Category Archives: Reviews

Hey Bulldog – Al Lupo single review

I think I’m hyperventilating here; Hey Bulldog, Manchester’s most exciting band have just dropped the most exciting music video the world has seen since the Beastie Boys perfected the art form. Such an intense rush of sound, colour and movement. I’m going to watch it 20 times over and then be sick all over the living room floor.

‘Al Lupo’ raises it’s head to the sky as a short form blast of everything that is glorious about this band, acting as a superb jumping on point for everyone who loves heavy guitar rampage. And my friend does this rock ‘n’ roll animal deliver. Powered on a hacksaw guitar riff that scrapes each of your vertebrae, this combines the raw simplicity of The Buzzcocks ‘Boredom’ with the forward momentum and amyl nitrate rush of Roxy Music’s ‘Virginia Plain’ and the shrieking hysteria of Grinderman’s ‘Honey Bee’, all squeezed though Hey Bulldog’s aesthetic of groove heavy psych rock. To cap it all you get a RAT powered bass solo.

The vocals: frenzied, a man dangling on the cliffs edge. Rob M, with his purest, most well recorded vocals yet sings like a man dancing on the razors edge, strung out on adrenaline and terror. When he finally hits the desperate refrain of ‘Into the mouth of the wolf’ the song is hitting with a barrage of throwing stars.




Control Of The Going – I Love You But It’s Going To Rain

Manchester needs bands that provide the music for its’ collection of rainy back streets and long coated poets. Now, before we get ahead of ourselves, we’re not saying that Control Of The Going are in the same league as The Smiths or Puressence, but they’re certainly cut from the same cloth where the lovelorn just want to sing a song.

After much ado and hype this young band have released their debut album, I Love You But It’s Going To Rain, let’s have a look!

Here at colourhorizon we first noticed way back with the single ‘She’ that Liam has a lyrical preoccupation with life cycles. Here he stretches it across the whole record, creating a lightly flavoured concept album about life and growth, and the importance of love within that cycle. The result is a surprisingly mature record by such a young band, and a record deeper than it’s psych trappings would have you think.

Take ‘Warcrime’ with it’s race car guitars, amidst which Liam sings “I was looking for a girl like you”; from the start he is playing the part of the lonely post punk raincoat wearer. It is only on subsequent listens that this line at the start of the album echoes through the rest of the songs as you realise that he constantly refers to the same girl. But for now, you’re happy with the rolling bass and crisp drums that glide over the middle distance. We’re off to a rollicking start!

The delicate intro to ‘Star’ may be the highlight of the album. Acoustic guitars and pleas made in quietude right up until “why don’t you be my star tonight…” at which point the songs kicks in full sensaround as the party gets started as love ignites life. ‘Be My Star’ may not be the most elaborate chorus you’ve ever heard but it’s punchy, you can sing it on the first time of hearing and it is an actual chorus, which puts it above the deluge of  cut-rate psych out there. Liam’s taken off the raincoat. He used to be believe everything he read, but now he’s stepping out. Life takes fresh turns.

‘Love Your More’ rides on a Chameleons groove and cut glass guitar. Once again, the chorus may be simple but it’s very effective and wraps itself award the riff to make a great sing along standard. Matt’s fizzing drums really add to the effervescence.

I was surprised to see ‘The Message’ not only resuscitated from earlier days but split into two parts at the heart of the album which, to be honest (we’re all friends, here) doesn’t help the pacing of the album, but it’s a great song nonetheless. Here it’s been shorn from the cowboy trappings of the earlier version and even more rendered more plaintiff and elegiac. It still has a silky smooth glide over a fibrous guitar traction. It winds down for an extended white out before flowering again for a new spring and the evergreen ‘The Message’ lives on.

From here we launch straight into the highly succesful single, ‘She’ that has bought them a new level of audience and fanbase, as well as getting them played by Clint Boon at his club night. It cuts a swathe through the album like a monorail cutting through an urban metropolis. Musically it’s unstoppable and has proved to be the same in life. That riff’ll be reverberating round the rainy streets for years.

The beefier ‘You’re Mine’ rests of the heavy repetition of the title to instil a rigorous, unnerving chorus. The riff pours from the speaker like neon lava.

It’s fitting that Clint Boon from Inspiral Carpets has fallen in love with Control Of The Going as ‘Save My Memories’ could easily fit onto the second half of The Beast Inside. It has that swirling, garbled snap — and then rides off into golden sunsets, the slightest hint of melancholy off setting the tranquility.

