This review may contain swearing and descriptions of a sexual nature.
Within seventeen seconds of playing the first track (Auto Communist Dream Girl) of this wonderful E.P. I said, in my head, “this is why I fucking love music”(1). I didn’t have a clue who Divorce Finance were or are but I just knew, I just, fucking, knew, that this album was going to make me spunk in my big, triple XL sized pants.
(1) I didn’t say that in my head. However, I do say other things in my head, things like “you don’t deserve to live you fucking turd” or “arrrrrghhh…arrrrghhh…make it stop” or “take a knife, just in case like” but I definitely didn’t say that about music.
Anyway, my friend, a long, tall, handsome and elegant young man of great taste, sent me a very private internets link an’ said “You’ll like this bubba, it’s right up your snicket…”. Hang on I thought to myself, I think I’ll be the judge of that young Sir, thank you very much. But he was right goddamn him. He was so fucking right. The MP3s contained within said private interweb link were chock-full of life-affirming aural riots in digital format and I sure as heck can’t wait to get my hands on the gob-covered, snot coloured 10” vinyl version if that imagined version ever comes out. And it should.
Right, so, what is it that so astonished you about ‘Live From The Bunker’ Mr. Pelican sir I hear you ask. Well, lemme tells ya, it’s because it’s five tracks of absolute bedlam, of musical mayhem, of twisted ballads, of twang, of screams, of scratchy feedback siphoned through a Polaroid version of American punk new wave and viewed through the prism lens of Midnight Cowboy with layers upon layers of The Cramps era playing for a few fans and a few patients and staff at a mental health unit(2) in Napa State, Cal-if-orn-i-a. Or how’s about The B-52s circa Planet Claire. Now, I hate what I’ve just done. No, no, not killing again, no. That I can handle. No, I hate the naming of classic, past-era bands in a review, as if the band I’m listening to don’t have the right to exist on their own merits or even dare to have the audacity to be influenced by a particular band from a bygone age. In actuality, I’m only using these reference points for your benefit you thick twat. So I can paint a picture in your brain using my words and graphic imagery. To help you along your way and be your musical guide if you will. Today, allow me to be your guiding light, so listen, and listen good. Anyway, what else am I going to say, “Oh, the was spritely, tuneful and melodic”. Or “Hmmm, that was a mellow sound that was quiet and pleasant to listen to, in particular the Behringer Eurolive B210D that filtered out lows progressively”. No I’m not, I’m gonna say fuck me, that, now that, in my wildest imaginings, sounds like The Cramps playing through busted speakers at a shit wedding-do. It’s a cacophony of noise and madness Bob Log III would be proud of and I don’t know whether to dance to it, mess myself and smash my head against the wall to it or all three but I’ve got to do summet for fucks sake. It wasn’t me though, Divorce Finance made me do it.
Next is “Loneliest Twink On The Ranch’. Now, I’m not a naive man by any means, I’ve worked on the docks and in bars on those very docks and I’ve seen some things, and I was in ‘nam, but I just didn’t know what a ‘twink’ was. So I looked it up and boy did I chuck my guts when I read what a ’twink’ was. Proper Megan-style projectile vomitous. Nooooo, did I fuck, I just put that bit in to shock yeah, to go against the grain like, swim against the tide. I mean, some of my best friends are twinks. Anyhoo, it’s a fucking tune alright. I must ask myself, why oh why have I ‘slept’ on this band eh? I mean, I reckon on I know summet about music, I give it the big un, yet I’ve slept on Divorce Finance. Shame on me. This E.P. is fucking brilliant.
Fuck knows what I’ll do if I come across something I don’t like. I’ll probably find some merit in it somehow, even if I think it’s a bit shit. But this, this ‘Live From The Bunker’ is as good as fuck and is the polar opposite of shit. I must remember to send my friend some flowers and a big bar of chocolate to say thanks for the recommendation. Mind you, he’s a fucking vegan. Jesus.H. Christ he would be wouldn’t he. Vegan chocolate is shit and it’s a rip off. £0.99 for a Galaxy, same bar but vegan 40 quid. Robbing bastards. I know what I’ll do, I’ll pay for a massage for him from a home-visit masseuse. He likes a nice massage and he simply loves to get tossed off by strangers. Awwww, yeah he’ll like that bless him.
Right, back to the E.P. ‘Director’s Cut’ is another musical maelstrom. This shouldn’t be from Leeds, art ponces are from Leeds. Now when I say art ponce, I mean ponce as in living off of immoral earnings. Stealing a living if you will. Something that won’t last. But this, this defies categorisation because there isn’t a category for it and thank fuck-a-doodle-do for that. ’10 Years With Lisa’ reminds me, in a good way as it couldn’t be anything else but a good way, of the legendary Jacob Yates and the Pearly Gate Lock Pickers. See look, another reviewer trope, plopping out über-obscure band names to bamboozle and suggest my music knowledge superiority. No, really though, please check them out if you don’t know them by now. Genre’d as horror R&B or some other stupid shit apparently. So, ’10 Years…’ is a slow-burner, a last dance, cuddle, smooch and finger in a dark, red-lit bar where you don’t know whether you’re gunna get stabbed in the arse as your wallet gets nicked or you might get your drink spiked, or both. Last up is ‘Bitchkrieg’. And what a furious, riotous, fitting end to a beautiful extended play. I’m sad that there weren’t another five or six tracks waiting for me but it’ll keep me coming back for more baby.
(2)That Cramps gig actually happened don’t ya know. Look it up if you don’t believe me. Poor bewildered service users liquid-coshed out of their brains with prime-Cramps playing on a patio in the backyard of their ward. Not all are liquid-coshed like, no, no. Some are having a whale of a time, and who wouldn’t. You’re sat there, despondently staring out the window, perhaps watching telly or playing Scrabble with ward staff and all of a sudden The Cramps turn up and plug in. Fuck me. What joy that must have been. Check it online, it’s beautiful.
Anyway in summing up. I’m now going to scour the nooks and crannies of Google, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, in my search for other gems from Divorce Finance. Why don’t you join me.
I’m pelican tangerine and I’m just going outside, and may be some time…
Divorce Finance are:
Mr Discipline (Vocals, Guitar)
Dr Fuck (Guitar)
Hugh Jass (Guitar, Keys)
Kylie Monoxide (Bass)
Quick Lewinsky (Drums)
4th April – Toulouse, France – Le Ravelin
7th April – Rennes, France – Marquis de Sade
8th April – Le Mans, France – Le Barouf
9th April – Paris, France – L’International
13-14th May – Leeds, UK – Brudenell Social Club – In Colour Festival w/ Algiers, TVAM, Enumclaw + more