There’s nothing polite about Prognosis Psychosis. From its first barked syllable to its final beer-soaked sneer, the Gold Coast trio The CuckWho’s deliver seven songs of feral, news-cycle punk that feel ripped from a tabloid bin, taped together in a panel shop, and blasted at full volume with the doors shut. Clocking in at barely over thirteen minutes, the EP doesn’t so much invite repeat listens as demand them.
Formed in 2025 and already notorious for the blunt-force single “Do a Skid C@nt!”, Dan, Luke, and Mick operate in the grand tradition of punk bands who understand that speed, volume, and attitude are not substitutes for ideas—they’re delivery systems. Recorded in a panel shop in Tullamarine, Victoria, Prognosis Psychosis sounds exactly like the environment that birthed it: metallic, echoing, impatient, and slightly unhinged.
The opener, “Pentridge Paradise,” kicks the door in with a jittery rhythm guitar riff that buzzes like a Pac-Man hallucination after three nights without sleep. It’s Clash-adjacent without cosplay, driven by aggressive drums and a chorus that feels like it’s shouting at the walls themselves. Two-thirds in, the band slams the brakes, dropping into a heavier, slower breakdown that turns the track into a brief headbanging ritual before snapping back out at a tight 2:23. Short, sharp, and furious, it sets the tone: no excess, no mercy.
“Meth Fueled Death Party” is even more ruthless. At 1:38, it’s over before most bands would finish tuning, but it crams a full narrative arc into its runtime. Adding extra growl to the vocals here is Ded Skullicvan. The verses race forward like an overheard pub rant, only to collapse into a slower, cult-chant chorus that’s as unsettling as it is catchy. When the speed kicks back in, it feels less like a tempo change than a relapse. Punk has always thrived on dark humor, and this track weaponizes it.
The EP’s most chilling moment arrives with “Peep Show,” a song that wraps genuinely grim historical subject matter—John Christie, Rillington Place, bodies in the walls—in breakneck punk energy. The verses lumber with menace while the choruses snap shut like traps. It’s deeply uncomfortable, and that’s the point: The CuckWho’s dress horror in power chords and dare you to sing along. It’s proof that punk’s shock value still works when it’s anchored to real-world ugliness rather than empty provocation.
“Name” might be the record’s purest statement of ethos. It starts hot and only escalates, piling swagger on tension until a guitar solo rips through around the 1:40 mark. The lyrics are tight, the delivery deliberately sloppy, and the effect is exhilarating. This is punk as accessibility: a reminder that polish is optional, conviction is not. The band makes it sound easy, which is usually a sign that it isn’t.
Then comes “Montana Mountain King,” a left turn that opens with arena-sized swagger, all Spinal Tap bombast before settling into a massive groove. There’s a hint of Tenacious D heaviness here—big riffs, headbanging momentum—but the song never loses its punk backbone. Inspired by a bizarre real-life cloning scandal, it’s absurd, ominous, and strangely anthemic, proving the band can stretch without snapping. Once again adding extra growl to the track is guest vocalist Ded Skullivan.
“Rowena” pulls things back to basics. Channeling the DNA of The Clash and the Sex Pistols, it’s built from punk’s holy trinity—guitar, bass, drums—with nothing extra and nothing missing. At 1:40, it’s all hook, all heart, and easily one of the EP’s highlights. The guitar solo is tasty, the chorus sticks, and the track knows exactly when to get out.
Closer “Junky Mama” feels tailor-made for sweaty dive bars and sticky floors. It’s loud, tight, and gone in 1:19, leaving behind the phantom smell of stale beer and feedback. You can practically see the crowd shouting along, fists in the air, before the band’s already packing up.
Prognosis Psychosis doesn’t pretend to be subtle or refined. It’s fast, filthy, funny, and furious—punk rock as a blunt instrument, swung with precision. At a time when outrage is algorithmic and rebellion is often performative, The CuckWho’s sound refreshingly unfiltered. This EP won’t change your life, but it might rattle your cage—and sometimes, that’s exactly what punk is supposed to do.
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