Not that two thirds of the band's raucously jagged 2007 side project Pyramids wasn't enough of a clue that they were about to take things in a less conservative direction, but it was Archie Bronson Outfit's set at End Of The Road last year which served notice that this third album wasn't exactly going to refine and bland out their blues-laced attack despite the advertising cash Domino put into Derdang Derdang. Put simply, it was thunderous. The riffs were even more ear blistering than their already full-on sets, while someone behind some sort of console made 8-bit effects over the top. The encore could be heard from right across the other side of the site.That voluminous experience informs third album Coconut insomuch as the intensity remains but is comprehensively fuzzed up, freaked out and roided to the gills. If James Murphy's DFA sideman Tim Goldsworthy was charged with bringing the psychedelic freakshow somehow down to earth he only really manages it by anchoring it down to danceable structures in place, almost making it a second cousin removed to the Fall circa This Nation's Saving Grace. The machine-like opener 'Magnetic Warrior' might not automatically get Mark E Smith rushing to note "notebooks out, plagiarists", as he did on the sleeve of the Fall's Shift-Work in 1991, but he'd surely recognise the quasi-stoned groove harking back to his own band's experiments in northern Krautrock. Here the undulating rhythm is attached to a desperately howling Sam Windett appeal to "don't let yourself fall apart" and a monstrously fuzzy repetitive riff interrupted only by a squalling solo that heads towards prime Hawkwind territory. 'Shark's Tooth' adds the death disco element, finding a hook and battering it into submission with discordant noise as bassist Dorian Hobday does his best Peter Hook. 'Hoola' would be mistaken for the post-punk class of 2005 were it not for the maniac tension in Windett's vocal and the constant sense that everything is about to totally take off.And they do get to really take off into vitriolic flight on occasion. While whoever publishes Clinic's work might like to have a listen to the closing 'Run Gospel Singer' with relation to 'C.Q.', they might also feel a slab of envy at 'Wild Strawberries', built on repeated riffs, distorted vocals that simultaneously recall Ade Blackburn's gnomic vocalising and takes it several stages further and overdriven garagey thrash at the end of which it seems it's just a race to see who blinks first. Especially coming after 'Chunk', seemingly an exercise in finding their inner Nile Rodgers, 'You Have A Right To A Mountain Life/One Up On Yourself' proceeds to send things right off the psychedelic hook into plain cachophony, full of melody-free no wave skronking and ripped apart soloing in the midst of which Windett seems to be attempting a muezzin.Not unreasonably, the band take things down a gear after that, or at least as much as they feel they can. Surrounded by encroaching electronic noise and driven by Mark Cleveland's relentless motorik drumming it may be, but 'Bite It And Believe It' is actually quite melancholic, a deceptively simple melody - after all that's gone before, is he really singing "the sun lies in your eyes"? - doing its best not to be pulled apart. 'Hunt You Down' would almost be an electrified back porch lament, something in there almost resembling an electric banjo, were the lyrical sentiments not chilling for their quiet menace.That seems odd in isolation, actually, as for the most part what Coconut is about is a very loud menace, taking their previous blues-rock howl, strong as that already was, and supercharging it until it bursts into discordant glory. You'd almost describe the addition of the danceable element and becalmed melody-heavy tracks near the end as their polishing themselves up were it not for that such elements are rent asunder by the sheer bloody minded power of the fuzztone assault of Windett's guitar against the rhythm section's churning Kraut-disco inventiveness. You can trace the lineage back to Los Angeles psych-rock, The Monks' proto-punk staccato or a garage rock take on late 60s "happenings" at various points, but right now it merely sounds like Archie Bronson Outfit taking a great leap forward into the claustrophobic greatness they'd always only previously poked at.