If you want punk, you’ve got it!

The Bronx have taken the spirit of the 1970’s hell-rising punk and fused it with modern day brutal lunacy to create one of the standout albums of 2006.

Kicking off their second album with the mysterious and mythical ‘Senor Hombre de Tamale’, the solitary guitar picking its way over the almost prophetic mantra in the background before ‘Small Stone’ comes on - and promptly pounds your face in.

Imagine a relentless attack of pipe bombs and grenades aimed at your house, complete with the screaming sounds of the underworld laced over the top to tickle your fancy, and that’s pretty much it. The first ‘proper’ track on the album sets the stall for the next 11 songs. It’s concise, uncompromising – and powerful as all hell.

As we flail into ‘Shitty Future’, the previous Black Flag links become all too apparent, mixed with a poisonous cocktail of pounding drums, twisted, radio-friendly dual vocals that give way to a contorted chorus, with the morbid line “Here comes your shitty future!” barked out by Matt Caughthran. Just when you thought a major record label release might soften these guys up, they spit in your face and tell you to kindly “fuck off”.

‘History’s Stranglers’ is a juggernaut of a song mixed with cocaine paranoia. With the uncompromising guitar style of Joby J Ford threatening to take the band into arena-sized venues, the song resembles the feeling of being chased down a back-alley with no way out. ‘Oceans of Glass’ is a blatant live favourite, featuring more arena-bothering solos, and an almost mid-career Distillers feel, with its underground/mainstream punk crossover riffs.

‘Dirty Leaves’ slows the proceedings down, which is a nod to The Bronx’s confidence in their own ability and song craftsmanship. The solitary guitar interweaves with Matt’s disillusioned, heartbroken vocals, before building it up to a frenetic, overbearing and despairing finale.

The following three songs, ‘Transsexual Blackout (The Movement)’, ‘Mouth Money’ and ‘Rape Zombie’ are all examples of more stomping testosterone-fuelled findings with a sleazy, unstable and psychotic soundtrack. Where the album could’ve sagged under the weight of repetition and fillers, The Bronx fire themselves off as an angry son-in-law of AC/DC and Guns ‘n Roses, with a string of federal offences tucked under their arms.

‘Around The Horn’ has the fist-pumping chorus of any beer-addled night out, whilst ‘Three Dead Sisters’ finds Caughthran in devastating form, with bile-boiling screams that make you fear for your life, leaving you to consider barricading up your door and hiding in the corner of the shower until its all over.

‘Safe Passage’ sees drummer Jorma Vik and bassist James Tweedy kick out a jam not too dissimilar to Queens of the Stone Age, whilst the song ambles along with a slower, fatalistic vibe on board. The line “Pray for safe passage through the night” is barked out like a demented televangelist, preaching to the undead in a midnight mass mash-up for every tortured soul that roams the world.

The final track, entitled ‘White Guilt' leaves the album with a hedonistic sleaze-shanty, with the verse “Too many lines/One too many times” feeling like an early morning revelation after over-doing it that little bit too much.

As you stumble out of your bathroom to see the singed remains of what used to be your house, you look around to see scrawled across the room in what could be blood, the menacing line of “You’ve been visited by The Bronx”. After letting these guys into your life, its unlikely things will ever be the same again.