Blacklisters have some of the finest song titles I've ever read or heard. They're clever, and sometimes pretty damn lengthy, but not in a late nineties/early noughties emo way, with overwrought puns that run into the realm of the overly verbose; no, they're just weird, difficult, and plaster a lovely grin all over your face. Case in point, album opener 'Clubfoot By Kasabian' is not a cover of Clubfoot by Kasabian, nor can you really discern from any of the lyrics any relation to Kasabian or clubfeet, but it probably annoyed/pleased plenty of the right people. And, like the rest of the album, it's a bloody strong song.

Nearly every track on BLKLSTRS, the Leeds filth-monger's debut full-length, follows the same delicious formula. These four disgusting gentlemen make disgusting, atonal noises for a bit, then there's a huge face-smashing riff, and then they make some more disgusting noise, and then everything falls apart - and it hits the mark almost every time. The album swaggers and swells with fuzzy bass grooves and reverb-laden guitar screeches, while resident-yelper Billy Mason-Wood veers between drunken leering á la labelmates Kong and caustic, full throated roars á la whoever your favourite hardcore punk band used to be.

The penultimate track and album's lead single 'Trickfuck' calls upon murkier musical ghosts, with half-rapped, half-sung vocals that would probably draw a lot of unhealthy criticism if it were any other band, but the level of arrogance and sexual aggression that Blacklisters carry around allows it to work. Only on 'Ask Yourself A Question If The Answer Is Go Fuck Yourself' does the band's bravery lead them into dangerous territory; the pseudo-psychedelic chorus-effect basslines and spoken word passages could come across as lazy, or even plain silly to the wrong pair of ears.

Of course, this is clearly a group of men who couldn't care less about the wrong pairs of ears. With songs like 'OK47' and the super-heavy riffs in 'I Can Confirm That Ruth Abigail Holmes Is Not Dead and Is Planning To Make A Movie About Her Life', the band are ploughing their own noisy furrow that sits happily beneath and away from any 'mainstream', or 'tasteful' music.

And though the production values on 'BLKLSTRS have just the right level of muddy roughness to them, the band are obviously accomplished enough musicians to shine through the dirt with some confident performances. The drums sound big and booming. The guitar tones are, frankly, filthy, and would make Albini proud. The vocals are sometimes lost amidst the chaos, lending to the feeling of a live performance; whether the lyrics actually matter is anyone's guess.

So, a forty minute slab of vomitous noise-rock that fans of Pulled Apart By Horses, Melvins, The Jesus Lizard, or anything that leaves you feeling like you need a wash afterwards will enjoy. And in Blacklisters case, you could probably do with a visit to the sexual health clinic too.