Album Review:

You may remember Vessels as an up-and-coming bunch of lads with a penchant for the post-rock genre. They’ve been away a while, and in that time the post-rock pretensions have faded, replaced with a newfound focus on electronic doohickery.

Helioscope, released way back in 2011, has become one of my favourite records to sink into, but Dilate is an altogether altered beast. The band has clearly taken an interest in the bountiful supply of down-tempo electronic acts that are having their moment in the spotlight; think Four Tet, Bonobo and Caribou and you’re well on your way to piecing together the recipe that makes up this third album.

The undulating throb of ‘Vertical’ opens proceedings, a sub-heavy thud that sets the stage for all that is to follow. The post-rock lessons are still there in the steady layering of elements, and as the piece moves each part has its own arc, its own little story to treat the listeners’ ears.

It’s an extremely cohesive piece. Tracks blend into eachother with a frictionless assurance. You could compare it to a procedural TV show, where each individual track evolves during its running time, but come the concluding seconds things return to that steadfast beat before the next track breezes in.

Dilate is rich with contradicting textures. For example, there’s an innocent, childish nature to ‘Elliptic’ but, in what could be construed as a nod to the way Mogwai reshaped their sound on Rave Tapes, it’s never without a shadier side, such is the intense structuring of all those different layers.

The album’s weakest moments are the vocal tracks, which is a surprise given how affecting the vocal tracks on Helioscope were. There’s nothing bad, per se, but the vocal performances from Isolde (‘As You Are’) and Snow Fox (‘On Monos’) act as more of a distraction than an essential element. For such a considered collection of tracks, the performances that hover above the cultivated backbone lack the interesting twists and turns the instrumental tracks have in spades.

Has putting the guitars on the backburner drastically changed what made Vessels such an engrossing listen? Essentially, no. Dilate is still rich with the soft, hazy focus that was the foundation of Helioscope before it, although the prominence of electronic loops and lines has made this more of a background album. It’s never going to make you sit up and take notice, but maintains a consistent throb that would make an ideal soundtrack to the longest of nights.

Dilate is a strong return from this new-sounding Vessels. At times recalling the classic soundtrack work of John Carpenter, melded with the kind of thinking that has emerged out of the Mogwai camp lately, it’s an assured, committed foray into this bold new world. It’s not packed with bangers, and the vocal tracks are a let-down, but as a fresh statement from a band that has promised and delivered much in the past, it’s exciting to hear them go down this route.

Originally published on The Line of Best Fit.

Album Review:

It’s been six years since Mr Scruff last put
together a new album. In the intervening years he’s grown older and wiser, and no doubt seen the cut-and-paste electronic landscape he helped shape back in 1997 change almost beyond recognition.

Scruff himself has certainly come back a changed man. Don’t panic – the beats are still present in full, but Friendly Bacteria sees Scruff ease back on the cartoonish loops of old and develop an ear for songwriting backed up remarkably well, primarily by the singing
talents of Denis Jones and a couple of other guests.

Pre-release puff doesn’t normally match the final product, but Scruff promised a “tougher, sparser” record compared to his delightful back catalogue. It’s a pledge he’s delivered on fully, that sense of fun slightly dislodged for a more contemplative record.

So things kick off with the wub-wub beat of ‘Stereo Breath’, our first introduction to Jones’ clear vocals. The song is a delicate evolution, a soundtrack to the scurrying of multiplying bacteria that grace this record’s front sleeve. Following track ‘Render Me’ follows a similar pattern, Scruff once again allowing Jones’ voice to take the reins and lead the dizzying beat down a foggy pathway lined with a simple yet evocative piano riff, like stars glinting in the night sky.

The tempo rarely really rises above resting, Scruff not interested in getting the party started – or soundtracking a Top Gear Ferrari test, for that matter. For its majority the bass is low and slow, burrowing deep beneath the rich textures of percussion, instrumentation and vocals that float over it.

