In two years Selfish Cunt have changed course considerably. The onetime purveyors of nihilistic, roughed-up electro-rape swapped the drum machine for a drummer some time ago, replacing the screamingswarmingslicing fly-drone hostility that got them all the attention in the first place with something more suggestive, more... tolerable.

Time was, those subjected to the whims of Selfish Cunt cowered, cringed, and protected their possessions. Now they dance. Actually, they kick ten shades out of each other. These days it's not the 'Cunt's volatile frontman you've got to watch out for, it's his friends and fans. The filthy tempo makes it easy to move to this taunting, accusatory blues rock, owing more to DFA1979 than anything else; Selfish Cunt the predator has become Selfish Cunt the tart, stripping and crawling for a baying crowd with a soundtrack to match. It's still arresting, and more accessible than it's ever been, but was that Selfish Cunt's original intention? Is it their intention now?

A year ago they screamed "Fuck the poor, make war!", "Another nigger dead!", a bloodied mess of wept rage, vomited disgust, spattered beats and overdue, heavily sarcastic fury. The contempt is still there, but the hate has matured to bitter mockery. "Me... mememe... Sky TV... Washington, are you receiving me?" purrs Martin Tomlinson, the sleazalicious goings-on behind him tipping his hips and curling his lips. Sarcastic they may still be, but I thought the point was to ram the cruelty and filth of the world in our reluctant faces until we faced up to it, not to hint and allude to it before an appreciative audience.

Tomlinson remains the dominant force, camp and cruel, imperious and offensive, utterly in charge. Half shaman, half shitstorm, he's stripped and destructive like Iggy, contemptuous like Lydon at his most malevolent, ricocheting back and forth with lunatic abandon and arched self-control, snarling and muttering all the while like a perverted preacherman. He is, as if you needed it spelling out, the perfect frontman.

Compared with the searing bile from No Wicked Heart Shall Prosper, the new songs slide down with a spoonful of hot, melted sugar. It's like switching from chemo to Calpol. Tomlinson's wildcat howls nestle against Patrick Constable's rampant, lupine guitar where once they fought it bareknuckled, teeth and claws out. So what? One petulant declaration says it all: "It's not about the band... it's certainly not about YOU... it's ALL... ABOUT..... ME." Sarcastic or not, it's true. People went to see Selfish Cunt when they sounded like the swelling edges of an acid burn, and they come to see them now they've embraced the simple pleasures of swaggering, off-the-cuff, age-old rock and roll.

Tomlinson is the electromagnet that keeps Selfish Cunt in motion, his antics drawing in the curious, the titillated, the hostile, the devoted. As long as they play, people will watch them. For now, their intentions are unclear. Has music overtaken the political rage and communication that seemed to be their raison d'etre? Or is this newfound musical competence and less combative facade merely a means to an end, a bread trail to lure an unsuspecting new crowd of victims?

Photos: Marc Broussely @ www.loudpixels.co.uk