Tag: west country

The Skimmity Hitchers V Monkey Bizzle: The East/West Somerset Agricultural Hip Hop Turf War!

Forget the feud between Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur, this is England’s West Country rivals The Skimmity Hitchers and Monkey Bizzle in a vicious rap confrontation which can only end one way; best guess, a drive-by cream tea headshot….

Seems shameless merch tarts and purveyors of self-dubbed “idiot music,” Monkey Bizzle started it, Mrs McClusky. They put out a T-shirt with their monkey logo copulatory abusing the Skimmity’s badger at the beginning of the month, claiming they were “better than the Skimmity Hitchers.” Real hardcore insults, but not an incredibly high pedestal to pop yourself onto.

Offensive on a Carry-On Camping level

As psychologically offended as a millennial watching George & Mildred, and in the spirit of big girl’s blouses, five days ago those bonkers as badgers vegetative veterans of deliberately naff scrumpy and western hip hop, The Skimmity Hitchers hit back, waxed lyrical by what appears to be their mum’s garage, filmed it like the dicks they are, and basically tore apart Monkey Bizzle. In the Facebook video the Hitchers claimed Bizzle stole the term “agricultural hip hop” from its originator, Malmesbury grandmaster Corky, not very famous for the parody track Ginsters Paradise but a legend in his own Tweed nonetheless.

The Skimmity Hitchers laying it down

Factually accurate, Corky possibly coined the term and invented the subgenre, but shared the Hitchers’ post on the issue without comment, therefore best to assume he couldn’t give a wurzel’s combine if “agricultural hip hop,’ as a term,  is plagiarised by either of them. Updated: Corky aligned a non-opinion on the usage of the term, but enlightened that “Agricultural hip hop has been around for years before me, and if Monkey Bizzle want to do agricultural hip hop then that’s lush. I haven’t actually heard any agricultural hip hop from them – at the moment they’re doing Scrumpy & Western rap and West Country hip hop, and I do love em.”

While this indicates it’s unclear at this time if Monkey Bizzle have ever even used the term, until they did today in a mock interview pretending this tiff was serious enough to warrant a news channel picking the story up. The interviewer has an earring, for crying out loud, it’s kind of obvious they just scrubbed up a crusty mate, paid him a teenth and put him in a suit.

Corky; staying the fuck away from it all!

The only fact we must face is neither the Skimmity Hitchers nor Monkey Bizzle have progressed hip hop as a genre any further than The Holiday Rap in 1986, and MC Miker G & DJ Sven could’ve put them both, and their legal advisors/drummers on their arses, direct into the moistest cowpats in all of Somerset; that’s the point, and that’s why we love them both equally and feel it necessary to state the blinding obvious that the whole affair is banter, and a shameless and mildly amusing self-promotion for both parties. Yeah, impressive crusty dreadlocks or not, I’ll rise to that occasion, fill your muddy jump boots.

Monkey Bizzle at a barn

As fans and keyboard warriors jump the bandwagon to side online with either band, unconcernedly call for peace, complain their T-shirt is sleeveless, or conspire both band’s members are actually the same people, the war shows no sign of resolution yet. When fans conspire about the musician’s members they know they have a little problem in their hands. 

At the time of publication, the tempestuous testicle is in the Skimmity Hitchers’ court, Monkey Bizzle hitting back from the video with their own rap video, performed by a fluffy monkey puppet, and calling for the Hitchers to stick to supporting B*Witched, which is also not fact checked. As of yet The Hitchers have not responded in song, using a Japanese proverb in a Facebook post calling the Bizzle’s lyrics “vinegar strokes,” and mocked their usage of the stuffed toy, as “hiding from the camera,” and “rambling randomly like a Yeovil Donald Trump.” Seemingly wanting closure, or just the final word, they asked fans if “any further response from The Skimmity Hitchers is really necessary?” 

