Unlike the pebble-dash that passes for indie these days, this lot show how it’s done, sabotaging the commercialism for the (un)common good, deliberately submerging their lyrics, knifing the flow with a juxtaposed jab to fearlessly craft something unique and as changeable as the British weather.
That same sense of adventure oozes on through, kindled by the remoteness of the Welsh countryside (maybe?), a flick it into the air to see where it will land ethos that served them so well. The jabbing basslines and dubby fusions happily swilling around your head like off-kilter neurons, ennui surfing a bucolic down-troddenness and jangly gleam that counter-cultures the bleakness of the times.
Like its predecessor, it’s all over the place (in the best of ways), sinks its teeth into you early on and never quite lets go, its hidden depths promoting plenty of replay. The “Flowers Of Romance”-inspired primitives of the first track, the firefly guitars of the second, (“Martin”) roasting on distorted wah, rubbing up against that jostling indie and note-book dialogue of its beginnings. The powerful political re-envisioning of “Louise Michel” that captures the barbed words of the French anarchist’s speech to a Paris court on a stark insistent snare and background grumble. The album’s journey furnishes plenty of sketchy improv burn, incongruous interruptions, even births some hit potential that sadly in its day didn’t fall into enough ears to get the praise it rightly deserved. There’s a certain magic here that craves for your attention in a jaded‘n’hazy Durutti Column / Eyeless In Gaza kind of way, an introspective mood that condors freedom that even today feels innovative, then tightens up the focus to seed a multitude of refreshed directions. “Marketplace”, with its slow lumbering preludes that break without warning into a Damo Suzuki-like alphabet soup of post-punk tribalism that Ivo Watss-Russell would have fallen over himself to sign to 4AD back in the day, suddenly slipping its skin to bathe in a wintery ambience. The blur of rhythmic switch-a-roos that is the eleven-minute “Free Tibet” casually kicking its thoughts around to periodically etch emotive gold.Consequently, on the subject of gold, the bonuses are flipping excellent too, and feel like a natural extension to the album. The odd, overcast quality of the unreleased single “Outpost” is dreamy amble whose b-side “Quiet Village” injects a sinister hue to. This is an extra four minute extension to the album version that hooks into a weird, combing rhythmic, inflicts jazzy infusions into the prickly cactus flowerings of the vox. The gorgeous album out-takes of “Oggere”, “Alice” and the Dif Juz candour of “The Fog” that have you screaming “why?” to their removal from the original fare, the incendiary liveliness of the last two tracks sealing the deal in the broody oscillations and gigantic leaps of faith.
This is British kosmische musik that the pastoral idyllics of the cover never really prepare you for.-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
