesmerising a la Television (the production values are more neon boys though), small creatures climbing up the walls of a castle of tarot cards over which, one second before collapsing, a perfect pop light shines to illuminate us prancing in the ghostly mosh pit of that indie dungeon where the best sonic gems lay hidden.

The Wicked Awesomes- Test Pattern

Then to Los Llamarada, that burning beacon of furious garage rock psychedelia coming all the way from Monterrey, Mexico. Their new album, Take the Sky, does precisely that, in a galley erected with sonic detritus from a past bygone but not forgotten, sails patchwork of a thousand brutally mind-expanding fabrics, say Kim Gordon’s youthful face staring defiant from a grainy blown up b&w photography sewn into a thousand teenage armies who wrestled with the ghost of the Punk Rock years to come before they even had a name.

This bulking contraption is propelled upwards forever upwards on an invisible matrix of relativistic wind patterns, oars spinning in a foreboding cycle to a rhythm that would make the Red Crayola proud in its parabolic slash metronomic derangement, the rest is that ominous bass ooomping and scratchy keyboards that make ripples in the subconscious like a vicious uppercut from Alan Vega’s leather-gloved claw. Fierce spirits defying gravity’s realpolitiks to go somewhere else, listen to their outer space transmission and shake your head in belief.

Los Llamarada- The Future Scream

And let us finish this excursion now, least we end forever lost in uncanny sonic labyrinths from which return is impossible. We reported Teeth Mountain some time ago, Ghost Science’s abstract americana was then trapped in the shining rainbow cage of a CD demo, we are happy to announce its final transmogrification into a black and heavy self-titled vinyl record which is but a suitable home for their dense psychedelic rumblings, listen to the nutritious percussive gumbo of Keinsein, the onslaught is truly fierce, tunnels are excavated into the unforgiving rump of the Holy Mountain, reaching that space at its core where walls encroach decorated with the archetypes of the tarot as scrawled in neolithic pictograms by a no-name tribe, every inch of the progression towards the heart of this secret place of knowledge is accompanied by a synth raga the voice of spirits that whisper and ululate esoteric mysteries in our hungry ears.

Teeth Mountain- Keinsein

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SATURDAY- It’s 13 Monsters again:

Forward looking indie dance party feat. the hits. From Devo to Lil Wayne to No Age and then some more. With a Xmas vibe this one.

At the Loft in Ship Street, 11-3AM, £5/4 NUS etc/3 via the cheaplist if you send us a myspace with your name and your friends’. Get on with us.

We have been going on about Times New Viking since the invention of sliced bread more or less, you know they did it with mangled melodies, burning wire and serrated peaks of distortion, a sonic field of love fever, a mattress in a bedroom crammed with memorabilia and grainy posters from legendary shows only ten kids attended, Pat broke his ankle trying to invent a new dance to this jerky shitgazing craze, a yellow cast covered in old skool graffitti of the fuck this world lets make a new one variety eventually discarded on top of a pile of sneaker detritus, yes, in some basement in Columbus Ohio they sat like mediums saturated on a universe of 90s glory and ectoplasmic garbage, the best of which harkens back to the glory days of psyche garage primitivism, and then they vomited it like cold coffee over black slabs of Siltbreezy vinyl, if you stare hard into these records, not the sides etched with lyrics like cryptic messages in a county jail cell for party hard types, the other side, flip it now, you can glimpse hallucinatory vignettes of doomed love, pristinely sloppy balladry and frantic manoeuvres of epic nihilism, fragmentary visions in the floor of Harmony Korine’s editing room, a total hurricane we can’t wait to see live in their show with No Age and Los Campesinos at Komedia in Brighton this Tuesday, as part of the Shred yr Face tour.

Times New Viking- No Sympathy

This you can get in their Stay Awake EP.

Jesus weeps every time I play Catatonic Youth’s Piss Scene EP in the stereo, the needles cry me a river of blood as a sludgepunk juggernaut spills out of the speakers and lays waste to the room with methodical viciousness, their music is a malevolent force situated somewhere in between Chrome’s machine sex stomp, Suicide’s gnarly ululations, J&MC’s toxic drone and the no future attitude of the true dead icons of the Cleveland punk pantheon, weasel exterminator pop to scare the shit out off your parents, broken bottles, barbed wire around your wrists and lycanthropic transformations in a feral moshpit which some exit minus a few teeth, perchance a limb, every song is a poisonous nugget and a harbinger of doom, viscous drops of black stuff accumulating in a strategic location south west of your ribcage, bad voodoo to be deployed against the concrete walls of reality under a sky the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel.

And this is them being sweet.

Catatonic Youth- Freedom Vanilla

All good psychedelic music converges into a blurry event horizon of truths, myths and preternatural images floating around you like burning ideograms in the interstitial space between heaven, hell and the there and now of some Japanese video game concocted by an illuminated wannabe God designer off his face on some really fucked up acid, hence the normality of my listening to Los Llamarada in their latest 7”, out in Italian label AVANT!, and thinking, sweet baby Jesus everything makes sense, if Can had been a psyche garage outfit with a penchant for recording dissonant stomping epics from the vantage point of a vulture gliding in the incandescent winds of the Mexican desert, good Samaritan anointing the sick and dying of the world with a hungry kiss which is an end and a beginning, then ‘Oh yeah’ would have sounded like this. Fucking uncanny kids, fucking uncanny.

Los Llamarada- Against the Day

WE ARE HAPPENING GLOBALLY

NYC and Brighton: anti-dualistic turbine of fucked up power, and the horrible concretion of an ideology that lives by night. Welfare for the sick, Dario Argento is our prophet.

NYC on Tuesday, Dev from Lightspeed Champion and Telepathe guest DJ

Brighton on Saturday 18th October, the old skool hardcore nerd out where it all began, then off to Angry Dance Party at Micro.