Of the other guest spots, Vanessa Freeman’s graceful performance on ‘Come Find Me’ is more punctuated than accompanied by Scruff, with big kick shots booming out beneath her potent vocal melody. Robert Owens features on the humdrum ‘He Don’t’, which surprises only in how rote and by-the-numbers it turns out.

This is still Scruff’s record though, yet his solo efforts leave less of a lasting impression. ‘Deliverance’ suffers for lacking the charm that the likes of ‘Spandex Man’ oozed by the bucket load. It blobs along at its own pace, presumably waving hello to the neighbours, and then sort of… ends, without a trace.

Of all the solo tracks, ‘What’ is a long way ahead of the rest with its brassy squeaks (including a fantastically wild closing few seconds) and ridiculously silly bass wobble. I hate to say it, but it’s akin to the old Scruff – messy, loose and tongue-in-cheek – and by virtue of that it can’t help but stand out among the rather lacklustre accompanying solo efforts.

Jones brings out the best of this new-look, new-sounding Mr Scruff. His steady vocals push Scruff to the back, where the reliance on weird noises and bitty loops is relegated beyond concern. The combo’s tracks are slick, suave and spine-tingling and perfect for a mellow moment. But elsewhere, this mature and sensible Scruff has come at the cost of that personality that you associate with the man.

In this day and age of half-shaved hair dub kingpins, it’s difficult to see where Scruff stands on the landscape. Friendly Bacteria is the sound of artist easing back into his chair refusing to play the fool to get people’s attention and, unfortunately, the majority of it just passes by like a breath of wind.

Originally published on The Line of Best Fit.

Dundee’s Fat Goth have returned with the bold promise to probe the issue of sex in their own tongue in cheek (yes, cheek) manner that has served them so well since their debut in 2010.

The trio have no shame of their debt to the likes of The Melvins and The Jesus Lizard (in fact the latter’s David Yow put pen to paper to create the three blood-splattered portraits that adorn the front cover of One Hundred Percent Suave). Previous records have seen the band embracing their razor-sharp sense of humour, but there’s a definite sense that the no-pants dance subject matter has brought out a debauched side of Fraser Stewart, Mark Keiller and Kevin Black.

Where last year’s Stud dabbled in a mix of genres, including surf rock, Suave is more consistent in paying tribute to the likes of Mike Patton and Mclusky. It’s a record that shudders the bedframe more-or-less relentlessly. Opening track ‘*disclaimer’ is a sarcastic take on a Faith No More album track, followed up with the lets-get-down-to-business fury of ‘Sweet Mister Scary’, where frontman Stewart exhibits a remarkable swagger and effortless bravado on the microphone.

For the majority of Suave, Stewart’s voice is forceful and in your face. ‘Sin Alter’ rumbles like an impromptu alleyway scrap beneath the watchful eyes of smashed CCTV cameras. Everything is laced with a sheen of sleaze, and a lot of that comes from Stewart’s uninhibited groans and growls as he works his lustful lyrics around a spittle-covered microphone. It is – at times – genuinely uncomfortable, like innocently turning up at a dinner party organised by your boss, only to be told upon entering to throw your car keys in a floral-printed bowl.

That dirty atmosphere is oppressive yet addictive, reaching its peak in the sub two-minute seedy rumbling of ‘Lower Pleasance’, a hallucinogenic trip through the murky scenery of a Nicolas Winding Refn film. If it doesn’t leave you feeling grimy by its conclusion, I have no interest in traipsing through your Internet history.

But Suave concludes with ‘Caligynephobia’; a term which, ironically, means to have an irrational fear of beautiful women. All the pent up aggression that Fat Goth’s explorations into bumpin’ uglies has generated dissipates into seven minutes of guilt-racked sobering up. There’s shame and disappointment in this conclusion, as if the bluster Stewart has exhibited reveals itself to be nothing more than a smokescreen for a raft of troubling insecurities. It’s a bittersweet ending, one that reveals a more delicate but no less unhinged side to the shabs-and-bants domination of what precedes it.

