live review by Michael Witheford, 'juke' may 21 1988, the tote,
'I'm slipping into a coma when all of a sudden... SEX! Hyper-ventilating,
pelvis clutching, groaning, pounding, panting, very, very, naughty
sex is oozing of a stage and winding out my hormone levels. It's
a noise that sounds rude and vulgar, and the guilty party is Crashland!
Pete Townsend's biggest cartwheeling powerchord is hiding in
a sample in Ash Wednesday's keyboard, and while the bass and drums
combine to make my intestines do the hokey pokey, the chord keeps
coming back to smash my head into total submission. It's more
fun than laughing, but there's more.
A girl with a microphone has gone 'ga ga'. Her name is Lyn Gordon
and she sneers like Linda Blair in 'The Excorcist' as an unearthy
scream comes from somewhere deep down. She hiccups and snorts,
squeals and grunts, nearly destroys the PA with octave shock.
But within seconds, her face is transformed by a cherubic smile,
and gosh, she could be Johnny Young's favourite little girl.
Crashland slow rockabilly down until it's a tormenting metallic
grind. They chew up film musical tunes and spit them out as mangled
wreckage. They get trash rock like 'Cherry Bomb' and trash it
more so it's really smelly and sleazy. They sound like Big Black,
Led Zep and Nina Hagen fighting in hell. They write silly words
to strange songs. They are interesting, and they're in your backyard.'