Lean and Mean (and Black and White) [SMHB63]
1 February, 2014
Wow! Am I a total sellout or what? For nearly a month I've steered away from the blog to write for Collapse Board. Such a busy idiot I am. Anywho, I've been clingin' on to some leftovers from last year for a while now, so it's about time I spilled out some words - especially since the first one, Sleaford Mods, are actually plotting nation domination (or maybe just pub circuit domination, the nation's a bit too ambitious) for this still nascent year. The last one's a new acquisition, courtesy of a bona fide print 'zine I picked up. Still got loads more to unload, but that's what radio shows are for, eh?
Sleaford Mods - What the kids need these days is more anger. I’m sniffin’ a whiff of Foxygen for the first time now - what sniveling derivative flower power nonsense! Who are these artists, that gloss over all the mess in the world with these complacent, long-dead sunshine styles? (Yes, you too, Mr. faux-Wig Out Malkmus, with your hashed out classic rock stiff white dude chummy vibes.)
This is where Sleaford Mods come in. Anger is their art. And not posed, packaged, and/or melodramatic kind of ire, mind, about relationships and girls and not getting laid. (You sissies.) Austerity Dogs is the everyman’s rant.
“Do you want me to tell you what I think about you, cunt? I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you? You pock-mouthed, four-eyed, shit-fitting shirt, white Converse and a taste for young girls. Don’t send me home with a glint in MY eye! I told my family about the fucking wage rise!”
(No worries, ladies. As far as I can tell, anytime they slam down the c-bomb, they're always referring to a dude. Gentleman, they are.)
The form is quite simple. Take a meaty, churning, maybe faintly funky bass line, loop it. Use drums and guitar sparingly. Bring these fellows - Jason and Andrew, let's call 'em - to the mike and let 'em rip into ordinary scum, like ladder-climbing corporate flesh bags, rock star musician types, suck-ups, all those smug folk around you that you wish you could just punch in the face. These lyrics are that punch.
Now, we could debate back and forth whether their sour delivery is, in fact, a “rap”. I’d probably debate not, though – but what a glorious flurry of fury, a non-conforming, up-yours-polite-society blaze of caustic banter. Punk kids only wish they could sound this bitter.
“I don’t want to improve my fucking life for you. You make more money out of my existence than I do. I dodge the small towners, the music scene think-they-ares, the shit bands. You’re all wankers.”
Please. Do keep going. As long as your rage is directed at all the blokes that piss you off, I’ll be behind you all the way. Austerity Dogs is out now on their Bandcamp page via Deadly Beefburger Records, and another ace album’s in the work. Oh, and if that's not enough, there's more nastiness on their Soundcloud page.
This is where Sleaford Mods come in. Anger is their art. And not posed, packaged, and/or melodramatic kind of ire, mind, about relationships and girls and not getting laid. (You sissies.) Austerity Dogs is the everyman’s rant.
“Do you want me to tell you what I think about you, cunt? I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you? You pock-mouthed, four-eyed, shit-fitting shirt, white Converse and a taste for young girls. Don’t send me home with a glint in MY eye! I told my family about the fucking wage rise!”
(No worries, ladies. As far as I can tell, anytime they slam down the c-bomb, they're always referring to a dude. Gentleman, they are.)
The form is quite simple. Take a meaty, churning, maybe faintly funky bass line, loop it. Use drums and guitar sparingly. Bring these fellows - Jason and Andrew, let's call 'em - to the mike and let 'em rip into ordinary scum, like ladder-climbing corporate flesh bags, rock star musician types, suck-ups, all those smug folk around you that you wish you could just punch in the face. These lyrics are that punch.
Now, we could debate back and forth whether their sour delivery is, in fact, a “rap”. I’d probably debate not, though – but what a glorious flurry of fury, a non-conforming, up-yours-polite-society blaze of caustic banter. Punk kids only wish they could sound this bitter.
“I don’t want to improve my fucking life for you. You make more money out of my existence than I do. I dodge the small towners, the music scene think-they-ares, the shit bands. You’re all wankers.”
Please. Do keep going. As long as your rage is directed at all the blokes that piss you off, I’ll be behind you all the way. Austerity Dogs is out now on their Bandcamp page via Deadly Beefburger Records, and another ace album’s in the work. Oh, and if that's not enough, there's more nastiness on their Soundcloud page.
Biscuit Mouth - What! Have I not written words to praise the carnal terror that is Biscuit Mouth? I have not. Shame on me! This man, this primal screecher that revels in unrestrained shouting rants, is something like a loonier Albini, or maybe even a more hoarse Black Francis, a maestro of ricocheting riffs that swing into lumbering sound walls. Captain Greggs, Wrapped in Legs is a savage affair, a visceral assault, that yet feels utterly insular. As wicked as “I’ve Not Cut This Loose In Years” is – with its clockwork splatter beat and skin-crawling bass – something is stilted, sideways about it. Like a one-man, wrung-out, deformed Fugazi crusade that took a wrong turn toward the norm. Which is not an insult at all – if there’s anything I hate, it’s the norm.
Two major highlights here. One, the the blistering “Mr. Minto”, a staggering clattering of drums that careens into spastic gasps of bristling furor. Two, the wistful outlier, “Luau”, a terse but bobbing little tune that fleshes out with a chug-a-chug drum line into a stunning, sharp-focused tour de force of precision. Really, the latter is where you realize the full potential of this Biscuit Mouth entity – how this seemingly unbounded madman of a voice can in fact sit down and craft something very intentional and, for all its bluster, poignant.
Anyway, what I mean to say is, it’s a fine piece of racket, and it’s on Biscuit Mouth’s Bandcamp page for a name-yr-own-tip price.
Two major highlights here. One, the the blistering “Mr. Minto”, a staggering clattering of drums that careens into spastic gasps of bristling furor. Two, the wistful outlier, “Luau”, a terse but bobbing little tune that fleshes out with a chug-a-chug drum line into a stunning, sharp-focused tour de force of precision. Really, the latter is where you realize the full potential of this Biscuit Mouth entity – how this seemingly unbounded madman of a voice can in fact sit down and craft something very intentional and, for all its bluster, poignant.
Anyway, what I mean to say is, it’s a fine piece of racket, and it’s on Biscuit Mouth’s Bandcamp page for a name-yr-own-tip price.
Household - “I have a hobby of expecting the worse” Now here’s a different punch in the face. Whoa. From the heart of New York, we have Household, another minimal outfit, but more in the plucky, sparse, Young Marble Giants vein. Elaines is a lean and speedy affair, a workout of nimble guitar lines (my lord, “Calculations”), militant rhythm (“Panorama”, especially), and clever counter-melodies (“Out of Reach” is particularly hypnotic). On the surface, you sense that classic post-punk restraint, that urgent command of the melody; however, the lovely, breezy harmonies of “In Smoke” reveal a tender side, an after-hours drowsy glee that only the best of friends share with each other.
Household have a history, which I’ll no doubt crack into, as this release and their older ones are only three bucks to download. Do it.
Household have a history, which I’ll no doubt crack into, as this release and their older ones are only three bucks to download. Do it.