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Thanks, Edmund


Thanks to keg for these:

Here's the text of the review. It's from issue 12 of the monthly magazine
" Vox" (September 1991).

Bed (East West)

The commercial flowering of underground Britpop has failed to deliver any
pretenders to the proud tradition of noisy English heroes like Pete Townsend
and Paul Weller.

But now that hotly-tipped Londoners Five Thirty have delivered their debut
long-player, we need look no further. This is a feisty, accomplished first
outing that recalls the sharp streetpop of the best British bands, combining
gritty lyrics, slashing guitars and swoonsome harmonies to great effect.
Better still, it's not afraid to move away from its snotty white boy
blueprint, as the tight funk-rock of 'Thirteenth Disciple' and 'Songs And
Paintings' proves.

Less groovy songs like 'Supernova' and 'Psycho Cupid' display an impressive
melodic sensibility while being kicked along by a youthful verve that
infects almost everything on offer. Contrary to its title, <i>Bed</i> has
clearly been invested with all the energy Five Thirty could muster. Only the
most hard-faced sceptic could fail to be seduced.

Liz Torres

...and still they keep on coming.

This is from the NME 6 Oct 1990.

The photo is in the gallery:
Hold onto your caps kids. The Bull & Gate, that bastion
of indie indifference, the absurd Mecca for guitar-armed minions the nation
over, is once again wide open to public perusal after a brief
council-enforced closedown. And here to welcome the venue back into the
(un)real world is Five Thirty, WEA's great white hopes (hey, Top 75 and
doubting!) getting back to their reckless roots with the first of three
understated London gigs.
I've never been overwhelmed by Five Thirty's thirsting thrusts. They always
seemed to yelp "Bay-bee! once too often. Always appeared
over-dependent on the now-ubiquitous wah-wah pedal which, let's face it, is
not a particularly attractive sound: like eating or whipping, such an
ear-tearing assault is effective in short bursts, but too much inflicts pain
for no feasible gain.
And tonight they still fail to convince. Sure, 'Strange
Kind Of Urgency' is a smart start, a wah-wah-free mooch when we all brace
ourselves for an ice-breaking blast. 'Abstain' is a throbbing, bloodstained
sprint, a passionate surge which momentarily places Five Thirty on top of
the (modern) world. And the trio's manifestation of Noo Wave-angled
bagginess can't fail to invigorate with its slashing urgency and molten
But they struggle to warm innocent cockles: they may be burning up the
stage, sweating like rats trapped in a sauna, yet their furious energy is
rarely transported beyond the first three rows. Mainmen Paul and Tara
convincingly exchange lyrical blows, yet rarely holler simultaneously, thus
leaving areas which harmonies would colour splendidly.
For all the rough intentions and tough impressions it looks like a lost
cause, a small league defeat. Until, that is, the encores when Five Thirty
pull the pesky rabbit out of the proverbial hat in the form of 'Catcher In
The Rye', all menacing 'Babylon's Burning' riffs and sloping hookline. Then
it all fits into place, the finished jigsaw after the disruptive tornado.
'Beseech Me' is the bruising au revoir, bidding farewell
with car crash chords, and Five Thirty have saved themselves, uh, in the
nick of time. Clock on.
Simon Williams