"What is he going to say/When he finds out/He's not the biggest arsehole/In the building today?"
It seems they don't hang about, The Pheromoans - but then I suppose there isn't much to hold them back. They have a new album, "Does This Guy Stack Up?", which I'm not able to hear yet. But this is from only a few months ago too, I think.
This is music to hangover by. "They have big chins in there", he paranoias on "Men In Black Satin". Alcohol almost certainly plays a part. A much under-understood drug in the creative process, I think. It inspires such literary rambling and ideal levels of self-loathing, random aggression and shaky-handed paranoia to allow some dark grey creativities to flower. It's no accident that MES is a drinker. It's tragic, but it's not accident. (In fact, thinking of things along Grecian lines, you cannot really have a tragic accident; tragedy is fucking you up where you least expected, but deep down most suspected.)
I was watching again the Seven Ages of Rock: Indie Rock on the BBC the other day. It said that Manchester was the home of indie rock. Manchester has given the world a great any great bands - although nothing on any great scale since that monobrowed clutch of twat*; but a UK band like this could only function in London. There are bands that make independent-minded, awkward music that could not find a "home" in Manchester. If MCCR is the home of indie, it's an oppressive home that indie outgrew and shudders to visit. Manchester gave the world a plan of how to make music for yourselves, release it yourselves and cock snooks at the major label dem; but idealising the burg ignores the role of Rough Trade in making that happen.
"The Only Way Is Up" has a great Fall-ish rumblebilly strut, lyrics about "nightmares in the dream home". It's suburban stuff, reaching out to shape a world that reflects the difference that is felt inside. It's music with a brain stood in front of it. With a drop of piss on its trousers and the smell of something askance.
Rating: Drinky Brain Awkwards out of Unhappy Suburbs
*At no point did the High-Flying Berk refer to rock in musical terms, only in terms of its fucking symbolic accessories. I wish for withering death to take hold of his musical legacy and strike it from the Earth.