If the idea of a singing drummer sends shivers down your spine, then fear not, for STUFFY G is in the Grant Hart rather than Phil Collins mould and boasting a CV including time spent writing songs in Japan and a spell playing drums in the touring production of "Lady Diana: A Smile Charms The World."
If this all sounds unlikely, then I should point out that I'm not making this up and - unless my Mum's gammon steak with pineapple counts - I'm not on drugs either. However,what is reality on any level you like is that STUFFY/ THE FUSES' debut album "Join Me Or Die!"(recorded in darkest Norfolk with Magoo's Owen Turner at the controls) is a reet attractive cacophony, with noisier elements manfully clubbing a pure pop underbelly and vice versa as the 12 warped-out tracks ebb and swell.
"Evel Knievel" is a corking opener, crashing in via a relaxing acid bath of broiling feedback and settling into a brooding groove akin to Fugazi and Sonic Youth battling it out, "Gladiator"-style. Ace start and there's plenty more where these looned-out sensibilities come from, not least with songs like "Friend" (nagging, expectant rocker with Stuffy gleefully riding out the crash cymbals and the band going engagingly mental mid way through) and the feverish "Where's The Captain?", which proffers mega yelpy vocals from Stuffy and a chorus that seems to say "call me a weirdo!" Enough to get my vote any time.
Elsewhere, the XTC references that follow them around rise to the surface during "I Can See Yr.Machine"; a spiky, corrupted pop thang not entirely dissimilar to "Drums & Wires" whilst the grippingly unhinged "In The River" soon gets your attention when you realise Stuffy appears to be describing his own death by drowning. Fascinating, visceral stuff and no mistake.
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But The Fuses are equally effective when they take it down a notch ot two. Indeed, when the band adopt a slow, menacing approach they're capable of presenting us with things like "Waltz" and "Sleeping." The former initially wrongfoots with droplets of Fender Rhodes and tremelo guitar recalling REM'S "Everybody Hurts", but gradually the frustration kicks in and the boot gets liberally applied to the crotch before the track bleeds to a close. "Sleeping" is also superficially quieter and contemplative, but inwardly is clammy, chromatic pop with a seriously sinister streak. Weirdest of all, though, is the closing "Angelina Jolie" which is again similar to Fugazi in atmosphere, but featuring 'vocals' supplied either by samples or a visiting monster from HP Lovecraft's Cthulu mythos, who apparently likes his DC-based hardcore. Sensible chap.
There's a couple of questionable moments, not least with "Red Brown", which throws loops, moody Nirvana-ish sections and Beefheart's quirks into the pot and burns itself regally as a result, while "Billy Bob Thornton" isn't so much a tribute as a noodly, pointless guitar instrumental. Still, gripes remain negligible and continual exposure to this glorious, pulverising racket will have you signing up for Stuffy's oddball ride faster than lemmings can lob themselves off the nearest cliff.
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