|Fat White Family|
|Songs For Our Mothers (2016)|
Fat White Family — Songs For Our Mothers ? Album ‘Písně pro naše matky’ je naprostým zmatkem vodorovně bičujícího deště bez pláště. Už zde není ulice plná plášťů do deště, ale plná deště hustých melodických linek s přitakávající basou. Je to jako v okultním filmu, kdy víte, že už jen z principu se děje něco hrozného, ale nevíte, co to je. Musím zvolat: Sláva! A je tam taky kus poctivé legrace. Pět zvrácených ježků jižního Londýna kontaminujících vše, co bylo doposud vkusné v indie–rocku. ‘Písně pro naše matky’ jsou štiplavou připomínkou toho, že špatný vkus vždy hrál důležitou roli v undergroundu. Špinavá elektrická basa, stěží rozeznatelné texty, kryptické zpívání, tento sortiment je teď skladem a co už může víc šokovat? Kevin Orton dává málo, John Platt dost a já dávám ještě o čtyři desetinky více: 8.9. “Love is the Crack” je pomalý pohřební pochod zhuleného T.Rexu s přihlížejícími Sparks. Uvidíme, co album způsobí za pár měsíců... /Vrcholná píseň je “Tinfoil Deathstar” s kombinací zpěvu, recitace, kvílících kytar a neúprosného rytmu. A když po něm následuje opilý valčík “When Shipman Decides”, jsem mrtev okamžitě. Craig Caukill, vedoucí managementu labelů pro [PIAS] řekl o kontraktu: “Fat White Family jsou ohromně vzrušujícím problémem, kapela má úžasný potenciál a jasnou uměleckou vizi pro label — jsme potěšeni, že můžeme s nima spolupracovat.” 10 písní, objev roku. © Lincoln Hall in Chicago Photo 1 15 16 by Kirstie Shanley
Location: London, UK
Album release: January 2016
Record Label: Fat Possum Records/Without Consent/[PIAS] Australia
01. Whitest Boy On The Beach 4:53
02. Satisfied 3:41
03. Love Is The Crack 4:19
04. Duce 6:41
05. Lebensraum 2:47
06. Hits Hits Hits 3:40
07. Tinfoil Deathstar 3:59
08. When Shipman Decides 3:43
09. We Must Learn To Rise 7:11
10. Goodbye Goebbels 5:30
? Fat White Family have have said of their second album ‘Songs For Our Mothers’, “While our first LP might be considered an assault, a spasmodic outpouring of disdain generated by the utter tedium of life when it is found unlivable, Songs For Our Mothers is an invitation. It is an invitation, sent by misery, to dance to the beat of human hatred. In it we ask that you take us gently by the hand as we lead you on a journey, a journey that leads us from the blinding white heat of a midday Mediterranean shore, to the embattled boudoir of Ike and Tina Turner, from the clotted grey droll of Dr Harold Shipmans waiting room, to the final hours of the Third Reich in the Berlin bunker. It is as much a catalogue of our obsessions as it is a sensual odyssey; sex, drugs, politics, death, the Northern Irish A–lister Sam Neil, it's all here, all that’s left to do now is breathe it in.”
Paul Mardles, Sunday 24 January 2016 08.00 GMT; Score: ***
Fat White Family: Songs for Our Mothers review — the modern Throbbing Gristle
? As the song titles (Goodbye Goebbels, When Shipman Decides) on Fat White Family’s second album show, the south London squat–rockers love to provoke. Songs for Our Mothers, then, is nothing of the sort, its grimy fusion of Germanic disco (Whitest Boy on the Beach), demonic swamp rock (Duce) and drug–addled noise (We Must Learn to Rise) positing the band as a modern Throbbing Gristle. What they’re trying to say isn’t always clear — are they sixth-form shock merchants or more profound? — but the five–piece most impress at their least confrontational. Hits Hits Hits, inspired by abusive relationships, is loose–limbed psych–funk with a shot of creepiness. ? http://www.theguardian.com/
Kevin Orton, Score: 7.0
? Yea, it’s another shambolic, obnoxiously warped Fat White Family album. True, their albums are never coherent, are in a constant state of disarray and shamelessly puerile. That said, they’re never dull and always compelling to eavesdrop on. So what’s not to love?