The rollicking, rabble rousing ‘Welcome To The Family’ kicks up dust with its ramshackle Happy Mondays all-in, pills ‘n’ thrills vibe. It’s just as exciting as being embraced by a family and made to feel welcome within it, as life reaches a new turn.

‘Fade Away’ ends the album; an exposed nerve and twice as painful. The cycle ends, as it must. It’s rather reminiscent of The Fall’s ‘Weather Report Part 2’, Mark E Smith’s last moment of genius. You don’t deserve rock ‘n’ roll.

There are some lessons to be learnt though: the production is guitar heavy to the point of squashing the bass and leaving the keys almost indiscernible. The vocals are and similarly hard to make out, making Liam’s plans at a concept album a bit thwarted by the mix. The best bits are those that show a greater degree of subtlety and more of these would have bought out all the shades in the music. The listener all to often has to squint to shape the detail through the buzz of guitars. This vid, with Mr Boon (play that tune) shows the delicacy of the songs, and the results are sensational…

But Echo & Bunnymen didn’t make Heaven Up Here at the first crack and, in fact, this is a good comparison, if we see Control Of The Going as Mac and his boys for the 21st century then this is certainly equates to Crocadiles.

Or whatever, this is a mighty fine debut album. Well done, boys!

Psychic Lemon – Frequency Rhythm Distortion Delay

Psychic Lemon’s eponymous debut album was something of a triptych between Goat, the Happy Mondays and a Jah Wobble solo album. it’s all change though as their new album Frequency, Rhythm, Distortion, Delay casts the band somewhere between Radar Men From The Moon, BRMC and the better bits of an overlong Hacienda compilation. Traces are there to show this is the same band, such as the denseness of the drum beats and the allusions to the halcyon days of Manchester dance, but this is a band now going all out, all in and over the edge. A band that once favoured musicality and careful exploration is now a freewheeling force of nature. The album title makes it clear: the simply ingredients of music itself are key here. Psychic Lemon are stripping it to the bone.

Jungle telegraph drums and hi-tension line guitars start the album off with ‘Exit To The Death Lane’. The music churns and rumbles like battle stations on a nuclear sub. This is a tune that shrieks and revels its way into the dance sphere – you can walk the Manchester monkey walk to this like a right twat.

‘Hey Droog’ is like a blue print for constructing a Joy Division song with rivets and caterpillar tracks. Wild bursts of guitar spray like welding sparks.

‘You’re No Good’ continues with a hijacked, cannibalised and retrofitted Talking Heads groove welded to Radar Men From The Moon’s brand of psych-trance-rave and some Hawkwind riff addiction. The pace is furious and head-spinning, the song is pure forward motion. Twangs of guitar scrape at your subconscious while the bass pummels you under. When the chorus kicks back in at the dying embers you can see the tangled mass of bodies down front. Music as relentless, broad and fun as this should be filling big, big rooms.

The single ‘Interstellar Fuzz Star’ is denser, with its close lines of guitar (hitting Sonic Youth’s sugar kane perhaps?) atop fretful drums and the bass groove is pure New Order to get your head nodding.

‘Sartori Disko’ is the early morning wake up tune on a Cyberman mothership. Partly recalling the future-glow motorik of Eat Lights; Become Lights and the shrieking “hippy” blowout of the Stooges ‘LA Blues’ this combines bliss and aggro to bring the album to a sweet ‘n’ savoury end. The morning after the night before?

Psychic Lemon have gone for the jugular, shedding the dense funk rhythms in favour of an all out dance assault. It’s bad form to compare albums but it’s hard not to as their two albums are so wildly different. Frequency Rhythm Distortion Delay feels very current, very much part of the current psych, very 2018. Psychic Lemon felt out of time and apart. As such you should really make sure to buy both albums, I suppose.

Hopper Propelled Electric – Be The Beast

Myself and Mrs Horizon were lucky enough to meet Robert Webb of Hopper Propelled Electric at the wedding of Ingy, singer of The Maitlands. What a showbiz world we inhabit. Anyway, Rob, chief rabble-rouser of the band was hitting the dance floor in a black zoot suit and white shoes.

When you bear this in mind, listening to HPE they makes a lot of sense. They are the band of someone who wears a black zoot suit and white shoes to a wedding in Scarborough. Their album, Be The Beast, is the sound of a man from Oldham living his sweaty r’n’r dreams. The sound may be derived from the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion but it’s stained with a distinct North-West grottiness.  It is the sound of a by-gone style lived vicariously. Be The Beast reeks of too-strong aftershave and sliding over the bonnets of a Ford Cortina. Hopper Propelled Electric want to slug bourbon straight from the bottle, but what they have is a carrier bag full of lager from the offie.

