THE EYE OF THE FIRE WHALE - RTBH REVIEW

Well set the rats on my face and call me Shirley. What the fuck is going on here. Where the....
Last I knew I was gazing out at a rain filled sky, looking down on the depressing reflection of the grey scarred tarmac, waiting for my man to bring the tambourine and take a ride. What was I listening to at the time? It escapes me now, as does much else. Pains rush through my brain as I try and fight it and figure out where it is I’ve ended up.
Holy shit, is that the sun? Is that the sun that we are very directly hurtling towards at speeds that are totally unrecognizable and with no way of judging? My nerves sense we are travelling at speeds that we only witness in the most 70's of 70's blockbuster movies, but with such distances to cover, we may as well be, and still maybe, travelling at around 8mph. Or we could even be completely still. Motionless. Very confusing and truly trippy times.
There is an incessant whirring all around. A huge fly, wielding and firing a Tommy Gun at every one of the images he see's in every one of his eyes. He’s completely gone sideways. I put on the cycle helmet. It will do little to help, but it will surely do me no harm.
Then there it was, the drawn out notes of some fucked up organ with Bella Lugosi himself sat at the black and whites. I try to catch his eye, make small talk, but in the time between my thought becoming a physical expression, he was zapped away by the voice of a straining
Funk Father, with nothing more than a keen sense of slowing down time and adjusting the angle of rotation of the very rock we all stand upon. We risk flooding at the very least.
Seems we're caught in some kind of intergalactic dog fight. No chance of getting out of this in 4 pieces. I must man the controls myself. I’m off to find the captain.
"Sorry sir, the captain left long ago."
"Well then who the fuck is flying this thing? Tell me woman! Don’t just stand there playing air guitar like you didn’t here a god damn word I said. Listen to me damn it! Who is at the wheel?!" I was clearly going to get no sense from this woman. I have reason to believe she stole the uniform. Clearly no training at all.
Ah a guitar riff. Sounds like rock music. Drums. A repeated phrase. From behind me the voice of an elderly man offers me outside. A fist fight. I must be wrong. A fist fight, with an OAP, (who from the tone of his voice, has moves that will clear out a weeks’ worth of ruffage from my bowls), outside, in the depths of space.
PEEEEOWWWWWW!!!!
Thank fuck a gun. I’m saved from a savage beating from this ageing b-movie star. I turn to see the hero of the piece. Clint Eastwood, Eddie Murphy. No. I sank. The old man had done me. There he was, pistol in hand, firing from the hip. A shot was fired. I saw it coming. Slow motion. The bullet flew towards me with peaceful grace, accompanied by the vision of a Mexican ranch and the voice of a Civil War weary veteran offering advice and a single bullet of retaliation.
FUCKING HAVE THAT YOU OLD BASTARD!
The guitars backed me all the way, big churning filthy fuzzing guitars, set to the rhythm of the heaviest, pounding beat of a Led Zep song you imagine a Led Zep song should sound like.
A pistol whip for good measure.
My sudden act of violence upon the old man sent the ship into a stunned silence. Not one of the small party said a word. The Suit, silent. The Babysitter, silent. The Divorcee Slut, silent. The Asian Cornershop Owner, silent. The Gypsy Crane Driver, silent. The Butcher, silent. The small group of rabbits would have surely said a word if they had made it, but now silent.
The hostess dropped her guitar. It fell to the floor with all the clatter you would expect from an air guitar. Suddenly the thunderous engine and tinkering of mechanical parts snapped everyone back to life, and maybe snapped a few minds.
I noticed the sun was no longer directly in front of us, but flanking our side as if we were slowly passing by the giant eye of an outta space fire whale.
"Some bastard is fucking with me here! Who is it? You treacherous bastards tell me!" They were clearly all in on it. The smug worm in the suit called out to me. "Sit down number 4." Portmerion? Fuck off. No it’s true. He’s right. I can’t find a way out of this village. I’ve been walking for miles and keep ending up here at the bike repair shop. Maybe I should jog? Even a run?
“You want some?"
I turned from the down and out, weeping clouds of the Midlands sky to see Mazbeth slumped on my bedroom floor, eating Chinese take-away, bare foot. I turned back to the scene outside. Normality. Shit awful normality. The huge and deafening hum of deep space engine roar replaced with the asthmatic wheeze of a Training School Nissan Micra attempting to reverse around the corner.
"What was that shit you were just listening to?" Mazbeth asked.
"How long have you been sat there?"
"Long enough to see you freak out. I thought I was gonna have to put on some socks and get you to call for help"
What WAS I listening to?
"The case Mazbeth. The case. Where’s the fucking case you slob bastard?"
He tilted onto one cheek, I winced and hid my face in the neck of my sweater. Fearing the worst I turned away....
He tilted onto one cheek and pulled from under him the case.
Roused To Burning Homes was scrawled across the front, with the picture of some kind of protective headwear and goggles.
Without lifting his Jewish nose from the plastic tray, and with some kind of Cantonese radioactive slime juice smeared around his stubbled jowls he said to me, quite calmly, "That’s some fucked up shit man. The way you were acting, I thought you were partying without me. And what’s with the bike helmet?"

A review of Roused To Burning Homes
Track listing -
Solar Flare Signal System
Space Egg Nebulae
SFSS Dragaon Accelerator remix