Monkey Bizzle retort with puppet

As a Wiltshire-based blog, we at Devizine Towers are duty bound to remain impartial, and only bring the stupid subject up as a warning to take all necessary precautions not to bum rush the show if you’re planning to cross the border anytime soon to ring-rang-a-dong for a holiday. Though if we had to pick sides in a sinking boat scenario, at least we share a common ancestor with monkeys, whereas badgers are only good for one thing around here; blaming for bovine TB when thick slices of gammon deliberately dilapidated their dairy farm in order to backhand their compensation to their building contractor bestie for a new housing estate on their land…oopsy, too much? Of course, that Pandora’s Box is total fabrication and falsehood which would never happen around here, and I take it all back.

Wiltshire Police have published an announcement that any Wiltshire based agricultural hip hop artists living in Somerset, even Frome, should leave now for their own safety and for the sake of their pasties.

We rebuke the concept there’s any agricultural hip hop artists from Wiltshire currently residing in Somerset, or any at all save Corky. It’s simply not something we do here. They’re not like us over the cider apple border are they? We’re all ‘real ale,’ barbed wire fences and henges, they’re all dry stone walls and tors. They’re as stir crazy as Shelbyville residents in The Simpsons, we’re refined, don’t you know, and thanking you kindly.

We may teeter on the edge of chap hop, but usually if it’s not a folk or electric blues driven wet blanket we’re not interested. Yet, as war often produces positive repercussions, we hope this feud will allow international attention to West Country born scrumpy & western and agricultural hip hop, cos it’s dope, literally. In the manner of fairness, though, tunes both bands are laying down are something simply worth putting up with the agro for, and I’ll drop links to them here, so we can twitch our curtains in disgust at their antics but still enjoy their porangi poetry and wackadoodle wabblings from a safe distance.

Monkey Bizzle, ready for court!

We live in hope freestyled spontaneous peace raps will commence, least The Wurzels will intervene, knock their bleeding heads together with a goldie looking chain, and they can settle the issue over a skull shaped bong, or some wacky-baccy laced fudge; you know the sort, with a postcard of the bogs at the Bridgewater drive-thru KFC poorly glued to the box.

“We love our skimmity badger buddies like brothers,” Monkey Bizzle showed the love like a fucking Disney adaption of Fergie and Will I Am, indicating its all showy banter. “Some of them even contain a little monkey DNA in them.” This just eggs the keyboard warriors further into the conspiracy theory they’re one and the same, but even if they’re not, they’re probably related in some form or fashion; weirdos, build a dry stone wall to keep them from gigging in Trowbridge or closer, I say!

What else is up?

Rooks; New Single From M3G

Chippenham folk singer-songwriter, M3G (because she likes a backward “E”) has a new single out tomorrow, Friday 19th December. Put your jingly bell cheesy tunes…

Burning the Midday Oil at The Muck

Highest season of goodwill praises must go to Chrissy Chapman today, who raised over £500 (at the last count) for His Grace Children’s Centre in…

For Now, Anyway; Gus White’s Debut Album

Featured Image: Barbora Mrazkova My apologies, for Marlborough’s singer-songwriter Gus White’s debut album For Now, Anyway has been sitting on the backburner, and it’s more…

Something went wrong. Please refresh the page and/or try again.

Devil’s Doorbell Live EP from the Pump

It’s any wonder if this bonkers jazz skiffle duo found a double-entendre in the name of Trowbridge’s finest live music venue, The Pump, when they visited at the beginning of the month in support for Jaz DeLorean, being they’re the boater’s royalty of euphemisms, but at least they did find time to release a recording of the occasion……

A judiciously selected four-track EP acting as a teaser for this asinine pair, Devil’s Doorbell is up on Bandcamp, recorded live at The Pump by the man Kieran J Moore, and while it might be some way from Dark Side of the Moon, it’s a half-hour of carefree jollity your life might yet depend on.

In true circus cabarert and homemade instruments, Nipper plays tenor banjo and kazzumpet, while Jellylegs Johnson is on the washtub bass, and both tend to finish each other’s lyrics with hilarious consequences over some good ol’ foot-tapping scrumpy and western flavoured skiffle. Take it no more seriously than this.

