Every song on this record is about football. No, not American football, what us Yanks call “soccer.” Well done hardcore/Oi with pretty damn funny lyrics.
It takes a few rounds to sink in, but once it takes effect, you’re feeling all rambunctious and sleazy enough to risk making the move on your friend’s wife.
Many street punks who’ve been around as long as The Unseen (nine years) stop being innovative and interesting and get repetitive and just plain boring.
Twangy guitars shot through with reverb ride the pulsing skeletonal surf beat as one guitar gobbles Crampsoid maggots whist the other pokes instrumental stuff.
They don’t bring anything new to the genre that they’re so clearly trying to fit into, and they don’t even excel at doing basic poppy-punk, which isn’t hard.
Limecell hail from Philly, have been banned from every club in said city except for one because of their wild shows and all drink even me under the table.