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Highly recommended.

In 2015 The Cavemen swapped the sheep and paddocks of their native New Zealand for the grimy streets of London. And 2016 sees them rising from the gutter with a brand new record. Like the compulsive masturbator outside your local chip shop, these four miscreants have spurted out 13 syphilitic tracks of rock’n’roll apathy. In this latest waxen slab of hate, The Cavemen touch on everything from lost love, murderous desires and their burning disdain for sophisticated artistic expression. Put simply: it’s gonna make you wanna kill.

Writing about their debut album, which was released a year to the day before this, their second, is due out, the local Six Noises website wrote that it “features plenty of greasy riffs, uncouth howling, and road-rash-raw garage punk. Think a dose of Dead Moon, with a little of the Cramps and the Stooges, and then throw on a whole heap of vintage trash punk’s debauchery. That’s essentially The Cavemen. It’s sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll conveyed via lo-fi, psychotic ’77 era punk rock” and, according to the Irish News, “turbocharged with the attack of early ’80s US hardcore and laced with the fuzz pedal-enhanced ‘whoop-it-up’ wildness of your favourite garage rockers from The Sonics to Mudhoney. The trio’s first record is a funny, tuneful rampage of hedonistic juvenile delinquency, grave robbing fantasies and substance/self abuse-themed anarchy.”

Both nihilistic and hedonistic at the same time, this is a record to shake the cobwebs out of your ears. It isn’t sophisticated or remotely complex. It’s one of those wonderful loose-nut albums that reminds you that life is short, and when it’s not being nasty as hell it’s simply dull as ditch water. So you might as well crank that volume knob to eleven, snigger knowingly at the prurient and intentionally juvenile lyrics and get busy making your own filthy fun, before you die in some tediously mundane fashion.