I wonder if this is the sort of record that is looking to stir up some obscure but bug-eyed revolution: taking over a carpet warehouse or something. The songs could be hymns for a cult.
I really like this record, it’s been out a while (back end of last year I think) and while I played it a fair deal, it was something that just didn’t click. But familiarity in this case has bred a sort of love; and now I can see past the Swell Maps, Joe Meek, UNIT, or Robyn Hitchcock stylings. Musically it’s all very Ladbroke Grove, all very 1978. English Eccentrics. Scarves, soft shoes and duffel coats. And cups of tea. The opener The Final Sugar Rush starts off like some early and demented Hitchcock b-side; maybe it’s the nasal delivery and the wobbly synths. Anyway it mopes awkwardly around for a bit before bopping off to thrash about in a very straightforward, post-punk way. Waterworld is a moody strum that starts to sound like a Syd. After a while (especially with tracks like Deport Little John) the LP starts to sound like someone’s put a mic in front of Syd’s long lost younger cousin. But that’s fine. Throughout, the record is bloody good, bloody enjoyable, whatever coat it’s wearing.
I wonder if this is the sort of record that is looking to stir up some obscure but bug-eyed revolution: taking over a carpet warehouse or something. The songs could be hymns for a cult. You are never really sure whether the singer means it, but you’re happy to go along with it; as the window on this lonely, strange world is also incredibly addictive when presented in this sonic setting. The lyrics are mental throughout: “I was the victim / of a subtle put down” in I’m A You Know What, or “in 94 and 95 / I didn’t raise a fucking finger / so grab a chair”, in Grab A Chair, or (I think), “Drink champagne and worship the puppetry of the penis” in Don’t Mention It. Eh? The best line has to be in Power Watch where “I want a puppy, a loft extension and a threesome / But you won’t let me / and silver shoes and a Mercedes / and new golf clubs” had me spitting my tea out when I first heard it.
At times things get a bit Radiophonic Workshop, or as bit John Foxx; баланс and Deck Waltz making the prerequisite primitive and arty synth hissings. But mostly it shuffles round the Grove, hiding from Mick Farren’s mates whilst looking for mandies and old copies of Sniffin’ Glue or the Eric’s Jukebox LP, (the one with the Steve Jacuzzi cover). If you can dig those references you’ll dig this. A lot