There are some albums that don’t merely convey a vibe or message, but also a time and place. Some utterly outstanding albums are only the first two. When one is all four, though, it becomes something . . . magical; something with the spine-tingling power to take the listener back to that time and place like being stood there breathing and feeling the very same air.

Excuse Me Love is one of those albums.

When reviewing the first single released from it, I talked about how Bristol could be felt in the lyrics and music. When listening to the entire album, a friend who happened to be here described Hot Flab as: “The big sister anyone from a marginalised group wishes they had.” A sentiment I not only wish I’d come up with, it also highlighted that while Hot Flab might be Bristol-centric by nature, across the album the message reaches far further than that boundary alone.

Excuse Me Love is one of those albums and then some.

Hot Flab Team Photo left to right: Megg (guitar); Jenn (vocals); Pipp (drums); Lizz (bass)

Using ‘for fans of’ in reviews is easy for writers and helpful for readers. Thing is, when it comes to Hot Flab’s sound, I’m at a loss. It’s punk, but not a single ‘sounds like’ comes to mind. And then there’s the lyrics: never have I heard anything featuring so much scathing sarcasm.

Hot Flab’s sound is perhaps best described as a snarling ball of scorching feminist energy with a range between two points: at one end is a necking-Bloody-Marys-then-slamming-the-glass-on-the-bar party vibe; while the other is a sharp sleek purposeful movement that catches chrome reflecting oil off a dark and rain-sodden city street. Somewhere between are the nuances for each track.

If there is comparison to be found it’s in the album’s personality: its components, structure, what it represents and the honesty with which it does so; in those respects I’m very much reminded of The Clash The Clash (1977).

Track one ‘Excuse Me, Love’ is a song born of unfortunate experience: the unwanted attention of males; the clichéd misogynistic soundbites that combine to make the tapestry of many women’s everyday lives – and if challenged, inevitably end with the exact same line as the song: “Fuck you, love, I’d still fuck you”.

The song towers in stinging derision to take ownership of the all-too-often combined words, so it can tear them up, throw them on the floor and stomp all over them with deserved contempt; a tidal-sound-wave slap in the face for anyone asinine enough.   

‘Wine Breath’, a track about the trials and tribulations of still wanting a social life while being a single mum relying on unreliable child support to make ends meet never mind have any left over to maintain a pressure-releasing-sanity-keeping-guilt-inducing social life, has the lyrical range and depth of Hot Flab at full-force by being self-depreciating and hilarious while still finding time for the scorching indignation of track one.

‘Peggy Sue’ is a song on the subject of ‘pegging’ (if you don’t know what that is already, chances are you don’t want to and a ‘reverse ferret’ here—no pun intended—might be advisable).

It’s a song particularly dear to me: long before ever hearing of Hot Flab, I’d wondered what might’ve happened if Buddy Holly had lived and written ‘Peggy Sue’ today (or if the 50s had been more sexually liberated and he’d still lived/written it then – look at it however you will).

Would Buddy, horrified at the connotation, have changed the name to something like ‘Betty-Lou’; or would he turn out to be an actual fan, tweaking the lyrics a tad—“Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, oh how my **** yearns for you”; something like that—to thoroughly embrace and champion the activity.    

To be fair, I’d anticipated someone changing the lyrics pretty much as suggested above, and maybe somewhere they have. But not knowing of anyone, I toyed with the idea of doing it at a karaoke night. Then along came Hot Flab. Never in a million years did I envision the idea being taken to quite the levels of thoroughly depraved sordid filth on offer here.

‘Threat’ begs a question frequently found across the album: what came first; the lyrics or the bass line? So often it feels the sound of a track means its lyrics couldn’t be about anything else, and this “keys between my knuckles” story of walking home alone and trying to be/feel safe is ominous from the first note.

Jenn’s vocals never cease to be anything less than full force, even in lighter-hearted moments of digging-in bra straps (track below) words are delivered hard and with an almost menacing intent—no mean feat with a Bristolian accent!—and while that fury is more than present here, there’s something about the song that has the fear, adrenalin and vulnerability of actually being in the situation seep through to the surface to be felt.

