Moaning—Uneasy Laughter

L.A. trio Moaning elevate their latest release, Uneasy Laughter, with beautiful production flourishes and a bright blast of emotional approachability. Jangly guitars and ten-fill-a-minute drums bolster the album’s unique sound; a sun-kissed swerve away from tired old post-punk dirge. It’s what post-punk used to be in the 80s—something you could actually move around to. 

Sean Solomon adopts a pastiche-y drawl which recalls vocalists of the era. But he’s a kind of anti-Morrissey; a voice as weather-beaten and camp, but espousing with a self-reflexivity and grounding which the Smiths singer always lacked. ‘Stranger’ is essentially a laundry list of personal failings—but it feels affirmative and hopeful. The song’s vocal hook, “sadness turned to anger,” is made bittersweet by being situated in the past. Solomon accepts culpability and seeks hope. 

‘Make It Stop’ internalises the age of post truth. It reverses the direction of buzzword-y phrases like “authenticity isn’t what it used to be”, pointing them inwards. It’s an ingenious method to explore the loss of integrity—a horror of modernity which has largely seen itself subbed out for broader social panic—and one which, ironically, makes this song feel very sincere. Moaning smartly integrate the personal and political, and portion them in out quantities which don’t leave you fatigued. 

They are confident songwriters, too—‘Connect the Dots’ takes a bold dip into near-silence before a late reprise. It’s a song which can only have been written by people who know how good its chorus is. Moaning share a lot of DNA with (the underrated) Metric; both bands are suffuse with sadness which brushes—but doesn’t burst—a bubble of fun. And they’re both propulsive, synth-led throwback acts whose songwriting chops spare them from tumbling into embarrassing territory. 

80s revivalism has now lasted longer than the entire 1980s. But Moaning prove there’s still some fresh stuff in the punnet. 

Uneasy Laugher is available for purchase and streaming here.
Words: Andrew O’Keefe

People Club — Kil Scott

People Club's Kil Scott is a sharp, 15-minute injection of psychedelic pop. Like some whispy and autumnal mutation of The Police, it's defined by syncopated grooves so laid-back that at points they border on muzak. Given the industry's near-constant glut of lo-fi indie rockers, you might take this as a criticism. But the strength of Kil Scott is in this delicacy.

No idea, musical or otherwise, is forced. Lyrics' dry wit and sincerity are given breathing space, and melodic ideas are fully conceived and explored. This work is fascinatingly self-tempering; it clips its own wings on the verge of fledging. But it's not failure to launch, or toothlessness — it's balance, nuance, and control.

Kil Scott touches on imbalances of power, both social and inter-personal. Its four songs discuss, among more topics, sexism, homophobia, and destructive relationships. All the while, People Club keep a deft handle on everything, balancing the personal with the political. Subjects are filtered through a stark, emotive and confessional voice. But Kil Scott never loses perspective; it's pointed, but never didactic.

Its first and last tracks serve to illustrate this balance. 'Perfume', the opener, explores the paranoia, venom and defeat of a dying relationship. It's internalised and brooding. 'Who I Call My Baby', though, is an outward projection. It defies an undefined source of homophobia which would meddle in a couple's love. What's impressive is how People Club approach these two pieces from the same place — one of tenderness and compassion. By the time Kil Scott finishes, you'll wonder how they packed so much in.

Kil Scott will be available to purchase and stream on the 15th of November. Stream single ‘Perfume’ here.

Words by Andrew O’Keefe

Corridor — Junior

In the promotion of Corridor's Junior, emphasis is placed on the band being Sub Pop's first francophone signing. On listening, it becomes immediately clear why the label broke with tradition. Opener 'Topographe', angular and aptly-named, jangles a melody you might find in a Panda Bear piece; one which bobs like the roll of a landscape. Sub Pop needn't have worried so much. Corridor translate themselves through their immediacy, fluent in the lingua franca of song.

Fellow Québécois Godspeed You! Black Emperor embody this power too. Despite bearing almost no comparison as bands, Godspeed's worldwide success could foreshadow Corridor's. Completely eschewing lyrics allowed Godspeed's thesis to be political, but not polemical. Fewer understood words afforded fewer opportunities for misunderstanding. Unilingual anglophones (a stereotype with innumerable real-world bases) may, as with Godspeed, focus on and infer meaning from Junior's formal qualities.

Good thing Junior is so pretty, then. Bright production and vocal harmonies sing like yawns meeting morning. With energy and jubilance Junior bounces uphill. But it's never chirpy or smug; still sadness suffuses every strum, and every rattling drum. It's a difficult sadness to place, stemming perhaps from songs' staticity as they loop to their beginnings to end; or the echoey, 'kid-lost-in-a-supermarket' production applied to their vocals.

Whatever the case, Junior is more complicated than it might at first seem. In action straightforward, after the fact it defies analysis. This state of ineffability grants the album staying power, and helps Corridor raise their heads above a crop of similar artists.

Junior, released on the 18th of October, will be available to purchase and stream here.

Words by Andrew O’Keefe