The songs are adolescent spurts of stinging guitar. The opening song, ‘Barfight In Senegal’ says it all with the title alone, but the stomping riff brings the lights down on an album of bruising rockers. From there the pace never lets up, stirring it up with Stooges aggro. ‘The Bind’ has a ‘Blank Generation’ swagger, minus the existential doubt. ‘Machine Gun Mess’ is bass led with bleary bar room eyes and scratchy, back-of-the-throat guitar before it kicks back in with some hair-of-the-dog vigurrr.

‘Do The Chronic’ not only continues the great tradition of songs called ‘Do The..’ but offers a riff like a heavier version on Blondie’s ‘One Way Or The Other’. ‘Over You’ sounds like a man sneaking down an alley, the natural environment of Hopper Propelled Electric. ‘Meanwhile, back at the lab’ offers a quiet interlude, which not only does what it says on the tin but manages to be an album highlight.

Mark E Smith once sang “I still believe in r ‘n’ as primal scream”. I know another man who does too.

Lucky Dip – The Raft, Angie Riggan, Plike

We love bandcamp and it’s not just a home for some of our favourite bands such as Hey Bulldog, Three Dimensional Tanx, Jennie Vee etc etc, it’s a place where you can go surfing through an endless stream of music in search of something cool. Sure, a load of it will turn out shite, but when you hit a rich seam, you feel like Indiana Jones. With this in mind we thought we’d try out a new feature; Lucky Dip, in which we showcase some new finds!

First up, to use Match Of The Day parlance, is The Raft. Now if there’s one thing we enjoy here at colourhorizon, it’s a classic slice of scouse pop music. And with Phil Raft we have a classic scouse pop guy with some classic scouse pop music. He’s released an EP under the name The Raft and on it he manages to combine the summery jangle of The La’s with a wistful dreampop veneer.

‘So Glad I Know’ floats like a piece of Scottish post-punk, in a slightly fey Orange Juice / Altered Images manner. The middle is packed with an extended riptide of acoustic and electric guitars. ‘Coming Up For Air’ has a stately piano ambience which opens out into a distinctly epic number, worthy of what late era Roxy Music should have been.  ‘Anarchy In Our Guitars’ hits a sweetly nostalgic tang of the last episode of your favourite TV show’s montage showcasing the characters and best moments. ‘Regrets’ is simply lovely; resting on a chorus as joyous and heart-felt as a summer’s day on Albert Docks, eating an ice cream and with your girl on your arm.

The key word for The Raft is relaxed; Phil never breaks a sweat, even his most heartened pleas seem casual. This leads to a blissed out brand of pop, languid and perfect for a Sunday morning.

One of the best tags to use in bandcamp is “bedroom”: it’ll throw up some really interesting acts featured on here before such as Nice Legs as Mary & The Small Omission. Angie Riggan is also tagged “bedroom” and her EP BTW spews out lo-fi guttural guitar spurts. Songs that may once have sounded cheery now sound disenfranchised, disingenuous and disheartened. Fast and fuzzy, offset by Angie’s sleepy morning vocals. 

‘Take The Price’ has a punchy chorus amidst its twisting chicanes. You can immediately feel Angie’s music wash over you. ‘Thrones’ combines a ‘Wild Thing’ riff with stinging drums and searingly scabby solos. “Don’t ask me why, I feel like living tonight”, sings Angie. ‘Colorado’ feels like life slowed down to a crawl, as a gloopy bass pulls you under. “I really got to get away”, sings Angie.

‘Everybody’ relieves the tension somewhat with its plaintive Durutti Column vibe and Morrissey-ish chorus. ‘Fingers’ then cranks up the claustrophobia again with minimalist backing and vocals that seem to emanate from somewhere over your shoulder. ‘Now I Know’ takes you by surprise as you’ll think it’s from another record: searing electro, concrete bass and ice cool vocals bring us right into tingling New Order territory. “You can’t dodge the bullet if you never even saw the gun” sings Angie.

Like a porcupine in an oil slick: dark, spiky and oily.

Meanwhile, Plike‘s clockwork realm of dark, cowbwebby trip-hop paints a dark, dank world, full of golem’s and scuttling beasties. Her precisely engineered EP Bending Spoons is immaculately produced, with dense layers of sounds, beats, vocals and intriguing background miscellany.

