A monster roams the streets of Sacramento, you need not worry much, because it is not primarily the tender flesh of teenagers or the sour spleen of caffeine pumped policemen that it craves, nay, this beast of brutal muscle and solid shadow feeds on broken glasses and abandoned tires, and drinks from rancid pools of carburettor liquid, its burps send empty shopping bags into the air like geometrical flowers blooming across the empty expanses of the DIY store’s parking lot, the mangled traffic signal you see on your way to school is not the hapless victim of a drunken reveller of unsteady hands behind the steering wheel, but the last bite of reality this beast took before the sun raised in the horizon vanquishing it to a cave in the outskirts of the city.

But the plot thickens curious children, if you were to investigate the habits of our object of analysis, say, for example, track it from a safe distance as it prowls the neighbourhood, you would see it tends to gravitate towards those houses from which music comes out the loudest, and gnarliest, those houses where anonymous youngsters rant and rave, and put the family heirlooms at risk with their frenzied antics and feverish dances, see it standing there, just outside the perimeter of yellow light, growing and pulsating like a leech digging deep into Conan the Barbarian’s concrete thigh while the drone buzzes louder and louder, reaching a manic pitch which makes you suspect some maniac has crashed the party to exterminate its participants with a kerosene-powered double handed chain-axe. And then you realise the nature of this creature’s biological cycle, how it feeds on the primeval ruckus these energetic punk rock Neanderthals create in their underground caves, how the crimson forces they summon in their inadvertent rituals energise it and send it in the next bout of chaos and destruction.

Yesterday we had to walk to school because the yellow bus had been grabbed from its garage, chewed and spit in the middle of the road. Some kids in the know say that the Mayyor’s show at Luigi’s fungarden was rad.

Mayyors- The Crawl

This tune is taken from Mayyors’ rather sold out Deads 12. We’ll leave it at Fucking Hell.

You can use a bowie knife to cleave flesh and bone, to scratch crosses on the walls of your house or to dig out a .38 slug trapped somewhere in between your lungs and your heart, to sharpen punji sticks essential ingredient of a lethal trap, or reflect the light of the sun to send messages in a secret code, you can use a bowie knife to raise a plank of wood on the floor of a derelict cabin under which lies a stash of 70s porno mags, to stroke smooth and milky flesh straddling the tantalising boundaries between sex and death, and to chop the sleeves of an old Trasher t-shirt, also to screw the bolts of the hinges of a door kicked down during a night you can’t remember, you can nail it in the ground to mark a line that no-one should dare cross, and can whistle down its wicked edge to create an eerie melody in the middle night, you can use it for many things, but whenever you use it, it means things got real. In the meanwhile, it lies inside its leather sheath, wrapped in a greasy cloth under a stained mattress in your damp bedroom.

Mazes just took out the Bowie Knife. They are the second release on most excelsior Sex is Disgusting, which as you know is run by our two comrades Andy and James. They make mutilated pop of the highest order, a bit like Big Star after falling inside Dario Argento’s pool of barbed wire, from which they emerge covered in gore, yet smiling. They are awesome and you need to make sure you get a copy by ordering via sexisdisgusting@gmail.com before the stock runs out. There.

Mazes- Bowie Knife

It’s all going to end one day, black tears and brown water, the wreck of cars littering streets covered in toxic smoke, it will be like Cloverfield sans the annoying lifestyles, we never know what hit us but what hit us hit us hard, you will see people staring into the sky with ashen faces, hurriedly pushing supermarket trolleys full of food and bottled water towards their refuges, or staring at dead mobile phones with crushed numbness, a monstrous growl echoes in the distance to send them scurrying into the shadows like feeble roaches in God’s messy kitchen, beware, there be hungry, cruelly playful cats here.

And as the apocalypse unfolds, Cough Cool will smile from his vantage point at the top of a collapsing skyscraper, surrounded by a coterie of crows as he intones songs of dirge and doom, mighty vibrations that send the pillars of smoke flying into bizarre shapes, hallucinations of grimacing faces and twitching tentacles. Cheer up kid, at least now you know you’ve got something to look forward to in that day when it all ends.

Cough Cool- Roxette

Cough Cool is taking over the world soon, there is a tape coming out in Bathetic records for beginners.

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As a mindblowing bonus, we leave you with a joyous party mixtape that comrades in arms  Foot Village have put together for us. Crashing through the walls of clouds with impervious energy, that’s always their steez.

Foot Village: Summer 09 Picnic Party in the Green Hills of Foot Village

We are so there!!!!

Tracklist:

Lord Groovy & the Psychodelic Zombiez- Nuclear Power
Food for Animals- Summer Jam – (Ricky Rabbit Remix)
Freek- Vivid Imagination
Anavan- The Perfect Sound
Trilambs- Parker Posey
GZA- Crash Your Crew (featuring Ol’ Dirty Bastard)
Bill Hicks- Summer Trip
Amanda Lear- Rockin Rollin (I Hear Your Nagging)
Fuck Buttons- Sweet Love For Planet Earth
Ratiocination- Shake Your Booty -
Rainbow Sugar- World Most Exciting Ride
Various Artists- Kuno & the Marihuana Brass, Marihuana Mantra
Frida Sonko- Gwenasobya
Statik-5- Follow Your Dream

So I left this tune on the record player while I was shaving and when I came back to my bedroom it was all fucking trashed, even the paint stripped off the walls, sweet baby Jesus playing chess with Alejandro Jodorowsky on the top of that mountain whence the prophets came bearing stones with cryptic rules, I beheld my face in the shattered mirror and wild eyes stared back at me, blood streaming from emaciated cheeks down the ridge of a trembling chin precipitating into a white t-shirt that had become something else, now, this is what Sexy Prison shall do to your room if you let them, so yeah, press play at your own risk. They skate gracefully over a valley of distorted grimaces and broken bones waving Chromes’s amphetaminic banner, enter Filth Flarn Filth and be confronted by a streamlined version of Bosch’s apocalypse inhabited by no wave cyborgs, minimal wave pinheads and the odd melodic little red riding hook with razorblade implants under her fingernails. Don’t turn your back on her, she is a merciless bitch.

Believe me.

Sexy Prison- Without Us Some Guys Would Starve

So I left this tune on the record player while pondering in the kitchen about the potential cracking of some eggs to concoct the proverbial omelette, when I came back into my bedroom fretful under the black wings of a metaphysical bat I found it in total Beirut styles, walls obliterated as if commander fuck you had sat in front of his map and drawn a red X straight in my space, turning it into gleaming target for howitzers, mortars and the odd wasp stuka buzzing straight outta hell. An abstract hell beheld through fractured walls which is Mayyors’ very own in Megan’s LOLZ, barren expanses under a millenial night of an alien colour, tundras littered with the brittle corpses of collosi whose bones and tusks are recycled into spears, pikes and clubs by misshapen beasts waging a brutal party that feeds upon itself like eviscerated sharks in turbulent waters, turbo-accelerated blitzkrieg, Electric Eels on fast forward forever, rotor shredder styles which remind us of Coachwhips’ eternal genius, harsh times never got better than this.

Mayyors- Airplanes