Rife with retrospective euphemistic rhymes, rudeness is abound from the start, mocked in goofy George Formby subtlety, Carry-On titillation and Pythonesque nonsense; it’s a west country thing! My Girl’s Pussy opens the EP, reminiscent of Eric Idle’s Noel Coward charade, Penis Song. Hot Nuts continues the ooh matron theme, while a slip of self-fashioned blues plays out with When I Get Low I get High, and we’re back to square one with Rattle Snakin’ Daddy. Dammit though, it’s frolicking fun now, would’ve tickled the 1930s New Orleans high-energy jazz circuit pink, if only they were allowed in with wellies!

If it’s jazzy it’s silly in equal measure, yet with one eye squint you can envision yourself haphazardly perched on a log in dew-drenched tallgrass, near a Kennet & Avon towpath, swigging flat cider and thoroughly soaking up every minute, particularly during those random moments when they up the tempo.  

And if you like this audacious audio, the stage show is the visual treat you’d expect from those crazy west country boaters, all props, burlesque, and silly hats, and you couldn’t contemplate a better way to tickle the fancy and warm the crowd in your humble boozer, other than a real ringing of the devil’s doorbell. You can book them at your own risk, HERE.

Trending…..

One Of Us; New Single From Lady Nade

Featured Image by Giulia Spadafora Ooo, a handclap uncomplicated chorus is the hook in Lady Lade’s latest offering of soulful pop. It’s timelessly cool and…

Large Unlicensed Music Event Alert!

On the first day of advent, a time of peace and joy to the world et al, Devizes Police report on a “large unlicenced music…

Winter Festival/Christmas/Whatever!

This is why I love you, my readers, see?! At the beginning of the week I put out an article highlighting DOCA’s Winter Festival, and…

Devizes Winter Festival This Friday and More!

Who’s ready for walking in the winter wonderland?! Devizes sets to magically transform into a winter wonderland this Friday when The Winter Festival and Lantern…

Thirty Years a Raver: Part 3: We Made Some Noise

Read 1st part
Read 2nd part

Twas the night before my life done gone flipped upside down. It may not have been the colossal party the rest of the country were having, but Marlborough was, and always will be, lost in its own little world. Numerous attendees at the aforementioned Read’m and Weep rock concert on the common, just three years earlier, I’d suspect now joined us in marching up to the same common after the pubs called last orders, this time heading for an “acid house party.” Others, who failed to register or accept the change of era continued on their rocky road. No harm done.

With a fire at one end, and an older comrade who rigged a speaker to his Beetle at the other, blasting out whatever music he had which could be deemed as close to acid house as possible, it was a Marlborough-fashioned interpretation of an acid house party, and in rural backwaters you learned to make do.

The morning after undoubtedly the strangest of my life, for some reason everything I’d ever thought had been turned on its head. For the remainder of 1990 we continued with archetypical house parties, where gullible parents went away, but by the spring of 1991 we invited ourselves onto traveller sites, the first being the Belthane festival on Hungerford Common. And while it opened my eyes to see so many living on the road, they seemed unconcerned of our presence and were, on the whole, welcoming. If the urban raver story starts in clubland, note rural ravers didn’t have that luxury, least not without a vehicle.

Indeed, we had a small nightclub in town, but like many it favoured appeasing the old-hat drinking culture. If club owners were aware of rave clubs, they weren’t prepared to make the switch, fearing it’d only diminish their drink sales. At the time the closet place to head for was Swindon, where Extos held legendary nights at Hardings. By the time we’d scrouge a lift and arrived, the club was full, and we’d stand outside in blankets, waiting for a tip off to the party.

So, for a while, best my mate and I could hope for, was to loiter outside the pub, as going in would empty the wallet we needed to escape our town. As newfound ravers leapt in cars and soared off, one of us dared to ask, “alright mate, going to the party?” in hope of scrouging a ride. At art college I had a reliable source, two Oxfordshire individuals into the scene, with bob haircuts and a VW Beetle, one phone call would reveal a clue where to head, if only someone would give us a lift!

