Money 3 (2025)

 

Watching Secret Mall Apartment, the 2024 Netflix documentary about a group of artists who managed to live in a shopping mall for four years before they were discovered, it occurred to me that real art - as distinct from AI renderings of Winnie the Pooh as a Japanese ladyboy on the one hand, or a child's pram filled with actual human turds on the other - doesn't need to introduce itself by telling you that it's art because it will be self evident. Money 3 qualifies as art without having to send out memos - art in the sense of it being akin to setting up a sound installation in your listening space, wherever that may be.

Of Love Earth Music's most recent care package, I'm surprised to find I've played this one the most - surprised because it's over three hours of whatever it is on three discs and I don't understand what the hell I'm listening to; or why I keep listening to it. There's something fascinating here.

Money 3 seems to be the name of the album as the third in a series, with Money 4 having been issued about a month ago. Aside from a label graphic and track titles - and all seven listed tracks are called Money - there's no other information and nothing to identify the creator, although I suspect it will be someone from +DOG+. The artwork is mostly images of dollar bills, so maybe they want us to think about money. Maybe it's the sound of someone rubbing a dollar bill against a microphone time stretched to three hours. I doubt it, but I wouldn't rule anything out.

What you hear is minimal and abstract with a faint suggestion of the familiar. Excepting track five, there's arguably more silence than sound on here, or if not silence, then at least space, the kind found in nature. Electrical glitches suggesting faulty leads open the first disc, crackling intermittently with some vague sine wave peep way down in the unusually quiet mix. It's rhythmic without quite having a rhythm. It repeats without looping, and there's not much evidence of digital processing or sampling. I listen to most CDs while cycling, and this one blends seamlessly with the whistle of wind, distant cop cars, traffic noise, and other sounds you hear out there. It feels as though it's born through neither human nor artificial action but rather is simply something which exists and which obeys only its own aesthetic. Only when we reach track four do we encounter anything you could call notation - possibly a piano, although it sounds only a couple of times. The next disc continues with oscillators, or something which suggests at least remote human agency, comparable to musical composition more than the rumble of traffic over an underpass invoked on the first disc, if not much more. The sound changes over time, nevertheless remaining consistent with the whole, whatever that is. It's not laptop glitch; it's not treated environmental sound so far as I'm able to tell; it's nothing to do with songs made famous by either Pink Floyd or the haircut-era Beatles, and I've a feeling it means whatever the listener brings to the equation. Maybe it's telling us that money is essentially meaningless.

I have no idea, but it's food for serious thought and it makes Nurse With Wound's Merzbild Schwet sound like the Beach Boys; and I'm glad we still have a world in which something like this can exist.

You'll find a link to Love Earth Music on the left under Some Stuff, and that's where you can buy copies of this one.

Public Image Ltd - What the World Needs Now (2015)

 

Yes, I know there was the butter advert and the Sex Pistols were a boy band who weren't actually the Clash, and Mr. Lydon has recently been overheard praising Trump and Farage, and there's probably some other stuff that's been revealed since I stopped caring. I don't know the man so I wouldn't presume to understand what's been going on in his head, but given his history of bending over backwards to annoy self-righteous wankers who really deserve to be annoyed I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Feel free to read no further if this strikes you as a glowing endorsement of wrongthink.

Of course, there's also the whole spent force deal about how we never liked the man anyway, which is up to the individual but is arguably your loss. If This is PIL took some getting used to - and I'd say it's worth the effort - this one is a more immediate, more convincing jobbie, suggesting the band have really come together. This should count for something given the presence of both Lu Edmonds and Bruce Smith, the latter whom you will recall from the Pop Group, the Slits and the New Age Steppers, Edmonds from Shriekback, 3 Mustaphas 3, the Damned, Spizz, and pretty much every other band ever. As a group, it's the closest they've come to sounding like the Wobble version while remaining entirely its own animal.

Lydon is on form, assuming we can agree he ever had form, switching from genuinely touching sincerity and even pathos to just not giving a fuck from one track to the next. The anthemic current of the McGeoch years continues here and there, and Double Trouble sounds as though the lads were channelling the Sleaford Mods without simply doing an impersonation. That What is Not is definitely an old man album, world-weary and full of regrets but still kicking up a stink and raging at the dying of the proverbial light, all tempered with a defiant optimism which seems to have come to the fore in this line-up of the band.

If you're still wondering why he should have bothered coming back to this lot rather than sign up for yet another Pistols reunion, this record answers most of your stupid questions.

Soz.

Sleaford Mods - The Demise of Planet X (2026)

 

Apparently we're all sick of them now although I didn't get the memo and I'm not sure who counts as we. The Sleafords recent on stage failure to demand freedom for Palestine with due enthusiasm - more likely a reluctance to engage with online nutters - prompted yet another Twitter pile-on wherein persons who've never been within ten miles of a football match denounced the boys as melts and Clash loyalists cleverly pointed out that they're not even mods. My favourite was the opera loving Rupert - as his Twitter bio proclaimed - dismissing our boys as Temu Cockney wankers due to his presumably never having met a working class person who wasn't minicabbing him to the opera house or serving a delicious avocado wrap therein. I suspect this sort of behaviour may be the subject of the title track, The Demise of Planet X, although as usual the Mods tackle the bullshit from an unfamiliar angle, in this case leaving us to puzzle over why the track extrapolates the Magic Roundabout theme. And as usual, it's not quite business as usual and we've moved some way on from the previous album.

