A kind of kick-ass beat poet hollers and screams, often tunelessly but with a determined and manic force over a thrashing savage rhythm. This is music built on a metallic harshness, grinding and scraping and grinding but oozing emotional vigour as it tears its way into your consciousness.

The technical quality is low. The drums sound like wooden eggcups being tapped with teaspoons and the word heavy, tongue-tied vocal execution can only throw up a few completely decipherable sections. The rush of desperation, however, doesn’t need polish and clarity. Rather, the absence of these things intensifies all the rough, nerve jangling qualities.

These minstrels whip-up a manic dance frenzy as the psychotic visions that haunt them refuse to stay silent. This is fraught, revelationary (almost) rock. Wild and hard. Listening with seatbelts won’t guarantee you’ll emerge unscathed.

Archivists will be pleased to note the gig captured here took place at the Electric Ballroom way back in February 1980. Still reeling with the devastation, I flipped the disc to the more recent studio-recorded side. Aaargh! Such a disappointment. After half an album’s worth of frantic attack this had finds the group having mellowed into a directionless wasteland. All rather dull and insipid. One track called 'Water' features the sound of that liquid running from a tap. It is that bad. One can only assume they wore themselves out creating that beautiful rampage of two years ago.