The Milkshakes

I'VE NO interest in nostalgia or revivals and neither have The Milkshakes. This re-release of their first LP (originally on the streets in 1981 – a time when things garage were a lot less formed into cults and coteries than now) captures them in a debilitating peak of uncouth exuberance.

Some say The Beatles had their best moments at the Star club in Hamburg when they still wore leather jackets, took speed rather than anything more psychedelic and made a noise fuelled by a certain octane of amphetamine not by any quest for musical refinement. I wouldn't like to comment on The Milkshakes' drug intake but they appear to crave a similar euphoric buzz from their performances.

The Milkshakes regard Beat music as an unimprovable portrait so they leave the canvas intact but rearrange the frame in a mass of flying tacks and splinters. Through a haze of snarled lips and upturned collars (coupled to a defiantly '80s aura) they let its potency beam out like a beacon of rebellious beauty.

The members of The Milkshakes presumably used this logic in deciding to form a band which did gigs rather than spent time and money in the studio trying to make records that sound like other records, simultaneously penning a batch of songs designed to have their guts torn out nightly on stage as if operated on by a desperately thrill seeking surgeon.

Half of 'Talking Bout. . .' will make hunchbacks walk upright. The other half will resurrect the dead. Indeed, Sid James gets his first production credit.