We open with The Good Life, which tells us:

I'm not punching down, lads,

I'm gonna style it out,

I'm gonna make out I'm not doing it,

but in reality...

... I am!

I mention this mainly because the sardonic smirk you can actually feel in the ...I am! has enough charge to kickstart a stalled engine and is in itself massively entertaining. I'd even go so far as to say that it is in itself more enjoyable than the entire back catalogues of most other bands, so this probably won't be a conspicuously impartial review.

If we haven't quite moved on from the laptop Suicide variation, we've stepped sideways quite a bit, and the mood isn't quite the familiar raw ambience of piss-chasing a fag end along the full length of the urinal, although there's still a strong element of that. The biggest surprise of all is a quota of uptempo numbers you might even call breezy. The music seems a little more layered, at least closer to something a full band with instruments might come up with, and tracks such as Double Diamond and Don Draper hint at the bluesier end of R&B - talking Groundhogs rather than R. Kelly; Elitist GOAT almost suggests pastel hued Hanna-Barbera teens hopping in the dune buggy and heading out for a day at the beach, even if we all know it's going to be Southend-on-fucking-Sea and will end in rain and bruises; and, to end my admittedly vague comparisons, Bad Santa with its pensive flute and brooding pace is one of the most emotionally powerful things they've done, amounting to the unease of regrets nursed as the hangover clears the next day. It tears your fucking heart out, even with the vocal aggro; maybe because of the vocal aggro.

Listening to Austerity Dogs back in—Jesus Christ, thirteen years ago, it was difficult to imagine these two doing more than a couple of admittedly great albums without turning into something else. It didn't seem there would be much mileage in a band sounding like an argument with a nutcase at a bus-stop with half of the stage presence coming from a bloke who pushes a button then drinks beer for three minutes; but this may be the best thing they've done, at least so far. What doesn't kill them apparently makes them stronger.

Nine Inch Nails - Tron: Ares (2025)

 

I wasn't going to bother given that this is the soundtrack to a Disney movie, and while I can't deny that the Trentster has proven himself a dab hand at movie soundtracks, they've rarely been the sort of thing I would listen to over and over. I never saw the first Tron movie because it sounded like a huge pile of wank, as does this one, plus it apparently stars the impressively unwatchable Jared Leto and to paraphrase Garry Bushell without even the slightest trace of irony, cyberpunk generally holds about as much interest for me as that Yoko Ono film about arses.

But it was there in the store, and the sheer novelty of buying a brand new CD by a band I like in a place of retail with a till and a cashier and all the trimmings proved overwhelming.

To be fair, my experience of Reznor's soundtrack work is limited to bits and pieces on early bootlegs. It's mostly approximately ambient and all very nice, and I know I enjoyed The Social Network without remembering anything about its soundtrack; but this is either something different, or at least if you squint it feels like a proper Nine Inch Nails album, or possibly one of the better remix jobbies - even though I'm not unreservedly wild about those either. It's full CD length and features just four tracks which count as songs and are thus part of the canon; then an indeterminate number of instrumentals, some stripped down from parts of the four songs, others seemingly autonomous but all serving to reiterate specific musical themes just as you would find in a movie soundtrack by John Barry, Akira Ifukube, or one of those guys; and the instrumentals more or less feel like songs but for the absence of vocals, pasted together from the same grinding sequencers, pensive rhythms, and wailing electronic threnodies.

Crucially it's tense as fuck while retaining a certain ruined beauty, like the very best of Nine Inch Nails - a sort of wrist-slashing orgasm combined with a punch in the face over and over and over until it sounds like the only music in the world; which is pleasing.

Still not going to bother with sodding Tron though. Nice try, Disney but nein danke.

Cosey Fanni Tutti - 2t2 (2025)

 

Here's another Cosey solo, not radically different to Tutti but representing further goodness mined from the same seam; although it brings new realisations, namely that on reflection I think I prefer her solo work to anything recorded with him indoors, or even with that other group. I'm not even sure why this should be, for clearly it's a relative. Another realisation is that both 2t2 and its predecessor seem sonically closer to the very first Chris & Cosey outings than to the later, which may be to do with either a reinvestment in gritty analogue sounds or the renewed spirit of adventure which comes with endeavours beyond a familiar configuration of people. A lot of it chugs along at some halfway point between Gristle and Moroder, as much a bubbling bass as a rhythm. With Wrangler and countless others, the last decade or so has seen a revival in what I'd hesitate to call sounds of the seventies, harking back to those early experiments with plug-in synths grinding away, and so it is with Cosey's work. In most cases, and certainly this one, it doesn't strike me as an exercise in nostalgia so much as a reflection of changing music technology thankfully losing its fixation with the new, instead favouring variety and malleability in terms of sound design.

