Within 30 seconds of listening to ‘flying’ by Woolf, you’d be convinced they were taking the piss… or at best, actively taking one whilst trying to play guitar and failing miserably at the necessary multitasking coordination.
Is this for the niche at heart? Almost certainly, without the ‘almost.’ All of the tracks here feel raw as a bloody stump dipped in vinegar. There are about as many fans of the excessive-transgressive genre as there are letters in that hyphenation. Granted, there’s a certain nuanced musical creed that filters in between the mis-matched chords, loose-as-a-Magdalene rhythm section and half shouted yells. But you’d be hard pressed to brood over those kinds of pseudo-intellectualist rationalizations when you’re cranium deep in migraine and tinnitus.
Even some of their most ordered output ‘witch,’ dissolves into a wasted, grunge-y, mess. If you sent this stuff back in time to give composers a glimpse of the future it’d probably give Mozart a cluster headache and Beethoven a raging hard on. Probably.
Featuring an ensemble cast of noisisists from numerous other bands and boasting an ‘unsigned’ in their label status that raises about as much of an eyebrow as seeing carrot in your hematemesic spew. They’ve somehow managed to bag themselves a damn fine support slot on a UK tour with thesimilarly damn fine – if infinitely more well behaved – Trash Kit. They still have physical copies of their demo for sale – for whoever actually buys those kinds of things these days.
If their live shows feature even the merest hint of the ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ intensity of their recorded material I may well have just slipped in bodily fluids and fallen head over shit-stained stilettos in love. Fantastic. Well, noise-y fucking gash …but fantastic noise-y fucking gash.