‘O.A.P. (Old Age Punk)’ is a tale of still going to gigs when forty years of age that hits the nail so hard on the head it would be right at home in a stand-up comedy routine. Being ‘a bit’ over that benchmark myself, I can relate, there now being larger corporate venues that I’ll do all my drinking before getting to due to the rugby-scrum-crush always found at the bar.

Listening to this track suddenly reminds me of the last time I went in a pit: it was circa ten years ago at an Electric 6 show in Toronto. Within about five seconds of bouncing up and down, I realised I’d made a terrible mistake, but could hardly lose face by turning tail to leave the melee straight away. So I stuck it out only for worse to come when all the bouncing up and down meant I suddenly needed a poo that just couldn’t wait and had to use the venue’s hellish facilities pronto, when as rule of thumb I’m not a fan of taking a dump in anyone’s loo but my own!

‘Nye Bevan’ should be part of the national curriculum but never will, not because of some of the spicy language used, but because it tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Including the spicy language; it’s needed for appropriate context. It represents the utter frustration and despair those who care for the NHS feel about its neglect, the contempt shown its core values and principles, its steady move to privatisation, the blasé attitude so many have to it all . . .

The history of the NHS is told by raging mantra; an anthem in recognition of its original principles; a call to arms to protect the idea today; an honour to the person whose idea it originally was; and it’s a ferociously good tune to boot.

‘Don’t Panic’ rips into the realities of everyday life with such a harsh sharpness it has the power to mentally drop the listener behind the wheel of a car in standstill rush-hour traffic when they need to be somewhere half hour ago. There’s a sense of claustrophobia, of not being able to move; of anxiety raising its ugly head and wanting to do the complete opposite by running riot. Again the sound sticks to the lyrics like glue (or maybe vice versa). It’s impossible to keep still, making me want to get up and walk round the room – something, anything; it’s a track that live will take the pit to a whole new level!

‘The City’: Hot Flab’s first single is a scorcher: punchy, fast; a rampant ride of punk burning with to-the-point socially aware lyrics that nail the converse nature of Bristol with passion (to paraphrase my review, June 2024).

‘Live on Vine’ is my fav track on the album: the way the guitar comes in gets me every time; plus I feel a likewise aversion to the subject matter!

While moving at a pace beyond anything known to Radio 2, it definitely captures the feeling of hearing the show in question, the ever increasing rage racing to boiling point as each new caller comes on the line.

If the penultimate track is my favourite, then I’d guess the last is the band’s.

‘I Start Fights’ asks a question that a lot of people—well, men—would prefer wasn’t asked: what, exactly, is the punk scene all about? Though from Hot Flab’s perspective, it might well be considered a claim for what it should be now; indeed, one of the depths of this track is its capacity to make the listener think.

Punk might’ve started off fashionably enough, but despite many socially aware bands among its ranks in the early days—Crass/DIRT/Poison Girls, as examples—there were also problems too or The Dead Kennedys would never have needed record ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’ in 1981.

Today, the punk scene is generally considered an inclusive place. Those I’ve encountered actively involved in Bristol’s grassroots scene are for the most part under the age of forty-five and politically what might be called woke (as in the actual dictionary definition of being socially aware and inclusive).

There are still older bands doing the rounds, though; and not only that, one released a modern song with lyrics that read as highly derogatory to the gay and trans communities. The highlighting of this on social media reminded me that said band also had lyrics from back in the day that read as highly misogynistic, and in lieu of any explanation found online—an apology for youthful exuberance, perhaps—it doesn’t just read as.

And it’s not the only band from ‘the day’ still doing the rounds with likewise in the back catalogue either.

On one hand, finding misogynistic lyrics from the 70s and 80s is hardly surprising, given the world’s oldest and most widespread form of oppression isn’t currently considered a crime in UK law while numerous others such as homophobia and transphobia are.

On the other, it highlights just how deeply the contradiction in punk went, and—certainly without explanation/context/apology—still goes, making Hot Flab absolutely right. What is punk as a movement if it perpetuates core aspects of the system it’s supposed to fundamentally oppose?

In true punk DIY style, all artwork and videos have been made by the band, Lizz and Pipp even going so far as to have a studio erected in their garden to record the album; the only outside help coming from Ollie Pickett—of Disruptive Influence fame—to assist with the recording and mixing.

An honour and pleasure to review.

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