The Oxfordshire buddies listened to what we called, “bleep.” For many years I considered it, like ska, a description of the sound, but sources online class it as genre. Rave, or hardcore were the sweeping generalisations, and in 1990 little had been done to separate it into subgenres. There was mellowed vibes type rave, hardcore, house and garage, sure, but at the time it cured into one immense, chaotic noise. Subgenres would derive much later, as the scene exploded and separated. It was however, of small significance UK artists now created their own sound, aside acid-house styled bleep, German techno, which was stiff and structured but lacking soul, and the trancey Goa House, breakbeat house was looming on the horizon.

Here’s a thing; I argue with myself if we could even call all this a “youth culture,” rather class it a movement. Youth cultures of yore had a definitive uniform, musically and fashionably. Rave was a melting pot, electronics seeped its way into all genres, and new arrivals descended onto it from all walks. If the Northern Soul clubbers say it was them who inspired it, they’re not wrong. Neither are the travellers, punks and skins, new romantics, Rastas, or trendy eighties kids. What were once separate identities, rarely seen together, now flocked to the same party, danced and celebrated together, without fussing or fighting, save a mite of banter. This was the chief reason why I class this era as the most wonderful show of unification the nation had seen since the second world war, and I’m honoured to have been a part of. But I’m uncertain if it matched the definition of regulated youth culture, as previous mods, rockers, punks and skins did.

The music reflected this, a melting pot of inspirations, whatever angle you came at rave from, you added your portion into the mix. The upcoming trend derived from Britain’s ties with reggae through the Windrush generation, and the surging dancehall flavours we deemed “ragga.” Fused with the archaic hip-hop concept of breaking the beat, ragga and breakbeat house surged over bleep, and fast became the mainstay. X-L Recordings, Moving Shadow, Urban Shakedown and many other labels headed this change.

But here is the second thing; we were the throwaway generation, jilted, plastic population, and didn’t care for who created the music. There was no interest in holding a torch for particular bands or labels, unless you were master of ceremonies, the DJ. Leaving the choice to one person, it existed as a DJ culture, and they’d soon become the stars of the show. If it was genre-bending, we relied on their faith to perpetrate a certain style; when Sasha got on the decks it would be “fluffy,” whereas as when Easygroove did, it would be “hardcore,” with the upcoming breakbeat twist. That’s all we knew, and rightly cared about.

What swept at us as a trend became a way of life; we lived for the weekend, vaguely remembering to attend college or jobs in the week. Every weekend an ever-growing number roamed the roads at night, invading unsuspecting service stations, joining to convoys with a lead car who we hoped had an inkling where the party was. Bristol moved east, London moved west, meeting in the Shires, where police would be outnumbered and, rather prevent a riot, would grudgingly allow us free movement. Naturally there were times when they got flustered, upon service stations appropriations, for example, but suspect many appreciated the overtime, and left us to enjoy the ride.

At the Gloucestershire one fondly recalled as “the one with the haystacks,” someone drew my attention to the police standing on a ridge overlooking the site. To our amusement, and seemingly theirs too, they were imitating our dance moves, and you know what they say about imitation, sincerest form of flattery!

Despite the ruminates of bad blood with travellers, from the Beanfields and free festival movement of the previous decade, they tended to only throw their weight at them. Attempts to move them on, before ravers flocked to their sites turned hostile. Though if, as my friend and I did once at Pitton near Salisbury, ravers arrived early, they’d witness the true horrors of life on the road, as eviction resembled a massacre rather than a battle. There are shocking things I could tell, of which I’ve witnessed, effectively ethnic cleansing, destruction of a way of life, and homes. It was not the vision of Britain I pre-held, naïvely, reason enough for us to continue to rebel, when all we really wanted to do was party. Opps, some pig knocked off my rose-tinted specs.

Sorry to pop the bubble of happy daze, but there were downsides. Aside the growing harassment from authorities, which would see rave’s demise in the end, there was also comedowns, maintaining motivation for everyday life, failed attempts to find the party, else the event raided and broken up too early. The latter became greater with every weekend, as the sensation blossomed.

