The Priest and The Fire has cometh.

Last Train From Camelot rumbles, a spectral Super Chief, from Ridge Road station circa 1972, with Walt Whitman, the good doc and Mr Jones spitting devils and trapped, forever, in carriage 13. Machiavellian Parisians sipping tiger gin look up to catch the choo choo zipping through the licentious noir; the avant of three decades and thirty years of twisted cock-sucking, horse-shooting, catatonic decadence. The Velvet Claw is the ambiana, the lustorama, the maudlin, cinematic soundscape to people who can’t help it. Christy Canyon violently thrusting a cool, steel deodorant canister into her dripping pussy, Peeping Tom spiking another prostitute and Lou Reed spiking, well… another vein. This isn’t blue… it’s amethyst. And it wants your throbbing member in it’s eye.

First stop for The Evil Fuck Train is Warracknabeal, where this Cleethorpes, England Sinisterok® quintet lurch into a brutal bar room brawl with a young Nick Cave, electrocuting the Dark Lord with an octopoid cable, twisting and coiling this thrashing blue bitch tighter and tighter around his pale neck until ‘An Ocean Of Hate’ undulates through his eyes and, after a psychotic paroxysm of piano galaxies, Smooga abuse bad as you get and Johnny the gibbet victim’s final guitar deathswarm, he congeals into a quivering pool of viscous shitgoo.

Journey midway, and the railtrack meanders through The Whisper Dark; a dissolute, hushed tintrap though the backdoor of the Greenwich neighbourhood, petrified movie reel, bumped-off poets and tragic, Rimbaud-clutching avant-princesses silhouetted like shadow puppets against a syrupy ambience, a surreal swell that reeks of high-point terror Hitchcock, ‘All Tomorrows Parties’ and bruise-eyed, wire-trap electronica. This is ‘Marty Ritchman Won Her Rose’ , this is ‘Barbara Liar’ and this is ‘Mandolin’. This is what you’ll be singing when you’re called ‘Specimen BR-8’, chewing on Old Bill’s White and going to snarl at spics and rag-heads at ‘The Justice’ every morning. This is what you’ll be humming, distractedly mind, when the Neo-Nazis come trouping over the Atlantic garbed in money blood.

This trip doesn’t chundle down into a station bound finale, as is the custom with Most Trains, oh no, lest you forget - this is The Evil Fuck Train… and at the wheel is the mutant amalgamation of the Roswell Incident, the extraterrestrial splurge concocted by Them when they mixed spunk from the abducted Iggy Pop, Syd Barrett and Henry Miller (obviously traversing time barriers, as you would). The thing, the flamin psychotic gibbering in the control - Sebastien Silk, as he’s calls himself, lacquers this soundtrack to vice by chanting darkly, Umba-esque ‘all Nixon’s children ate the pie, all Nixon’s children left to die’ while Kraftwerk Hutterisms explode in red and green beat-boxes, John Cale et his florid cembalet scatter a feedback tempest… and… *SCREECH!!* The Last Train From Camelot flies off the rail into Keith Richard’s wretched ass hole, into libidinal oblivion, a glutinous meltdown into the Goo Goo Muck, fucked-up screaming skull wah-wah and that monotone yowl, torn from the bowels of Hell itself. This bitch burns.

In all, The Velvet Claw will make you sick, it'll make your groin burn, it'll cause you to choke on the afflictions of your own soul, it'll tie you into knots and wring your heart into all manner of woe, guilt and infatuation. It’s the Sadie Thompson you can't kick into the street, it’s the poison you can’t help but drink, it’s the Demoral dose that you're drawn to wallow in, and it’s the thing that haunts your dreams and your sleeping awake. You'd die for it though, for sure, for hate and love are but one and the same…