It’s been two decades since their last album but time and musical trends seems inconsequential to Feedtime as they return to grind out another slab of primitive and unrelenting rock.

They’ve still got that leaden lurch and queasy slide guitar that shifts and shudders like a displaced iceberg in a drunken sea. Perennial underdogs, they proved immensely influential on a raft of bands, from Jesus Lizard to Harvey Milk and here they reclaim their place at the unhinged intersection of post-punk, cow-punk and sludge rock.

The bass is still rough and growling, the guitar like exposed nerve endings and the vocals still sound like a bad night out on the booze. Some things, thankfully, never change.

Chris Familton