All ears on Bristol. All ears on Pompeii. All ears on Bristol’s Erotic Secrets Of Pompeii. ‘Rorschach Rorschach’ is a gruff churlish clatter of vitriol, violence and petulant bluster, and it sears itself into your ears.

Thin scrawling riffs on repeat. Guitar sounds as wiry as bedsit coathangers, a bass line that grinds out its chug-heavy gutturals… it’s sporadic and crass and as ugly and lean as any mid to late 80’s Bad Seeds. It might not have their finely tuned darkened finesse, yet, but there’s more than enough to draw scatterbrained lines from ‘The Firstborn Is Dead’ up to IDLES, via the camp-goth of ‘Dirk Wears White Socks’.   

Pseudo-shrink guru lyrics move from disaster to disaster in a just-muffled semi-sung howl. There’s a care-free cut and paste to the imagery, but what ties it together, through its volume and heat, is the warm feel of anger and spittle. The thrill they’re enjoying is palpable. It’s post-punk blues pop all stripped down to its marrow and served up with lashings of ego. And any song that contains the phrase ‘vagina dentata’ next to Milwaukee oil spills and the death of JFK, well I’ll gladly languish along with it. It’s grim just for fun, get involved.       

As drums pound their persistent and primal point home, we’re engaged with a wry sordid smile. For crude surface thrills with guts spilt underneath, it’s a single to play on repeat (even if, only once, and just for one line only, there’s a faint touch of Electric Six).