‘clocked’ starts us off, suitably, with fractured timekeeping in an eerie horror-scape. The second track ‘The Destruction Of Wonderland’ says it all – and within it the dreamlike and the childlike become sinister and entropic. ‘Black Swan’ s foundry electro meets an abundance of movie samples, giving birth to a neon-lit cinematic vista. It might be the best use of samples we’ve heard since Radar Men From The Moon‘s first album. ‘Scarecrow’ earth-churning motions meets blockbuster trailer time blocks of noise. 

It also, occasionally, reminds me of when I spent too much time on Playstation games such as Wipeout 2097 and Resident Evil, which is all to the good.

This song isn’t on the EP but never mind.

One of these EPs are available free of charge and the most expensive is £3, but why not give each artist the same money you’d pay for a burnt cappuccino? Or better still, a bit more than you’d pay for a burnt cappuccino!

Until next time, treasure hunters!

Rachel Mason – Das Ram

Finally, a multi-media futureclown who sings alternative James Bond theme tunes for a steampunk + LSD induced age of mayhem!

Our harlequin for the evening, Rachel Mason has a new album entitled Das Ram and what a world of glistening delights awaits us within its lustrous realms…

On the opening song, ‘Roses’ it’s as if Kate Bush is singing The Lord Of The Rings songbook in a corridor in Metal Gear Solid. You really have the sense of stepping into another world; the lyrics are folky and evocatively olde worlde building. Rachel’s voice grips you from the moment. The music pulls you in another direction though, as sweeping the T-Dream swoops are destroyed by skittering drum beats, like arachnoid legs on an ice floe. A swooping ballad meets a relentless dance classic. Fucking hell, this is how you start an album.

‘Heart Explodes’ makes good that James Bond promise with a ton of torchy tension. Look, lets imagine The Associates singing Octopussy. While we’re tripping that trip, it’s worth saying that Rachel’s voice is very Billy MacKenzie-ish. Indulgent and brilliantly so, this is a voice wrapped up in its own mag-nif-icence. She takes a chorus and blows it skywards.

The sidewinder guitar of ‘Sandstorm’ escorts our existential Rachel. The drums clatter like a punk thrown the stairs.

‘Tigers In The Dark’s dubby production and shrieking electro burns like an oil rig fire while Rachel goes off the deep end. A fractured and opulent dreamscape of rippling verdancy.

‘Marry Me’ nervoid twitching, gives way to chugging machine bass. The song spins around a relentless chorus in which Rachel threatens to take you up the aisle. It’s a gorgeous slow build electro track perfect for any neon coloured thriller trailer at your local multiplex. And then an amazing slow fade out with its New Order Movement. All the things in your life that go wrong…

‘Queen Bee’ flaunts Roxy Music opulence over clockwork beats and a guitar from a Michael Mann movie.

‘Cancer’ hits with a phalanx force of drum beats. A disorientating panorama of sounds come at you from 360 degrees, while Rachel stands in the middle of the melee, ripping up a breathless chorus.

‘Heaven’ ends with the funkiest track on the album, everything locking together to resemble The B-52s covering Zombies’ ‘The Time Of The Season’. It’s the last song of the night and the walls of the club are made from velour.

The guitars are taut and wired for your secret pleasure. The synths are set to sunrise. Yet the moodiness of the music is in direct odds with the sheer electricity of Rachel’s vocals which are off the grid. Two albums for the price of one.

Not only is Rachel Mason a true artist but she is an essential one.

Total Victory – English Martyrs (2017)


King Penda, last pagan king of Britain leers over us and as he does, notions of identity and nationhood wither and die. Resplendent on the cover of Total Victory’s new album, English Martyrs, both Penda and band are a critical force working to destroy the myth of Englishness. In Dan Brookes they have the sharpest lyricist this ‘country’ has produced in a long, long time.

Total Victory are a guitar band where the music is sharp and the words are sharper. Those weaned on post-punk will enjoy what they have to offer, and Total Victory have a lot to offer. This, their new album, sees the band hitting creative heights that not only matches  but topples the standard bearers.

English Martyrs is Total Victory’s version Grotesque by The Fall in that the songs make up a portrait of the country. In contrast to that album, the pulp acid horror  is dialled down and replaced by an ever greater sense of social commentary and cutting observational humour. The other obvious comparison is Half Man Half Biscuit, but if England is the Titanic, while Nigel Blackwell’s mob are mocking the middle classes and their pretensions, Total Victory are in the crows nest.