You see, we adopted a pyramid-selling technique, only wanted to spread word of our newfound love. Kids we hadn’t seen since leaving school would wander into the pub, they were looking for something, they didn’t know what, but we did. We had the answer, the escapism, and we welcomed them with open arms, took them under our wings and looked after them during their first rave experience. Then, the following week they’d shed their old identity, and we’d see them fully assimilated, like Star Trek’s Borgg, through the foggy morning, wearing a puffa jacket, round pink shades and diamond-cut trilby, giving it, “alright? I’m mullered mate, wot you done?!”

Thus, we all played a part in promoting the scene, until it got too big for the authorities to leave alone. Some weekends when we didn’t go party, somehow rave crept in. I ventured back to Essex to see old friends, and they’d have similar stories, of Raindance and other events there. One weekend we attended my mate’s brother’s wedding in Liverpool, only to find in the basement where the reception was held, a steaming club-rave. The sound attracted us, and we unbolted a fire escape to both gate-crash, and discover likeminded raves were happening nationwide. Meanwhile, his mum wondered where we’d got to, and wandered in to find us amidst a pumping party. Upon her return she’d been shocked, but happily reported the scene as “loads of kids, just dancing, having fun, no one fighting, no one drunk, and one gave me a hug!”

If a little old lady who accidently stumbled into a rave could see it for all its upsides and worth, why couldn’t the police and government? Why did it ever have to end? Because at the time we couldn’t envision that finale, we assumed it would go on forever.

Read Part 4

Trending….

Snow White Delight: Panto at The Wharf

Treated to a sneaky dress rehearsal of this year’s pantomime at Devizes’ one and only Wharf Theatre last night, if forced to sum it up…

Chatting With Burn The Midnight Oil

It’s nice to hear when our features attract attention. Salisbury’s Radio Odstock  picked up on our interview with Devizes band Burn the Midnight Oil and…

Thirty Years a Raver; Part 1: Planet Rock & Tooth Extractions!

New short series of articles exploring rave culture thirty years on, from a personal perspective….

In the early eighties my nan and grandad stood at the head of the hall, preparing from requests they adlib a speech for their surprise anniversary party. My grandad did the standard honours, thanking everyone for coming, excusing any clumsiness with his words by suggesting, “we’re still at ten thousand feet with the surprise.” At this point my nan’s sister interrupted with astute cockney humour; “bit like your wedding night, eh, Carrie?!”

“No,” my Nan causally retorted, “there were bombs on our wedding night!”

It’s a sentiment which will live with me forever, how anyone can pass off bombs during their wedding, in jest. Most people nowadays get irate if rains on their special day. Because, whenever my grandparents spoke of the war and living in the east-end during the blitz, it was a joyous transcript, never revealing horrors we know happened. I ponder my own memories of youth, wonder if it’s the same rose-tinted specs, or if the era really was as utterly fantastic as my memory of it is.

And in this much, there’s a thing; nothing we did was particularly new-fangled. Tribally, ancient folk gathered to celebrate and hypnotically dance to drum beats, and the occurrence never trended or waivered. Though it maybe debatable, I think, with the introduction of computer technology in music, designer chemicals and enough chewing gum to keep Wrigley’s in business, we partied harder, faster and longer than any previous youth culture did, and probably ever will in the future!

We made party a way of life. We did not think politically until they came for us. Our only concerns were where the next party would be and if we’d have enough cash for some petrol and necessities. Our only motivation was the joyous unification of a tribal-like movement, or in other words, a fuck-off legendary party. Our only philosophies were how beautiful said unification was, and how we could promote it to the world. Yet, unbeknown at the time, the latter was most likely our downfall. No one makes some fucking noise anymore.

Often referred to as “you remember, the one with the haystacks!”

I do recall the fabled week of the second bank holiday of May 1992, how we gathered at a common in Malvern. I also recollect wandering up a hillside on the first morning, observing how large the event had grown, and I remember thinking to myself, nice as it was, they were never going to let us live this one down, they were going to have to attempt to put a stop to it, politically.

