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Thanks to keg for these:

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

FIVE THIRTY
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, Bed 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:
ROCK AGAINST THE CLOCK
FIVE THIRTY
LONDON CUBE CLUB

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
grooves.

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

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