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Melody Maker, 21st August 1982, "The Fine Art Of Mooch - Biting Tongues, ICA, London - The Joy Of Mooching "

The message here is: all the musicianship in the world amounts to a black cave at midnight if the blueprint's a misconceived botch.

Biting Tongues (Saturday), on the other hand, had their concept complete, tried and tested; they knew what they were doing, knew it was good and proceeded to burn like a blowtorch on steel.

This much needs to be said: Biting Tongues are brilliant.

Is it significant that the two most exciting new British bands to have played London this year both come from Northern regions? Like The Box, the Tongues are a muscle, writhing deliberately away from the ice-skating arenas of Peter Powell-land and doing it with such delicious blends of intensity and ingenuity that they threaten the nervous apparatus with complete disintegration.

Take a drummer with Donald Johnson's feel for tricks, a bass player with a fuzz-funk pulse that's preparing for a journey into the next dimension, a saxophonist with a taste for the acrid and the sweet, a singer with a joyous feel for rhythmic inflection, a guitarist with a mission, a radio broadcast, a smattering of tape; pressurise the sweat glands for maximum liquid, reach the climax and take it, incredibly, higher still...

Biting Tongues play music that's worth living for.

And Eric Random? After this, a fly settling on the dome of spaceship. Harmless, uninteresting and fairly irrelevant. Biting Tongues blew the fly clean away.

LYNDEN BARBER.