So, I’m drafting a series of articles exploring the time, from a personal interpretation, hoping to conclude, it’s a bit of both; rose-tinted specs, and the most explosive period of counter-culture hedonism ever. Individual because events and accounts vary vastly from person-to-person; how, where and why they “got into,” the sybaritic nineties trend of rave. Lots of memoirs I do read or see, like the most successful, Justin Kerrigan’s 1999 film Human Traffic, are set in an urban environment. Unlike these, we spent our youth in the Wiltshire countryside, and this I feel is a major contributing factor which differs our story from most, especially prior to passing my driving test!  Thumbs out, “you going to the party, mate?”

I’m doing it now because of the significance of the anniversary. Thirty years ago, I class my “personal summer of love.” It was 1991, I was eighteen, standing in an unidentified field somewhere in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds, gyrating like a robot through the morning mist, eyes large as saucers, and a jawbone tremor you could break a walnut with. Imagine, not alone, but with countless likeminded others. In fact, I’d lost my mates an uncalculatable time ago, which mattered not one iota. How did I get here? Why did I go there? Where the bloody hell was I anyway? To reflect back with any hope of clarity is not only to understand the epoch and the time, but the mindset, and for this we need to go back further, much further.

I put my pre-initiation to becoming a “raver,” into two significant recollections. The first was in the spring of 1984, in my Dad’s Ford Cortina, heading for the Asda at the Chelmer Village outside Chelmsford. Growing up in Essex had one advantage to my friends in the west country, we had pirate radio, and I mean pirates. Anchored off the East Anglia coast were the legendary Radio Caroline, where BBC Radio headhunted many DJs, but who appeased their fanbase by continuing playing sixties and seventies songs, and its sister, the short-lived Laser 558, which toppled Caroline’s listeners by using American DJs which played a continuous mix of contemporary tunes.

Hard to imagine at the time we considered having a cassette deck in a car radio as something only for the gods. In fact, I went to edit that last sentence to call it a car stereo, but reflecting back it wasn’t even stereo, just the one speaker below the dashboard! Reason why my brother and I would screech requests from the backseats for my Dad to turn it up. On this occasion we were particularly demanding, as there was a song, I’d never heard the like of ever before. Sure, Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte’s I Feel Love was timeworn, and we existed amidst the dawn of new romantic, the electronic eighties pop in Britain was governed by the experimental post-punks. They either got with the program or fell into obscurity, whinging about how Adam Ant sold out.

Nope, I hadn’t a Scooby-Doo what a Roland TR-808 was, but I knew what I liked. I wasn’t aware of Factory Records, but I knew what Blue Monday was, and I knew liking Duran Duran might make me more attractive to the opposite sex. But this American song was wildly different, it was like ultramodern sonic funk, it was Planet Rock by Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force. I figured aside the Dr Who theme, this was the sound of the future, this was space-age, flying cars type stuff. And for the best part, I was right. Little did I know I’d be standing in a cold west country field seven years later, gnashing my teeth to electronic beats which made this sound old-hat.

I went out and loaded myself with American electro and early hip hop, discovering Grandmaster Melle Mel, Hashim, Newcleus et all, and we nagged Dad for a video recorder. My parents couldn’t see the point to recording TV, or hiring a VHS cassette, but the latter soon become a family weekend activity. We hired National Lampoons Vacation the first weekend, but prior to that, my brother rented the movie Beat Street, and everything, the Bronx culture, the graffiti, the breakdancing, the rapping, all fell into place.  

Before I knew what was what, we were breaking in the school playground to commercialised versions, Break Machine’s Street Dance, Ollie & Jerry’s Breakin’… There’s No Stopping Us and Hey, you The Rock Steady Crew. Well, I say breakdancing, but that was a showy skilful fad for flexible kids. As a shy, cumbersome one, surrounded by puppy-fat I ticked none of those boxes and made do with “body popping.” This was far simpler, just had to join hands with the kids in the circle either side of you and do a kind of connected wave. That will impress the fairer sex, we must have figured, least I don’t know why else we did it, but we did, and less said about it the better.

