Whatever it is that Bobby Funk are cramming into their collective bong is certainly doing the trick and the some as these Cornish miscreants are firing on more cylinders than the starting grid line-up for the last NASCAR race of the season. This is the first time that I’ve had the pleasure of crossing paths with this bunch of happy hooligans, but by Crom I swear it won’t be the last.
Possessed by the same musical swagger that the Dead Boys patented, Bobby Funk are the hyper-active, mischievous bastard offspring of Agent Orange and the Night Birds who almost certainly spent a little too much time hanging around with the black-sheep of their fucked up nuclear punk family, Uncle Dick Dale.
Bobby Funk don’t want to change the world and they’re not looking to be the figureheads of the long promised, taking its time to get here revolution. But that doesn’t matter, because these chaps are all about having a good time, all the time and making sure that everyone else does too. Short, fast, loud and a whole load of fun, Bobby Funk are a much needed snotty, punk rock shot of adrenaline fueled attitude and ridiculously catchy songs about all of the things that shouldn’t, but really do, matter. Bally good show chaps, bally good show… Tim Cundle