The Rebel—REMEMBER YOUR FAILURE IN THE CAVE

BR Wallers has, over the course of his musical career, employed a good many styles and aliases—none of which have proved as enduring or prolific as The Rebel. Through all of The Rebel’s billion-or-so tapes are two contradictory feelings: that of oversharing, or slipping up; and of withholding, revealing very little of what’s behind the curtain. This balancing act is impressive. What’s even more impressive is Wallers’ ability to sustain the illusion throughout his entire career —early work in Country Teasers balanced on the same knife-edge. The resulting tension is perhaps what feeds Wallers’ quasi-mythical status among fans; the intimate inscrutability of looking at something through a microscope.

REMEMBER YOUR FAILURE IN THE CAVE is, unsurprisingly, full of contradictions. As the cover might have clued you in, the album is domestic and playful (at one point featuring enthusiastic guest vocals from what I assume is Wallers’ infant daughter). But it’s also anxiety-inducing, and sometimes apocalyptically terrifying. This uneasy juxtaposition makes me think of 70s kids’ TV. The people who made those shows had it hard—you can only be so jovial when you’re staring expectantly into a Cold War sky. Opening track “And Now” sounds like soot-covered CBeebies presenters blasting from a set in the nuclear wasteland of what was once a living room. “Baby Chick Went Down To The Fayre” is another beautifully mangled track, and sounds like a Texas two-step refracted through the prism of the (fantastic) show Roobarb and Custard.

Another commonality with kids’ TV, Oliver Postgate sort-of shows, is a blending of compositional sophistication and an affected naiveté. There is no question that Wallers is a formidable musical talent (and there’s strong case to be made for his genius). Without this as a known quantity, REMEMBER YOUR FAILURE IN THE CAVE would probably make me say “is he doing that on purpose” or “is this supposed to be funny”. Wallers’ work is confrontationally odd, and most listeners eventually get to a breaking point where they realise how silly both of those former questions are, and just start enjoying themselves. Large sections of this album sound like the blissful few minutes when you’ve given a child one of those Yamaha PSR keyboards and they haven’t discovered the fucking DJ button yet.

For some reason this album keeps making me think of kids, of childhood. Only in gathering thoughts together two write a review did I realise this. A catchy, kiddy charm and instant likeability have throughlined Wallers’ career—even stretching back to the days of the Teasers and their ‘hit’ “Golden Apples”—but this new album finds its compositions, with a couple of exceptions, unmoored from venomous and mucky lyrics. Consequently the album, gnarled and misanthropic as it may be, finds an explicit kind-heartedness. It’s a strange feeling. Imagine watching a dog who’s finally caught a mouse or bird they’ve been chasing for ages, and is taking infectious delight in shredding it to bits. You can’t help but cheer the little pooch on.

REMEMBER YOUR FAILURE IN THE CAVE is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Coded Marking—Coded Marking

This self-titled EP from Leeds three-piece Coded Marking marries beat sequencing with brash bass to evoke the forgotten misery and terror of the 1980s. The decade had seen temporary whitewashing in younger people’s heads, and been painted as an endless John Hughes/Señor Spielbergo schmaltz-fest. The resurgent popularity of post-punk, though, has helped resurrect awareness of the period’s financial desperation and nuclear paranoia. This isn’t to imply that contemporary post-punk acts are a nostalgia trip. Their existence more likely symptomizes the 80s’ cultural anxieties rearing back up like a fucking hydra, as the craggy ghost of Thatcher cackles from the sky.

In this sense Coded Marking vanish amidst a sea of their own peers. There’s a lot of people around who are worried about the same stuff, it seems. Where the band distinguish themselves, however, is in their fairly unique and sickly sonic palette. Instrumentals are rich, full and bass-laden. Everything sounds muggy and indistinct, as though the master was found in some plane wreckage or one day bubbled up out of a swamp. When instruments poke their heads above this miasma, they buzz and clip (see: the guitar which plucks its way through closing track “The White Cord”).

Vocals, too, are treated almost to the point of inhumanity. Words become hoarse exhalations who find most of their meaning through the expressiveness of their delivery. Beneath the post-processing is a voice similar to Jason whassaname from Sleaford Mods—and I’m not saying that because I’m a Southern willy who thinks Leeds and Nottingham are the same place. There’s a gravelly and overexerted timbre to vocals—halfway between apathy and pure rage—and a relaxed attitude towards staying “in time” (whatever the fuck that means).

These tracks are unassuming but still make themselves known. They basically function as a collection of dark jams who lock into grooves most sane people would be happy to listen to for ages and ages. There’s no doubt this band would be a great experience live, but until you can go see them, this EP is the next best thing.

Coded Marking is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

black midi—Cavalcade

The second album from Windie-darlings black midi, titled Cavalcade, largely improves upon its predecessor Schlagenheim. Perhaps the band had too much to prove on their self-consciously weird debut, because this sophomore sees them relax a bit and stop foot-pumping smoke up their own arses. Their “experimental” imitation of Scott Walker, Beefheart, and Zappa stays—but it’s now tastefully incorporated into songs which have something of their own to offer too. There’s an exception in closer ‘Ascending Forth’, which sounds so much like Tilt-era Walker it must be a deliberate parody.

