Hah. Here's another entry guaranteed to get me even further banned on those safe-surf filter things (through which this delicious collection of college-student profanity and realism is apparently already unviewable). I may or may not have mentioned that Snake River Conspiracy is my new musical obsession, far eclipsing just about every obsession thus far with the power of my brief and impassioned Kittie flirtation, but holding on for the duration. Anyway, the following review of their single 'Vulcan' was not written by me. More's the pity. I wish I could write like that. It made me laugh so hard I fell off my chair. Literally. I'm going to have a bruise. So yeah, I thought I'd share it. It's pinched shamelessly off the Snake River Conspiracy main site, in their 'Press' section.

NME SINGLE OF THE WEEK
Snake River Conspiracy
Vulcan
(morpheus)

"FUCKKKKKKKKK!" That's how this stomping, swirling, clanging, roaring, superbly overproduced and frankly mental masterpiece of slickly ultra-discordant disco studio-punka starts and, just in case you've not quite grasped the track's subject matter, the lady singer screams "FUCKKKKKKKKKKK!" again and again and again very loudly and at regular intervals. Brilliant!

"FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK!" there she goes again. Imagine, if you will, Ginger from Garbage in a kick-boxing grudge match to the death with mock-cokernee Shouty Woman out of Republica. With Atari Teenage Riot's Alec Emprie as referee.

"FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK!" Shit, yes! This is what Indie Spice would sound like in a perfect world. Hell, this is what Bernard Butler would sound like if he wasn't just another scruffy, gurly-haired, po-faced, lemon-sucking muso bore with an overblown reputation and an artistically crippling Beatles fixation.

"FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK!" Thank you, God! You bastard! You make this poor boy sit through hour after hour of sub-listenable pseudo-'60's wank and cod-cerebral musoid anti-pop and E-fucked post-Ibiza nonger bollocks and then - just as he reaches the very pit of the trough of despond and starts to think that every single fucking single released this week is going to stink like a long-term homeless person's trainers marinated for a millennium in diseased dog shit - you slap him in the face with a slab of pop so shiny, so gratuitously aggressive and so 1999 and three-fucking-quarters that he involunarily ejaculates all over the computer screen with joy.

"FUCKKKKKKKKKKK!" It's Y2K Tourette's Pop and it beats the living shit out every single other record released this week and then dances naked around a bonfire of their burning corpses daubed in satanic runes and gibbering like a traumatised gibbon.

Like the woman says -"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKK!"