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The debut by Manchester fuzz-punks Sex Hands is a romantic blast of nasal garage, seamlessly engineered to get any fan of a good pogo excited, and shot through with an infectious sense of ribaldry.

I immediately liked this album for two reasons, 1. The front cover looks like Grotesque (After The Gramme), my favourite early Fall album and 2. The opener 'Space Song' features a similar proximity noise generator to Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's 'Dang'. Combine those two acts (the childish genius of their esteemed fellow Mancunians and the let's-just-totally-fucking-rock-our-balls-off of Blues Explosion) and your pretty close to approximating the noisey brilliance of Sex Hands.

It gives you a fair idea of how seriously the group aim to chop the nose from the po-faced that the lyrics are generally garbled or screeched, guitars sound like they've been rattled around inside a tour bus for several weeks before hitting the studio and the drums are a soggy mess. I'm also more than a little pleased to say that I didn't immediately recognise that Pleh is loaded with Friends references. That's a mark down.

The very definition of concise, the record packs a hefty wallop despite its modest running time. As we've seen this year, girth does not necessarily correspond to quality; Sex Hands cook up a ridiculously simple formula: twisty guitar crunches, declarative vocal yelps and garage band production. Surf has been the term of choice for lazy critics for quite some time now; Sex Hands more realistically inhabit the health and safety nightmare that is the archetypal shit Northern rock club. Call it Shirt Rock.

A million miles from the trained, self-righteous blast of Eagulls, the band nevertheless manage to charm the pants off the listener via the simplest of repetitive melodic hooks and a tendency to chuck everything in at once and damn the consequences.

So it's short, but holy-moly is it loud. My ears actually felt like they needed a wash afterwards. You know when you read that animals have heightened senses, and you tried to imagine what a dog smells when it encounters its own shit? Like it's a thousand times worse than we smell when we smell dog shit, and they can sense it from miles away and actually like the smell?

Imagine that, instead of having that nasal form of superpower, your entire face was ears. You're sat inside a cylindrical amplifier that is receiving power directly from the Large Hadron Collider - if indeed that is a power source, my science is patchy - at the same time the creature from The Thing has mutated into Angus Young but with A MILLION ARMS AND HALF A MILLION FLYING V-NECK GUITARS AND HE IS PLAYING 'WALK' BY PANTERA and you have no hands to block out the sound.

OK so that is slightly over-exaggerated, but it's been a while since I've heard anything that actually made me turn my iPod down on the bus. Not out of sympathy for other people you understand, but for my own health.

It's not just loud, it's brazen, and funny, and sweet, and will probably sound exactly the same live and cause just as many headaches. Not bad headaches (the kind that stop sex). Good headaches, like the kind that make you want more sex, to numb the pain. Earlier this year I reviewed White Fang, who tried this exact trick and failed. Sex Hands deserve a sexy high five.

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