? The opening track, ‘Whitest Boy on the Beach’, sounds like a mix of PIL and Pulp. ‘Satisfied’ is Depeche Mode if they went techno alt–country. ‘Love is the Crack’ is a meandering and seedy attempt at a ballad.
? The doomy ‘Duce’ brings The Stooges’ ‘We Will Fall’ to mind with a little S&M thrown in, ending in orgasmic, psyche atmospheric noodling. A glorious bit of noise that goes on for nearly seven pointless minutes. Lebensraum reminds me of those twisted, lo–fi Country numbers the Mekons used to do in the 80’s on albums like Honky Tonkin’. In fact, in its attitude and sonically speaking, Songs for Our Mothers reminds me of the Mekons’ Fear & Whiskey and Edge of the World albums. Raw and DIY. Having mentioned the Mekons, the other the influence I hear the most is early Fall. These guys are guaranteed to appeal to fans of Mark E. Smith.
? The woozy Hits Hits Hits is without a doubt, the catchiest tune on the album. However, it’s hard what to make of Tinfoil Deathstar, a wild tone poem collage of weirdness that goes in one ear and out the other. When Shipman Decides on the other hand, is inspired weirdness Perverted Lounge Music on tranquilizers. One of the best tracks on the album. Had me cracking up. We Must Learn to Rise is the soundtrack to a hangover from hell. If only it didn’t overstay its welcome, clocking in at over 7 minutes. Frankly, I have no problem with long songs, but despite some beautifully gloomy guitar, in the end, it’s a bit of a slog. The sarcastic anthem, Goodbye, Geobbels ends the album with another Mekons style Country ballad. Barbituate laced and atmospherically lo–fi. One that goes out of its way to be offensive in a way only the Fat White Family can pull off.
? Suffice it to say, Fat White Family are never pleasant to listen to. That's not the point. They’re the opposite of easy listening. Like Captain Beefheart, they’re out to deliberately ruffle your feathers. Their DIY brand of deranged satire isn’t for everyone. Most definitely not your Mother. Unless she’s really cool. On occasion, they’re a bit like a proctologist who enjoys his job too much. But they have a scruffy charm and a sense of humor to pull them out of any quagmires they lay for themselves. Like previous Fat White Family offerings, Songs for Our Mothers is an utter mess. A glorious one. And fun too.
By John Platt / 18 JANUARY 2016, 09:30 GMT / Score: 8.5
? Songs for our Mothers delights in the disgusting.
? It runs on the impulse that makes you sniff the old kebab from under your bed. The desire that makes you look at whatever you’ve pulled from your nose before throwing it away, or eating it, your choice. It has the twisted, purile sexuality that makes a Take a Break headline like “Stepdad Made Me His Sex Slave” eminently marketable. It’s the impulse that drew them to their subject matter: the bruised paradox that is an abusve relationship. And on this holiday to hell they found a mirror to themselves.
? Don’t let the A&R hordes fool you, they’re no blank cheque. Fat White Family don’t have ‘crossover appeal’. Booking agents across the globe look at Lias’ flash of muff last Glastonbury, his dead eyed stare and perma–nude torso. They see his flailing limbs and flying gobs of Guinness. They do mental calculations.
? You see, Fat White Family have a suicide pact. For one they’re riddled with carcinogens, un–oxides, freebases; they have every Daily Mail death knell covered. They quite possibly have rickets and look so malnourished the Red Cross have been sniffing around The Queens Head. The band seems on the verge of unravelling. Dale Barclay, the virulent Amazing Snakeheads frontman had to step into Saul’s hole, when the hedonism took its toll last year. They’re self–flagellating, self–sabotaging, self–deprecating nihilists. And they’re here to scream it, six inches from your face.
