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Coughed up a spider this morning. Nightmare stuff. Yakking my guts' accumulated ooze into the porcelain, this broken little fella came up in the goo, a couple of darker shapes in the yellow where he'd broken in two somewhere on the way out. I stared at him, swirling in pieces down the plughole. I wondered if he was a she, whether the tickle and scratch in the right side of my throat was a birth nest, a sac of quivering eggs on the hatch.

Swinging out the house with trouble behind my eyes, my mind's on this thing I'm supposed to be knocking up, but haven't been. Jesus fuck, that riff is low, the one that smashes itself into 'Drown with the Monster', Mish Way's words barely discernable through the firestorm until that creepy, childish chorus - "the water looks good on you," she sings, dead-eyed. "Drown with the monster."

Because I'm the kind of fuckin' pro who can link things to other things at the drop of a footnote, I can tell you that 'Drown with the Monster' dovetails nicely with what Way told me about her band White Lung's then-forthcoming Deep Fantasy when we spoke on Skype last year (yeah, I'm also the kind of fuckin' pro who gets talked at by musicians on Skype.) She said that Deep Fantasy would be "a lot darker, more metal-influenced" than its predecessor Sorry, and yup, turns out that 'Drown with the Monster' and a bunch of other cuts from Deep Fantasy's 22 minutes come on as bastard-heavy, unreceptive mega-rock that doesn't give two pigeon-shits about you or your stoopid feelings. This is nice when you're wrenching yourself through damp heat on the way to waste eight hours at a desk in blurry suburbs, and your glands may or may not be filled with the wriggling progeny of your greatest fear. Witness 'I Believe You', whose guitars gnash heavy and harsh like the bloodied maw of some many-headed demon, and at whose close Way intones "Don't take me, you won't make me, 'cause I'll always win" with all the ineffable surety of a tectonic movement. Or 'Sycophant', where her snarling "what now?" couldn't be further from the questioning of some quivering twentysomething unsure of their life's precious path, instead exasperation at others' constant badgering for affirmation. All over music that sounds like taking a bath in sandpaper and brick dust. Can music sound like an abrasive ablution? Who cares. Did I mention I'm a fuckin' pro?

So Deep Fantasy (a marvellously smut-evoking title, BTW, has me coming over in hot flushes just reading it) works as ten lithe, wiry punk ragers, ten howls into our personal nothingness. It works very well as that. But it's more. For a start, axe-nerds, Kenneth William. My fuck, but this guy and his guitar parts. He sounds like he's playing about three of the things at once, thunderclap chording vs. those needling atonal leads, and it's really, really nice to listen to and try to pick apart. Every morning for the last two weeks I've descended stone steps onto a crowded station platform just as 'Face Down' kicks in, and it's like being sliced apart from the inside out with hot katana. That riff puts me in the mood to wrestle large, sports-playing men at 8am. Second, Deep Fantasy is not a record stripped of Sorry's sugar, not at all. If you're the sort of person who keeps a list of favourite chord progressions (do you not?), or goes all gooey over analysis on how instruments interact with/complement/kick the shit out of each other, Deep Fantasy is just the one. The way those chords crash through 'Down It Goes', steamroller one second, serpentine the next. The way a paintstripping bassline turns some dust-mote harmonics and elasticated hammer-ons into an honest-to-goodness, marauding hook machine on 'Wrong Star'. There are big, big tunes here. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that 'Snake Jaw' has the killerest chorus in a song about body dysmorphia ever.

Oh yeah, and that's a point. So I've been spending the weeks bitching, using Deep Fantasy as a vehicle for my petty upset as I (and you) do with so much pissed-off guitar music, before I decide to find out what Mish Way's singing about, because yeah, I'm a fu...yeah. Body dysmorphia? Where the sufferer becomes so fixated on one (often imagined) imperfect facet of their physical appearance that it dictates how they live? Shit. I can't begin to understand the impossible strength behind 'I Believe You', inspired by a woman who chooses to identify as rape survivor, rather than victim. And when you find out through the Internet's dripfeed that 'Drown with the Monster's take-no-prisoners wasteland is about a woman dealing with her own feelings, rather than some schlock-horror murder narrative, that cuts. Deep. Dismiss White Lung and Deep Fantasy as just some other bratty punk act at your goddamn peril, is what I'm saying. You don't need me to tell you that these are things worth taking to a stage.

And I feel like I'm probably overegging the pudding a bit, y'know, with the spider thing. That I've probably just got a little bit of a cough and should stop smoking, and, yeah, call my mum maybe.

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