Just like our school playground….. or maybe not!

The second significant recollection as a pre-cursor to becoming a “raver,” was a trip to the dentist. I needed my four remaining milk teeth extracted. For this, unlike today where you stay awake, numbed but perceptible to the dentist tensioning a foot to the side of the chair while he wrenches into your gum full force, they put me to sleep using gas. The nurse held my hand and told me to count to ten, I remember feeling uneasy as the gas took effect, it felt strange, it was the first time I was high; destined to be a “raver,” I’ll leave it up to your imagination if it was the last!

Do come again next Sunday, for the second part; might actually get on to the party stuff by then!

read second part here
https://youtu.be/SXKDxS3aums

Trending….

The Lost Trades Float on New Single

I’ve got some gorgeous vocal harmonies currently floating into my ears, as The Lost Trades release their first single since the replacement of Tamsin Quin…

Song of the Day 35: The Jamestown Brothers

With tracks for the charity compilation album coming in thick n fast, time for me to take a break, sit with the family to watch the Jumanji rework, again. Hum, Ruby Roundhouse….But before my mind wanders too much, here’s my song of the day.

It has no video, best guessing it doesn’t matter, you’ll feel preoccupied with footstomping and guzzling cider from a plastic gallon container. Americana meets west country folk, scrumpy & western, this is nothing but a carefree enjoyable bop, done with bells on.

Looks from here like they’re a staggering nine-piece, suspect fibbers about being brothers, but two seconds into this beauty and even that won’t matter, even if you did bring ya mama, who’d probably just complain about her feet the whole way through.

Go give em a Facebook like, for more info on the shindigs you’ll hear them pluck their geetars at, and based on this tune alone, you know it’s going to go off.

And that’s my song of the day!! Very good, carry on….

More info

Horses of the Gods; We Wish You Health

I once reviewed a cassette with a photocopied punk-paste zine style picture of Mr Blobby as the cover, where a distraught male voice screeched, “take an overdose, ginseng!” continuously over some white noise. Thank heavens that’s in a long-lost past!

Fortunately, I’ve never had anything quite so bizarre to review since, not even this week when, Erin Bardwell messaged; “one of the drummers I do things with, Matty Bane, has a side duo project and wanted to let you know about their latest album.”

Sure, I’ve heard of Matty, seen him listed as one of Erin’s collective, trekking with them to Jamaica in 2003 to record with Recoldo Fleming at Dynamic Sounds. Further research shows he’s drummed in Bad Manners for over ten years, and is now part of Neville Staple’s From the Specials setup, headhunted from days as part of the Special Beat tour with the original rude boy.

Given this, I was naturally expecting said side-project to be reggae, stands to reason. What might’ve eased the surprise was to have pre-known of Matty’s own band The Transpersonals, a minimalistic, psych-rock outfit lounging somewhere between Pink Floyd and Spaceman 3. Still, nothing was going to prep me for what I got; We Wish you Health by Horses of the Gods.

There’s only one reason for facetiously mentioning the eccentric Mr Blobby cassette, because this is unusual too. The likeness ends there, though. “Bizarre” can connote excruciating, as with the cassette, but, as with We Wish you Health, can also imply uniquely stimulating and inimitably disparate. So much so, it’s astonishingly good. For those seeking the peculiar, those at their happiest dancing barefoot in Avebury’s morning dew, or for whom reaching the summit of Glastonbury Tor before sunrise is priority, will adore this, with jester’s bells on.

Matty teams up Mike Ballard, a media and games lecturer with a penchant for folk. And essentially this is what we ought to pigeonhole Horses of the Gods as; Somerset folk, is as near in modern terminology you’re going to get. But for comparisons I’m going to have to max my flux capacitor way beyond my usual backtracking.

