Playfully poetic and powerfully poignant there is a disarming charm to the radically rude nudity and woozy ooze of this pungent punchy pop punk bop.
We can count on one hand the number of artists that are willing to put a middle finger to polite society and with unapologetic aplomb craft a rough, raucous, and rowdy anthem to the ache and agony of an STI. This is what punk as a genre is supposed to do, brazenly bare-all to take the listener by surprise and present a picture of reality that is all the more tangible and true.
The track begins with a deliciously fuzzy and ferocious distortion that sets the mood for the feral energy to come. It announces itself with a riotous roar that then gives way to the purr and growl of the more melodic elements as they wiggle their way to the forefront. The soundscape is a primal force of bared frothing fang and spilling spittle, yet there is a rapturous rhythm to the assault that is as beautiful as it is bloody.
Lyrically the track is a deviant delight, every line is perfectly placed to pounce with as much humour as with raw force of honesty. It is truly and utterly unique with the subject of the song being one that lacks the mind numbing retelling and retreading common in most modern music. Lines like “everything burns, when will I learn” punch poetic for their completely barmy lack of ego and it gets a giggle as easily as the daggering dance of its deployment gets your head nodding along to the beat.
“U, to the T, to the I don’t feel fine” has to be one of the best chorus hooks every created. On paper it could come across as crass or deliberately delivering a shock factor, but its done with such grace and gratuitous groove that it invites you in to the disrepute of this deviant disco. The fact that crafting an absolute banger about puss and pussy still seems silly is a travesty, thankfully Twat Union are happy to be pussy pussy pioneers and honestly it’s a vibe we won’t get bored of anytime soon.
With its short but sugar rush sweet run time of about 3 minutes flat it is amazing the depth and evolution of sound the track manages to display. There is a magnificent manic magic to the musicianship on display and the guttural groan and growl of the solo at the minute mark teases the tinge and tingle of the irritation at the crotch of the song. Leading into the second minute we are treated to a fist pumping breakdown that underscores the Shakespearean sonnet of “I’ve got nothing left to lose, gonna chug this cranberry juice, chug chug chug, like she’s sitting in the tub, chug chug chug!“
Twat Union craft music with mischievous menace and playful prowess, there is a staggering swagger to the sway of the sound and it draws on this raucous rhythm to create a clap-along clap anthem.
