Fri 24 Jun 2011
Idiot Prayer 'Falconer' EP
their second hit, ‘100 Ducks’, which is even better.
By now I’m thinking about that the sound really is excellent, if a bit lacking punch in the bottom end - but the midrange is perfect and everything is wonderful and present in the mix. ‘100 Ducks’ ends with reversed mutterings and notes accompanying its weirdly affecting refrain of ‘They’re flying backwards…’, and I think, I can see what you’re doing there, very nice. It stutters to a halt in a glitch of digital delay which sadly ends far too soon. No matter, into the huge stomp of, uh, ‘Sausage Spectrum’, which sounds as though someone’s been using a Tardis and taking notes at Futurians gigs. ‘Sausage Spectrum’ showcases a drum groove in the Great Rock Drummer style: bash the hell out of everything perfectly in time and with lots of subtle inflections. I’m definitely getting my tranced out dancing ass on, and probably embarrassing myself horrendously.
Who cares? The girl in the gold dress has been dancing with me, and now as the next song, ‘Beautiful’, begins, it’s time for a full scale stage-dive. The build starts, and – okay, you have to understand that this is all happening in my head, because there’s no way I can jump up that high these days with a bit of pushing and cursing and, ow-my-back – anyway, up on the sink, dodge the pot plants, get to the stove just as the band reaches the crescendo and… nothing, it all dies away into what – the break down from Metallica’s ‘One’? and I jump back down feeling like a twat. Oh well, here it comes again, back up – run along – this time, and…. Nothing. Sorry, sorry, don’t mind me – can I just get down here? Third time I don’t even bother, looking around for my friends who’ve probably gone outside for a joint and to see if they can find any alcohol someone’s stashed under a bush.
Stink for them. The band look at each other, exchange conspiring, sinister laughs, and rip their rubber masks from their faces. F**k, it’s Alistair, John and Brent from Bailter Space. They hit the most recognisable opening chords of one of the songs off ‘Wammo’ – but which one is it? – and off they go in a huge free for all wall of noise. It’s terrific. By the end the drummer is surrounded by the ruins of his kit, the bass player is thrown his instrument into the lighting rig and is looking at it anxiously, and the guitarist’s head is fully in his amp, which is on fire. I’m bruised from untold stage-diving, and as I turn to the girl in the gold dress, hoping that my card isn’t declined when I buy her a drink, I’m…
… done with the dishes. Back to National Radio, not BFM, to worrying if I can finish the reports on my desk by the end of the week, not worrying if I can complete my essay on Guy Debord if I have a tab in the weekend, to stressing over the Nats slashing my Working for Families, not stressing over the Nats increasing the interest on my student loan: not to Mikey Havoc, but to Geoff Robinson.
So, ‘Falconer’ in the real world. Why not name your record after your producer when it sounds this good? While it’s not necessarily a masterpiece, it’s half an hour of extreme fun with a band that sound like they’ll be great dancing to with a few beers in you – and with a neat little package of brains behind their visceral rock outs. ‘Falconer’ gets a little lost in math rock in parts, and it sounds like the band is a bit too concerned with staying careful and tight - the best moments come when they transcendently thrash it out. More please!