The Black Tulips are from Brighton and they have come to steal your soul, make you fall in love and then destroy you. It is, after all, quite clear that anyone professing any kind of allegiance to their sound will be ostracised from polite society by default. The Black Tulips flaunt soaring, sneering, reluctantly tuneful vocals, and they back 'em with angry, vicious, nasty guitars. The kind of guitars which give the impression that they really, really resent being stuck within the confines of a CD when they could be live in some sweaty pub back room doing some serious damage. They sound like chainsaws would if they could swarm. In short, they aren't pissing about.

This is a two wheeled rubber-burning screech round the darkest corners of rock'n'roll's back alleys. Admittedly you could sing along to it, but only if you didn't mind being arrested for gross public indecency. It's filthy and twisted and out of control and... well... thoroughly unpleasant. And, therefore, inherently glorious.

Y'know, it's loving music like this which makes me fear for the state of my immortal soul.