One Hundred Percent Suave is a solid effort from the Dundonians, although it lacks the surprises and experimental musical tangents that made their former records so mind-meltingly puzzling to get your head around. It’s more of a fleeting affair than a long-lasting relationship, and the kind that reminds you of former exciting trysts that you’ve since spent your whole life trying to replicate.

Originally published on The Line of Best Fit.

Album Review:

Variety is the spice of life, and going from a boiler-suited nightmare trio to something erring closer to chilled-out summer rock vibes is one way for Then Thickens’ Jon-Lee Martin to reinvigorate the spirit.

For those not familiar with Martin’s previous track record, I invite you to take a gander at Kong – a band once experienced by Future of the Left’s Andrew Falkous, who said: “The first time I saw them play I felt a burning sensation on my arm and realised that I had developed eczema.”

Those who dig a bit deeper will find an interview with Martin on The Quietus, published in 2011, when Then Thickens was nothing more than slowly germinating seed for the artist formerly known as Magpie. There, he shares his struggles with a painkiller addiction, booze and drug-heavy weeks on tour and schizophrenic traits that saw him unable to distinguish between Jon-Lee Martin and the “naughty” rampages of the masked Magpie.

None of this is as irrelevant as it first may seem. Those years spent thrashing about beneath the terrifying veneer of a translucent mask have thoroughly informed the 11 lush moments of charm and honesty found on Death Cap At Anglezarke. It’s blissfully ideal for a moment in the year when we’re starting to get used to the comforting warm embrace of the sun. The lo-fi pop trappings of “Ritalin Love” bring to mind hazy summers spent worry-free listening to Weezer’s Blue Album, its bright production masking a musician processing a former lifestyle that came close to self-destruction.

The whole album exhibits a succinct sharpness, with little left to waste. With Then Thickens originating from Martin’s solo drive to find some balance in his life this should come as no surprise, but Martin’s recruitment policy has seen him gather a group of musicians – including Rolo Tomassi alumni Joseph Thorpe – who sway majestically in rhythm to his worn, but soothing, vocals.

The anthemic “Heaven Won’t Wait” kicks things off with a palpable sense of drama, swiftly stirring into life like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. And, despite the airy sonic atmosphere, Martin doesn’t shy away from stormier thematic clouds in his lyrics. “Any Other Thing”, with its allusions to whiskey and cocaine reads like an apology letter from an individual squaring up to – and vanquishing – his demons.

Lead single “Tiny Legs” is perfect pickings for a bit of radio exposure. A galloping pace sets the precedent, as Martin and Helen Thorpe complement each other’s vocal peaks and troughs. Then, halfway through, things burst into rapturous oohs and aahs reminiscent of Fang Island, eventually drifting towards a buzzy conclusion. It’s by far the sunniest cut on the record, and would be well served floating across barbecue-scented gardens and parks in the near future.

Death Cap To Anglezarke is a rehabilitation album. On the surface it is bright, full of ever-greener grass, but Martin’s prose ensures this is much more than an idyllic stroll through pastures new. There’s a darkness here that separates Then Thickens from many of their contemporaries, and which reward repeat listens as you realise this is much more than an album to bang on in the background during a summer gathering.

It’s startling how that interview three years ago seems so prescient as Then Thickens finally come out of the shadows to release their debut. Back then, Martin told The Quietus: “It’s got me into writing weekly again which I hadn’t done for a long time; I was just floating around stoned on pills. Now I’m out of it I’m dreaming a lot and writing a lot, trying to be healthy, trying to diet. It’s a complete opposite to what it was.”