Anyway, while solo Cosey makes great use of rhythm, it's a different emphasis to that favoured by hubby and is more exploratory, hence the continued delight in things which make a noise for their own sake - the cornet and even a harmonica on this album. I gather these pieces were composed for some kind of installation, which I can see given that they have the quality of soundtrack, a certain cinematic scale wherein even the atonal elements gain musicality by contrast with adjacent sounds. It suggests improvisation and random juxtaposition but for the fact that everything works and complements the whole, so maybe there's an element of selection. Whatever the case may be, it's at least as powerful as weather in its emotional impact - an album in which to lose yourself.

Shameful Ca$hin (2025)

 

Shameful Ca$hin began life as a conflation of the Girl Guided Missiles  - whom you may recall from here - and some former Cravats, specifically the formative line up of the same - although one of the four has strummed and bellowed in both groups. They got together for fun and for the joy of playing pubs. They didn't have a name and so for a while it was Cravats 2 or '77 Cravats for the sake of flyers, and because their repertoire incorporated Precinct, Shut Up, Pressure Sellers, Crash Barrier Dancer and others forged by that very first line up - alongside a few newies. The  Cravats hadn't existed as the Cravats for a couple of decades by that point so it didn't seem conspicuously cheeky until a reformed version coalesced with new material and someone from their label denounced the undertaking as a shameful cash in in the comments box of a live performance posted on YouTube. Legitimately peeved, the lads decided, We're having that! and thus was Shameful Ca$hin born.

Inevitably, the new numbers began to crowd out the resurrected material until there was enough for an album - a proper album on two sides of vinyl like nature intended, just as it was in the good old days, or at least the marginally less fucking stupid days. I've known Martin, guitarist and vocalist, for many years. He played me this album at his flat when I dropped by back in 2024. I was blown away. It was melodic, powerfully muscular, distinctly shirty without getting so angry as to lose the plot. It felt like hearing the Stranglers or Sham 69 for the first time and I was excited to learn they were planning a vinyl release.

Nothing seemed to happen for a while and then it appeared on Bandcamp. I downloaded and listened once but couldn't quite square what I heard sat at my PC with what I'd heard at Martin's place; but now that the vinyl has appeared I realise this may be something to do with either MP3 files or just the superior sound of music blasting from proper speakers. In keeping with the Girl Guided Missiles having been one of the few bands to form due to musical differences, as the legend has it, Shameful Ca$hin are musically all over the place, and yet so tight and so confident that it takes a while for the ears to register abrupt segues into tangential detours such as country and western. It's because this is what bands used to do rather than simply churning out a dozen versions of the same song, lest we've somehow forgotten Led Zeppelin's brief dalliance with reggae. The thing you notice, the first thing that hits you is the sheer driven power of the music - a motorbike beat even if that isn't exactly what they're playing. There are touches of the Who, the Clash, the Dolls, the Stones, others you may not even recognise, and Nowhere Fast could have been the greatest song Eddie & the Hot Rods never got around to recording, hitting you in the chest with the same apocalyptic pathos as Beginning of the End; but the album is nevertheless very much its own thing, distinguished more by its differences than whatever comparisons might be made. This is particularly true lyrically because, let's not deny it, none of us are getting any younger, and Shameful Ca$hin speak to me as a person of equivalent vintage in addressing that which troubles them without giving too much of a shit about appealing to anyone but themselves, which is as it should be. Thus they skewer pretty much everything that's wrong with the world right now, not least that it didn't used to be quite so fucking ridiculous back when we were all in short trousers; and they do it with wit, cracking tunes, and air-punching hooks.

Just when you think it's all over, this comes along. I'm not claiming that the Shameful Ca$hin album rocks more than anything has rocked before, but it's certainly in the running.

Get it here before they're all gone.

The LOX - Filthy America… It's Beautiful (2016)

 

I've been waiting twenty-five years for a follow up to We Are The Streets so it was kind of embarrassing to discover that there was one and it came out nearly a decade ago. This sort of thing becomes unfortunately bewildering once you're past fifty.

Anyway, it's not like there's been a shortage of LOX material given all three of them having churned out a succession of mostly incredible solo albums, each one invariably featuring the other two, notably After Taxes and A Gangster and a Gentleman which are both up there with Streets to my ears; but there's a certain grisly magic you only get in full with the three of them on an equal footing - the only three-man group where all of 'em is the strongest, as it says on here. Fifteen years after the previous group effort, the favoured sound hasn't really changed so much as expanded with the times. We still have the familiar glacial New York beats, and the inevitably sterling contribution of DJ Premier, but there are a couple which border on trap, notably Secure the Bag featuring Gucci Mane, without quite going the full sweaty distance to sound like they turned up on the album by accident. Mostly the beats stay minimal, grooves more than tunes but expertly tooled so even the moody minimalism sounds cinematic on What Else You Need to Know and others; and the beats stay minimal because that's really all you need. Few rap groups have even one guy who can weave a saga with the level of detail you get on this album, and the LOX have three. You could strip it all down to acapella and it might lose some of the force but it would still kick your ass. This is one of those that taps right into the core of rap, and what rap has always been. It's not always pretty and yet it remains both majestic and magnificent from start to finish. It was worth the wait.