? For another thing, their album is full of Nazis, dictators, serial killers. They clearly have no desire to enamour themselves with middle England’s emerald corner of the internet. For that’s where the vitriol will come: but dig a little deeper and it’s evident every Nazi outfit or threat to join ISIS is backed by Saul’s gap toothed grin.
? It’s that twisted smile that makes “When Shipman Decides” sound like a muzac luau for the end of the world. Even in its title it stares straight into the abyss, into the soul of the man holding the scythe. The satanic waiting room is given a true crime feel with lilting lyrics like “sit down my dear/there’s nothing to fear” and “your family is fine/ just losing their minds” and it all comes at a slightly uncomfortable speed, not quite minor, not quite major. It’s on a slack Hawaiian keel, with a lap steel sway, pompous horns and a straight face: an outlet for their black humour.
? Sonically, Songs for our Mothers has a two faced, twin peaks character; a ‘slightly off’ beach town by day with a dark secret coming out at night. Following the drunken come–on of “Love is the Crack” is the militaristic “Duce”, complete with what sounds like Oppenheimer’s Güiro. “Whitest Boy on the Beach” is psychotic surf rock, but punctured by guitar stabs like one trollyfull of dynamite crashing into another. And directly after follows the slinking, perverted, “Satisfied”, a darkened funfair, a Wurlitzer burlesque in the mould of “Touch That Leather”.
? The phrase ‘a more mature sound’ doesn’t really seem appropriate (and I can’t bring myself to say anything like ‘polished’), but there is a definite sense of evolution from the first record. Perhaps it’s because no tracks sound like they were recorded using a tin can, but the album carries genuine heft. “Hits Hits Hits” is a barbiturate blues which oozes in and out to light ‘oooh ooohs’, and any number of tracks will tear apart any number of venues on the Fat White’s mammoth tour.
? And it remains that, despite the influence of internet buzz in their rise, this is still very much an IRL band. They haven’t quite found the key to recording that live sound, and they lack a tiny something without Lias’ every corpuscle howling. “Tinfoil Deathstar” is one of the album’s highlights; space organ, rumbling bassline, falsetto–psych vocals. Live it takes on a different dimension. Lias gobbles the mic to make shrieking, industrial hollers, and the sound careers into a distorted noise rock and subsequently off a cliff. All of this, of course, topped with his Ian–Curtis–meets–Iggy–Pop–at–a–séance act. The same goes for any number of songs, live they’re just a different beast, once the boys have had a few.
? It’s a very modern paradox that means, in our desire to see more, to know more of artists, we understand less and what we do see is façade. We see sanitised, Instagram–ready lifestyles, authored Facebook posts and pull quotes. Decadence and hedonism come under strict lab conditions. It’s been a decade since anyone bought a record but from this hasn’t come the predicted kaleidoscope of independent radicals. In its place has come diversification, affiliate marketing: you no longer buy Bieber records, you buy brand Bieber.
? And this softly softly approach, with the motto ‘mustn’t anger the sponsors’, has made modern rockstars little more than Cliff Richard with bottle service and sleeve tattoos. Maybe we’re in our own abusive relationship, with our musical heroes. Maybe we’re the one with the black eye.
? The Family have, in the parlance, brand continuity. They have online presence. But it’s from the bottom up, rather than top down. What makes them special is that it’s organic. Their music is an extension of themselves, pure id, and that’s what makes them so enthralling. This is the sound of a death–or–glory headlong charge. The two fingers at everything, no fucking filter. They could fall off stage at any moment. They may die tomorrow. Despite possessing the strongest ‘buzz’ in years they may never make any money. But Fat White Family are definitely going to hell.
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|Fat White Family|
|Songs For Our Mothers (2016)|