Along with Goblin and John Carpenter, Zombi are the final piece of my go-to musical triumvirate when the world has done its absolute damndest to make me feel even more worthless and weak than I already, thanks to the machinations of five decades of thankless and ceaseless toil, do. 

It would be easy to simply dismiss Zombi as nothing more than architects of the sort of sonic vistas that made up the soundtracks to, and for, late seventies and early eighties straight to video horror and action b-movies. But doing so would be like standing on stage at Comic-Con and categorically stating that the only films featuring their undead namesakes that matter were made by George Romero when every horror hound worth their salt with a not-so-secret passion for the films of Lucio Fulci knows that just isn’t true.

While there’s no denying that Zombi bears more than a passing resemblance to an amped-up, amphetamine-fueled version of Tangerine Dream, their escapist anthems harness an originality and individuality that transport your imagination to realms of fantasy hitherto undreamed of, which in the never-ending, daily cerebral assault of the rat race is the musical equivalent of a fifty-year-old bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a box filled with a dozen thigh rolled examples of Cuba’s finest export. In other words, Direct Injection is the best cure for a bad day that I’ve heard in a long, long time…  Tim Cundle