None of this really hurts Cavalcade. It’s possible to be derivative without being shit. Zappa’s mania, jazziness and lyrical oddity aren’t things everyone would be able to pull off. And it’s refreshing to hear some actual musicality from BRIT school alumni. Half the time I feel like a post-war dad, waggling a cane around and asking, “what do they teach you at that sad excuse for a school”. I know I’m not alone: BRIT school’s spectre hangs over BM at the Brixton Windmill where, in one of the toilet cubicles, at one point was scribbled a disparaging message about them in marker pen. I don’t remember exactly what it said, but it was something pretty meaningless along the lines of “art school punks”, and was probably left there by someone called Oscar whose dad is a stockbroker.

Cavalcade has a mid-heavy mix that could sound a little tinny if you have Skullcandys, Beats, Marleys or any of those other toy headphones they sell next to the Funko Pops in HMV. It’s a unique counterpoint to lots of modern releases, which are automatically smiley-face-curved to de-emphasise mids. This is so you can rattle your nan’s windows when you roll up in your Citroen Saxo for Scrabble. Cavalcade’s mix reminds me a bit of Death Grips’ Year of the Snitch, which sounded like a computer being sick. Cavalcade is overall the better-engineered album; no individual elements compete for space, and even the bizarrely quiet vocals are easy to pick out.  

Cavalcade is a step forward for black midi. They still have some ways to go, but there’s definitely potential that it’d be great to see fulfilled. Unless it’s baby's first paddle in the experimental, black midi offer few surprises, and aren't quite the earth-shattering God-band that many hail them as. But they're not exactly Ed Sheeran either. black midi occupy the same Goldilocks zone as Radiohead, and will likely hoover up much of the same fanbase. They do scare the hoes, but not all the hoes. Cavalcade is a promising album—but unless black midi step out from the shadow of their influences, they’ll never shake that “buzz band” label. Whether they have it in them or not, it’ll be fun finding out.

Cavalcade is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Squid—Bright Green Field

It never went away—but some would have you believe the UK is in the throes of a(nother) post-punk revival. After glutting on glorified Joy Division impersonators Protomartyr, Preoccupations and Interpol, we’ve decided to show those Yankee doodle twats how it’s done by spending half a decade creating our own insipid tribute acts to The Fall.

It’s hard to resist post-punk buzz-band fatigue. Is the industry trying to frack primordial punk ooze from some deep and forgotten cultural fissure, every few months picking a name from their raffle to herald as the New Saviours of this tired and ancient genre? Maybe it just feels that way. I put off listening to Squid for a little while because I’d been overcome by the terrifying thought they’d be as shit as all their peers. Thankfully they’re actually alright.

Bright Green Field is lighter and more psychedelic than most modern post-punk. Rather than swaggering around holding its dick in both hands like a pump-action shotgun, this album revels in eccentricity, gentle humour, and not-too-out-there experimentation. Squid channel the likes of XTC and Talking Heads, with a joyful and associative approach to songwriting. In a musical landscape dominated by depressive diet-Deathconsciousnesses and posturing pricks, the easiness and confident simplicity of Bright Green Field is properly refreshing. It’s like finally being allowed a Sprite after being forced to drink nothing but Coke for months.

The best representation of this is in the album’s (very strong) vocals. There’s no affectation of an Estuary accent to bait the 6 Music crowd. It actually feels as though Squid are trying to make good music, instead of just engaging in some kind of elaborate prank that only people within a five-mile radius of central London would understand.

Squid are unpretentious and self-aware enough to limit their goals. They aren’t trying to invert the world’s power structures using big riffs and cool shirts— nor do they waste your time screaming Hackneyed (har har) platitudes—but they still have enough bite to justify the inclusion of lyrics in their music. Their music feels spontaneous and eccentric—but respects listeners too much to blow smoke up its own bum. Definitely worth a go.

Bright Green Field is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

G_d’s Pee AT STATE’S END!—Godspeed You! Black Emperor

The latest Godspeed LP feels significant for several reasons. With its release, the band’s post-revival albums now outnumber their original run of three, solidifying this second phase of their discography as un-ignorable. The album also marks Godspeed’s return to shortwave radio samples and field recordings—largely absent from their music since 2000’s Lift Your Skinny Fists…. Most importantly, it’s been heralded as a return to the impossibly high form of their early work.

That last point is both dubious and subjective—and I’d contest that the maligned “Luciferian Towers” and Asunder, Sweet and Other Distress are far from the duds naysayers would have you believe. Asunder… is especially overlooked, replicating the fury of Godspeed’s live sets in a way that no other studio effort has quite managed.

What G_d’s Pee does do is interrupt the one-upmanship (and one-notemanship) of their discography. Revival albums have been incrementally louder and more bombastic—at the expense of nuance, variety, and that tremulous half-hope that suffuses the old stuff. Many listeners like a band’s discography to feel in conversation with itself; elaborating, contradicting and offering something fresh with every release. It’s no wonder the fatigue had set in for those guys.

G_d’s Pee touches on new territories and unexplored moods. It’s the first LP they’ve released that feels properly post-Bush (don’t ask me how—it just does). Considering Dubya stepped down in 2009, that’s a long sulk to come out of. The album responds to contemporary concerns, feeling right at home in a world where the response we must offer to global health emergencies is to sit around in our pants for a year. Committed to “waiting for the end”, as Godspeed put it, we can only look with bemused distance and seek a unifying light in the darkening hours of our species.  

The band still don’t arrange pieces with the intricacy they used to—but their grander and more direct recent style rouses without being hokey. You may have long dismissed Godspeed as ‘crescendo-core’—but that reductive take is informed by twenty years of shite imitators. This band remain among the best in their field and, twenty-five years down the line, are yet to significantly compromise.

G_d’s Pee is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe