BAMODI – Bamodi (Love Is My Velocity)
I don’t know what a Bamodi is – if pressed, I’d hazard a guess at a distinct European spirit that’s prepared according to a centuries old recipe and is classified by the World Health Organisation as detrimental to one’s health if consumed in greater than cursory quantities.  The first limb of that definition is unlikely to apply to Western Australian band Bamodi; as for the latter aspect, there’s probably a few lovers of music that lies at the insipid end of the spectrum who’d object strenuously to Bamodi’s unashamedly intense punk style.

The introductory tones of "Moonface" conjure up haunting images drawn from Bram Stoker’s vivid imagination; the frenetic concluding moments forecast what’s in store.  Like the Dead Kennedys, there’s a striking dialectic between screeching vocals that could shatter an entire Orefors warehouse and a rock’n’roll beat thats bolted to the ground with industrial strength hardware.  "Flies Catch Spit" throws back ever so slightly to the days when the likes of X spat punk venom into the faces of the very average pub rock dweller; "Amos Kito" stabs the listener in the metaphorical eye like Kicking Giant avenging the premature death of a loved rock’n’roll colleague.

The change in pace in "Rainbow Head" might qualify it for ballad status – and any love professed to its lumbering rhythms would survive for ten seconds or a hundred years.  The thirty seconds of unrestrained noise that makes up the aptly titled Stresshead should be the soundtrack to a deranged punter’s inner psychological turmoil; the succeeding anger of "Headless" suggests that same punter has found their inner child and is having a fuckin’ killer of a time.  When sounds like the Beasts of Bourbon under the influence of a cocktail of amphetamines not even those seasoned purveyors of excess could comprehend; Cliff Jumping could tempt you to do the same, but that’d be taking the soft option, and ignoring the rest of the ride. 

And that ride is an absolute freak scene, an out of control "Ghost Train" fueled by nitroglycerine cooked by three guys who’ve spent too long scouring the gutters of West Coast punk rock.  Strangely, what they find always seems to hit the mark.  This is potent stuff – it won’t be for everyone, but if you want – and need – your punk rock with attitude, take a ride with Bamodi. - Patrick Emery







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