He’s not wrong – Then Thickens are far removed from the carnival terrors of Kong, and perhaps all the better for it. Death Cap To Anglezarke is a wonderful record; the kind you can feel was formed out of a musician’s determination to heal his wounds and all the struggles that entails. As someone who revelled in Kong’s theatrics, this record is a stark reminder of the sacrifices that go into putting sounds to tape – and the power of music to fight the darkest of days.

Originally published at The Line of Best Fit.

Album Review:

I bloody hated poetry at school. I don’t know what your experience was like, but those seemingly never-ending anthology books full of Seamus Heaney’s outlook on potatoes were a daunting time in English lessons.

Let me explain. A classroom of students, all reading with little-to-no rhythm and even less enthusiasm destroyed what should have been an enlightening, engrossing class, especially for someone who was borderline useless in his academic ventures unless it came to the written word. But somewhere between listens of La Dispute’s latest record I found myself reflecting on my attitude to a linguistic art that I’ve neglected ever since I sat that final A Level, hundreds of drunken nights ago.

Jordan Dreyer is a poet for the punk generation. His skill as a frontman lies not with his vocal chords, but the tapestry of lyrics he weaves, breaking rules yet telling stories as all good poets must. Rooms of the House sees the listener taking Dreyer’s hand as he wanders like a ghost through those titular rooms, observing the mundane and revelatory moments of life that are more challenging to put into words than the average punter would have you think.

There’s something about singers who, for want of a kinder way of putting it, can’t sing in the traditional sense. Sure, you’ve got your Adeles, who can belt out a number in perfect harmony without taking a breath, but where’s the fun in that? To be front-and-centre of a group of musicians with only the pipes that Mother Nature saw fit to throw your way as your musical contribution is to be in a position of vulnerability. The singers that leave a mark on us don’t hit notes like they were as easy to reach as the top of your head; they offer untreated honesty, and a sound that nobody else could replicate.

This is wholly true of Dreyer, whose voice remains the most divisive aspect of La Dispute’s output. His affectations see him not so much singing but imbuing his stories with character and raw emotion. There’s that same breathless, high-pitched ramble that featured on previous releases but alongside it is a determined effort to experiment with tone and volume, making this a topsy-turvy travail through one man’s mental constructs.

This isn’t a perfect record. In fact, this reviewer was left cold at times, sometimes too fatigued after a day stuck in the office to face the trials and tribulations of Dreyer’s roaming narrative. He puts so much into these tales that it honestly takes a lot to be on the receiving end of it. And there’s no denying it: sometimes the mewling of what sounds like a rejected Rugrats character outright demands that you be in the right frame of mind.

La Dispute float on the same choppy seas as the likes of Brand New, trading acoustic convenience for an emotional embalmment. But where the connection with Brand New is a relatable – and often personal – one, Dreyer’s tales can leave the listener cold with few hooks to become truly invested. Without that remarkably adaptable voice, there would be little to recommend La Dispute over thousands of carbon-copy overbearing trendy musicians.

To say La Dispute are pushing any boundaries is laughable, especially when they’ve been mining this seam since forming a decade ago (I’d go so far as to suggest that the band behind Dreyer could be any number of post-hardcore outfits, because it’s his performance that really takes the spotlight here). But that doesn’t mean that there’s no place for it, no time to sit in the gloom and lose yourself to a modern day Roethke weave his literary aspirations over you.

And so I find myself honestly torn with this record. On the one hand I want to praise it to the hilt for being so uncompromising and raw, yet on the other I find myself weary or not in the right place to go through another overblown retelling of tales that I have no ability to connect to. It’s a fascinating object and one that has left me lamenting my younger mind’s reluctance to absorb the myriad of passages that filled every page of those anthologies so that I might have something more apt to compare it to.

Rooms of the House is a concept album for a new age. Its title introduces a location, and Dreyer metamorphoses us into a fly on the wall as we witness these people experience heartbreak and tragedy amongst the mundane procedures of daily life. It’s a unique record, for sure, and one that deserves at least some of your time.

Originally published on The Line of Best Fit.