On a sheet of paper before me, London quartet A Life In Bandages claim genuine uniqueness and rip their contemporaries to shreds for having the "audacity" to claim to be one of a kind by peddling sounds that have come directly from other places. They then proceed to sound like **The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster**, oblivious of the apparent contradiction.

Opening track 'Final Act of Treachery', the stronger of the two songs, cuts to the quick instantly in a rush of distorted vocals and muddy, blood-stained guitars. "This is my final act of treachery", promises whichever of the two vocalists is nearest the microphone, before adding "I don’t do conceptual work these days" as a side note. Like some kind of psychotic evil twin they take the B-Line Disaster’s 'Mister Mental' and kick it hard until the ensuing pain forces the tense vocals to rise an octave before force-feeding it a weighty portion of The Thermals’ lo-fi punk, undercooked in the microwave for that poisoned flavour.

Lyrically, this isn’t your standard psycho-rock fare, kicking and screaming like a Neanderthal thug on some beer-soaked evening. There’s something mentally active about it even if its air of arrogance is ill-advised. Although second track 'Skeleton Mare' is a more laid back, predictable affair, A Life In Bandages’ statement is still clear: they’re here to eradicate musical conformism, but why preach change so vocally when you’ve borrowed your sound from others?