During my trip to Scotland last week I visited a fine little record shop in the town of St Andrews (called Unknown Pleasures) and picked myself up a bunch of somewhat less well-known indie/underground rock albums of yesteryear for cheap prices.

As usual with such bargain basement impulse-buying sprees, it’s a pretty patchy selection (funny how the objective value of most of this kind of music seems to decay as it gets further from it’s ‘moment’, isn’t it?). Rodan’s ‘Rusty’ would be great if I’d never heard Slint’s ‘Tweez’ before. The For Carnation’s self-titled disc would be great if David Pajo was on hand to add some musical muscle to Brian McMahan’s atmospheric mumbling. Loop’s ‘Heaven’s End’ would be great if it was anywhere near as cool as their early 12”s. Monster Magnet’s ‘Spine of God’ would be great if it didn’t totally fucking suck in comparison with other Monster Magnet records. And so on.

But wait! Here’s what I’m looking for! A CD with £3 scribbled on the front that completely kicks my ass and leaves me dazed and over-joyed!

It’s ‘I Am Not This Body’ recorded in 1992 by the (clearly massively under-rated) God is My Co-Pilot, and it becomes obvious from the first 90 seconds of exposure that it is, if you will, THE FUCKING SHIT.

They kinda mix some really aggressive hardcore chops with totally dissonant no wave guitar skronk and smart-ass grrl vocals, playing short (34 tracks on here!), bouncy, idea-packed songs that make me want to flail wildly and jump around.

“Yeah so what, so do cool new bands X, Y and Z, what’s your point?” you’re probably thinking, and I wouldn’t be sold from such a lousy, factual description either, but trust me here, this record absolutely fucking destroys.

The guitarist lays down some of the best Arto Lindsay / early-SY style random carnage I’ve ever heard whilst retaining an almost Minor Threat-like dedication to directness and violence, and the rhythm section bop along like Mike Watt and George Hurley at their best, keeping things tight and weirdly foot-tapping and occasionally splurging out into time-changey jazz-stabbing cacophony as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And the singer! She’s so great! She sounds like she could go ten rounds in a righteous feminist ranting competition with Bikini Kill-era Kathleen Hanna and still flay you alive with understated humour and charisma. She may not play any instruments or get many writing credits, but you know she OWNS this record, just through force of personality. And the songs! There’s no flies on these guys conceptually speaking, as they rip lyrics from John Donne, Joseph Conrad and the Gnostic Gospels(!) and pound them into instantly understandable short, sharp mutant pop blasts about angels, bomber planes, Joan of Arc, food, fat girls, hipster bullshit and gender politics and space travel. Wow! It’s like if Huggy Bear spent ten years perfecting their art in a Buddhist monastery and came back to kill us!

This kind of stuff is exactly what I’ve always wanted from “indie rock” or “punk” or whatever – horrifying, uncompromising music that’ll make squares and parents think you’re frightening and crazy but that’s as vital and mysterious and amazing to you as the workings of a clock.

Dunno about you, but I’m off to AMG to find out more about these singular characters...