Miranda who is singing on this album really makes this golden with her angry self. She and the four guys in Future Hate have a punk style that is actually a bit different and I do not really know what to compare. Then I get almost a panic, but what I can say is that there are elements of both Dead Kennedy's, a bit more odd punk and the usual hardcore in their music. There is a lot of anger going out if you say so and Future hate really tries to get it out and I usually succeed in liking it. You still get a feeling of Uk82 music mixed with a little anarchopunk and that's both music styles that I really like so Future Hate is really interesting.

Miranda som sjunger förgyller denna skiva med sitt arga jag. Hon och de fyra killarna i Future Hate har en punkstil som faktiskt är lite annorlunda och jag vet inte riktigt vad jag ska jämföra med. Då får jag nästan lite panik men det jag kan säga är att det finns element av både Dead Kennedys, lite mer udda punk och helt vanlig hardcore i deras musik. Det finns mycket ilska som ska ut om man säger så och Future hate försöker verkligen få ut den och lyckas oftast tycker jag. Man får ändå en känsla av Uk82 musik blandat med en gnutta anarchopunk och det är ju båda musikstilar som jag verkligen gillar så Future Hate är riktigt intressanta. 

Skrutt Magazine 7/10


Just as I was clearing a mound of CD reviews those gits at Deadlamb Records sent through a pack of 5 to keep me out of trouble and constantly batter my head with many sounds. The mix was good and here I tackle the first of the batch with a virginal approach I always find best. The info that strikes me from the convoluted web waves is that the band are a hardcore unit from Alabama and have a screaming lass at the fore, something I was soon to be battered into submission by, much to my untold pleasure. Other than that I avoided an over indulgence of info so my judgement would be untainted, darn those pesky sycophants and tellers of bulled shite. So, here goes a Fungalised version of events, a shroomed lowdown of the shizzle on offer.

Blinking open at the first juncture are the piercing and passionate 'Goat Eyes'. This song is the commencement of one long wild and reckless beating with a sincere she-spite that claws, scratches and gouges with a frenzied intensity that, in certain parts, reaches zeniths untold. This opening fist in the face is a repeat nag of gnawing nastiness that, like a rabid Woodpecker, takes up its perch and rattles the dead timber of the noggin like the vicious fuck I have this song nailed has. The vindictive drilling increases as the final slam is taken and along the way we feel as though that the music radiated is both mentally suffering and nauseous. Like a perverted dog to a bowl of reeking vomit I find myself drawn and prone to diseased blackouts that may see me commit some criminal....damage! 'Plinko' is a quick follow-up slap, it initially skewers on warped prongs of devilish intent before steadfastly getting on with a crack-happy forcefulness that is no sooner acclimatised to then it is over - an odd moment that is a swift going over, nothing more, nothing less. 'Punch Little Babies' is a fuckin' giant stride forward from the previous disappointing track and slices through all resilience, all sinew and...all bone. The mania and compelling melody are all heaped together and kicked like fuck around a soundscape that attains behemoth levels when thrashing through those stunning chorus cuts. This helter-skelter raping is relentless and for me it is the fact the carriage of craziness rides on a cusp of total danger and may crash, smash and end up as useless trash at any given time - wonderful. I can't get enough of this perilous product and ramp up the volume, stick a broken bottle in my face and slam like damning fuck. If this isn't enough the razors come forth and slash us to bastard doom with 'FNG Your Wife' another hard-edged episode of almost demonic bleakness borne from heads doused in heavy racket making and clued in to playing it on the cusp. The whole spirit of this song is happening and a certain virulent violence is established at the first strike and refuses to ease off until all players are whacked out and your ears are leaking life-giving blood. If a band is going to make noise of this kind then why the hell not leave your guts on the stage - I reckon a disembowelling has taken place here and for that I offer my congratulations.

'Doomed At Birth' wastes no time in destroying any settling dust of decency that may have gathered in the nano-second of silence between this and the last hefty burst. More billyclubs of belligerence rain down on our battered bones and further sonic steel capped booted sink into to our writhing carcass, this time with something more orthodox and more flat-lined. The delivery is consistent but lacks the high shake-ups previously encountered and I am still coming down from the loftiness of tracks 3 and 4 to give this fair judgement. For me it fails to challenge its predecessors but is a decent stand-alone belt out. 'Spice Jam' is better, is surprisingly the longest track of the CD (2 minutes 30 seconds) and cruises in before brandishing simmered threat via a chorus that is quite controlled for this lot. The chorus addresses matters of restraint and puffs with power, huffs with angst and gives the song...essence. Strings and skins are molested, the front throat is still alive and kicking and the sub-final onslaught that sees the guitar parade and the bass and drums get a rhythmic seeing to all inflames the listening infection further. 'Subshit/Guillotine Licker' and 'Sleepover Dad' are two tetchy cunts of misshapen spastic fist-fucking that come, go and leave one grasping for some semblance of understanding. Both efforts are a double-ended damning that penetrate, provoke pain and yank out without apology. The second invasion gives greatest pleasure and the dark edge opens up delightful vistas of disturbance.

The last two grotesques to grind your musical gears with are as per. 'Blood Pipe' is quick, grumbles in on 4 nasty cables that are shook with gratifying absorption. The cacophony that comes is restless, naturally vomited with effective gut muscles used and has that under scrubbed contour that has served the band so well thus far. 'Swarm On Em' Boys' closes matters and swings and sways with a noise that perhaps would be considered groovy if played with a less hyped up tempo. Again all elements on wired high, they seem in a rush to get to the final deadline and just about hold it together. I like the danger and the tribal chant section but at this last juncture I would have liked to seen a severe curveball thrown in that would leave all listeners...wondering! Just a personal thought to finish.

Future Hate have much going on here and in one or two places attain heights that really take the breath away. Their dark underbelly is regularly exposed as the complete beast regularly upturns and shits out excellent effluence to choke on. The fact they keep things quick and without arse fucking nonsense is just as well and this one will be enjoyed many times over, more than likely in the midst of contrasting tones - oh yeah man!