If I relish in music history without the technical knowledge, I understand one has to either accept four-time pop, or untrain their ear to acknowledge other musical metres, in order to appreciate folk, classical, even jazz, but particularly the kind of sounds We Wish you Health is embracing. There’s something medieval, least pagan mysticism about the influences here, of shawms and hand-cranked hurdy-gurdies, miracle plays, and Gallican chants of plainsong. And it’s swathed with chants and poetry as if in variant West Country Brittonic tongue.

We have to trek beyond futurist Francesco Balilla Pratella’s Art of Noises theory, to an olden ambience of nature, of birdsong, storms and waterfalls. The opening track starts as a spoken-word toast and ends akin to medieval court jester entertainment, over a haunting chant. Equally passe but equally amicable is a sea shanty called Down in the Bay. Then a clocktower chime follows; left wondering if this was Dark Side of the Moon recorded in 1648. Sow In uses mellowed hurdy-gurdy to mimic what the untrained ear might deem an Eastern ambience. With a solstice theme, it’s so earthy it makes the Afro-Celt Sound System sound like Ace of Base! (Joke; I love the Afro-Celt Sound System!)

In many ways the next tune Ostara follows suit, more eastern promise yet slightly more upbeat. Consider George Harrison’s collaborations with Ravi Shanker. As the album continues, experimentation with traditional abound, obscure instruments are thrown into the melting pot; the Victorian circus sound of The Thing and I, the rural west country ditty of Digger’s Songs, in which you can almost smell spilt scrumpy as folk rise from haystacks to jig.

Throughout you’re chopping randomly at influences, this medieval court running theme, blended with an oompah band styled sound on The Whole World Goes Around, will make you want bells on your shins like a drunken Morris dancer at the village fete. Else you’re haunted by the chill of evocative soundscapes, unable to pinpoint an era this falls into. I’ll tell you now, it was aptly released at Samhain last year.

We Wish you Health may be bespoke, and some wouldn’t give themselves adjustment time, yet Sgt Pepper and Pet Sounds were famed for pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable in contemporary pop. This is a fissure to the norm, a testimony of yore, for while there’s a demonstration of newfound passion within ancient realms, it is fundamentally timeless. Though I suspect there’s myth and history behind each track, which extends the album from a set of songs to a research project for the listener.

The finale, for example, has a reference in Wikipedia; John Barleycorn, a personification of the importance of sowing barley and of the alcoholic beverages made from it, beer and whisky. Though in the House of Gods, cider gets a mention. John Barleycorn is represented as suffering indignities, attacks and death that correspond to the various stages of barley cultivation. It goes onto reprint a Robert Burns version from 1782, though stating countless variations exist; Matty and Mike use an earlier version:

There was three men come out o’ the west their fortunes for to try, And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn must die, They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in, throwed clods upon his head, Til these three men were satisfied John Barleycorn was dead.

I’ve rushed out this review to make you aware of it, and because I’m so utterly astounded by its uniqueness, but fear I’m only teetering on the edge of its fascinating historical references myself. Thus, is the general nature of folk music, to dig out lost fables which once would’ve entertained young and old, and bring them to new audiences, and The Horses of the Gods does this in such a way, the negative confines and stereotypes commonly associated with folk music just melt away.

Link Tree to album

Trending……..

Devizes Chamber Choir Christmas Concert

It’s not Christmas until the choir sings, and Devizes Chamber Choir intend to do precisely this by announcing their Christmas Concert, as they have done…

Steatopygous go Septic

If you believe AI, TikTok and the rest of it all suppress Gen Z’s outlets to convey anger and rage, resulting in a generation of…

The Wurzels To Play At FullTone 2026!

If Devizes’ celebrated FullTone Festival is to relocate to Whistley Road’s Park Farm for next summer’s extravaganza, what better way to give it the rustic…

DOCA’s Young Urban Digitals

In association with PF Events, Devizes Outdoor Celebratory Arts introduces a Young Urban Digitals course in video mapping and projection mapping for sixteen to twenty…

Jol Rose’s Ragged Stories

There’s albums I’ll go in blind and either be pleasantly surprised, or not. Then there’s ones which I know I’m going to love before the…