There's the Filth. There's the Fury. And then of course, there's [a]Fungus[/a].
There’s the Filth. There’s the Fury. And then of course, there’s [a]Fungus[/a]. Oh that it should come to this – that the spirit of punk rock should be reduced to naming yourself after a) a cartoon bogeyman or b) a slightly unpleasant growth.
But, then again, the key-chain massive love anything that hints, childishly, at gross, don’t they? And they’ll love Foo Day 182 – sorry, [a]Fungus[/a] – just so long as they remember that they’re the slightly gross ones from Varberg, Sweden.
Apparently, guitarist Pelle Helin once got so excited, that he fell off the stage. In Tunbridge Wells. [a]Fungus[/a] think they’re crazy, but, actually, they’re toiling away somewhere pretty conservative. Basically, they have two speeds; rama-lama ding-dong Ramones, and earnest churning, throughout which singer Johan Lundgren sounds a few popped veins away from casualty/hot tears away from a right old tantrum.
Being Scandinavian, and given to the odd clever inflection, [a]Fungus[/a]’ bubblegum is perhaps better than most. You wouldn’t absolutely have to throw yourself from a moving car if it came on the radio. But, like all bubblegum, it loses its flavour, your mind wanders and, suddenly, you think: “Eugh! Why am I still chewing this?”