While I still liked the idea when they were originally going to be called Police Force 5 and would give each other five high-fives after each song (stupid, I know, but still pretty great), the mischievous madman otherwise known as Police Force continue to confound, perplex and amuse. Their set from a while ago (can't remember when or where) when they sampled banter for in between songs so they didn't have to actually talk on stage was another example of their loose genius. New slab of warbled weird is POWER POINT (out through those heathens at Tenth Court), eight tracks of burnt-barrel slink, drunk hip-shakes, woozy winks and bitten lower lips.
'Fantasy' is ridiculous in its buried sax, swirling vocal discombobulation and cavernous noise - and it's killer, storming onto a Ministry Of Sound CD outside your local laundromat soon. 'Space Drop' takes us into more familiar territory, a synapse-drained drawl on the asteroid belt of a fried freakout. 'Lowdown' is louche lounge, played from dust-coated blown speakers in the toilets of a ultraviolet-violating public toilet in the Surfers Paradise bus station of your mind. 'Love' is a torn romance, straight out of the pages of a waterlogged William Gibson novel, loose-limbed and crooked grin, drool spilling from lazily upturned lips. If you can imagine MC Ride taking horse tranks and letting his heartrate to drop below forty beats a minute, while Zach Hill abandons the kit and kicks over a Roland TR-505 drum machine and throws guitars into a cryogenic wasteland towards the end stages of Hotline Miami, you get 'Drug Zone Pt II'. 'Brakes' is Primal Scream eighty years in the future, still playing the "hits" in an abandoned nuclear reactor to piled up cadavers from past aural atrocities, and the aftershow reviews are promising. All bookended by elevator music leading us to our desired doom, dressed to the nines in our doomed desirables.
None of this makes sense.
Get POWER POINT at your peril.