Well hot damn, the last thing I expected happen on a cold, miserable Thursday morning was that I’d be smacked upside the head by a snarling, rage fuelled, three headed punk rock beast . And the fact that I hadn’t even heard of reprobates responsible for cracking my noggin with a sonic sucker punch, even though they’re from just around the corner (geographically speaking) from where I live, before I pressed play on the bally great Mass Movement stereo-gram, makes it doubly shocking. I mean, where did this ferocious punk monster come from and why I haven’t I bloody well heard of them before now?
Listening to The Woodsman is like being beaten half to death with a big black rubber cock by the moo-moo wearing owner of the local sex shop after you’ve been caught trying to short change her in a two-for one fluffy handcuff scam. It’s fast, terrifying and you’ll never, ever forget it. If Killing Joke had been taught the subtle art of song-writing by Ian MacKaye and Al Jourgensen and had risen to prominence in the late eighties UK hardcore scene, then they wouldn’t be Killing Joke. They’d be The Woodsman. Because that’s exactly what this Welsh crew sound like. And they are bloody brilliant… Tim Cundle