The best comparison may be to the political / social caricatures of William Hogarth or James Gillray, who would offer political satire intercut with sharp humour and a glorious sense of the grotesque (there’s that word again). A Total Victory song has the same quality of looking through a window onto contemporary life.

You must go into the album knowing that on the one level this is great music, there is a whole other layer underneath. You must go into it ready to contemplate how the past, present and future of England are as one, how the population has been moulded to think and act by history; were we are and what we were.

‘Triangulation Point’ gets off and rolling with a riff that sounds like a train struggling up a hill. It’s tense and nervoid, so Total Victory are back. Lyrically, it appears to warn of the dangers of pandering to the lowest common denominator; especially when people don’t know what it is they want. Meanwhile, “In the 21st century nothing unites us like cup-a-soups and ill fitting Gore Tex…” observes Dan wryly, in a few short words sketching an entire cross section of the populace. It comes to an end with the grim moral of “They live for this so they can die for this”; a stark warning of the dangers of giving the vote to people who watch Mrs Browns Boys.

‘Gore Seer’ emerges from the squall like a forlorn tanker from a Mediterranean fog. Sad, yet resplendent and proud. Dan adds a jumble of words for the reader to fit together. What links ionised water and website subscriptions? The meaning of the song always seems to be out of reach. The chorus, such as it is, finally lands halfway: “Gore seer / philanderer / Rockefeller / It’s a good life… Gore seer / retired police / networks of names / copper bracelets”. The guitars are now duplo blocks of sound as Dan finally starts making sense and you’ll wish he hadn’t: “Dreams are just a waste of time”. He confuses us, then exposes us. Are we the gore seers? Like Ian Curtis on ‘Atrocity Exhibition’, the barrier between artist and listener is ruptured and the audience left questioning their complicity.

The slow winding ‘In The Home Counties’ punctures the misplaced pomposity of its target and attacks the cosy mind-set of stick dwellers. The target of the song is moving to the countryside, only for our narrator to warn them, in a sad, defeated voice: “when you get there you’ll be happy with a change in the weather”. Meanwhile the notion of finding beauty in nature is dismissed also: “The birds won’t know your name, and their sounds of joy are a natural function”. On top of which comes a warning about the locals mistrustful ways: “the words they use are edged with spite… and every interaction is a chore”. This song feels like a sequel to the amazing ‘Secession Day’ from National Service, another attack on small town life and smaller town mentality. Little Englanders abound, a topic explored in even greater depth in the next song…

‘Once in Every Century’ (submarine bass, keening guitar) juxtaposes modern hollow notions of cultural identity with imagery of the stone age settlements that all cultures originated. From the “wooden frames in the marshland, built in a circle against the headwind” we appear to be in an episode of Time Team, as Total Victory go digging in the North Trench, finding weapons made with  “bone handles and polished to sharp edges” as if finding the root of our misplaced national self-image. The chorus, if you can call it such a thing is anguished and rising:

Every culture started from nothing / And develops until it’s full of the hubris / That comes from revering itself / And it’s sick from the myth / It breaks down in a ditch and it forms into silt.

By the end we’re in the realm of JG Ballard style psycho-geography, “the hilltop corresponds with every single last moment in time” as all things come together and happen at once, our past informing our present and our futures, and our futures corresponding with our pasts. “Once in every century we get put up on display”: doomed to repeat the same mistakes, covered in mud. Listen to the gorgeously sad horn and the cornet at the doleful demise of the song, like a funeral ascending an escarpment.

‘Playing Golf With The Precariat’ with it’s fish hook guitars herald the heavier second half of the album, the downbeat nature of the previous two tracks giving way and from here until the final track Dan is spitting fire. This song seems to be aimed fairly squarely at out of touch politicians and their cringeworthy attempts to interact with normal people, like when they have to do things such as eat chips and talk to human children. “Dig foundations on a new leisure centre, I’ve been photographed with a spade” crows our main character, presumably a ruddy-faced blowhard from one of Gillray’s prints; outmoded and out of time . Then comes the blackest joke of the album  so far: “Later playing pool with a group of old people, they can’t do it by themselves”. He returns to the office to find letters of complaint and carries out some research by thumbing through “the new Alan Coren” which dispenses advice; “I can show them I’m just like them” he plansThey key line is “Your name counts for nothing if you have to say please” which sums up an entire swath of silver spooned Tories. Self-centred actions rule: “A man only needs himself… If you’re going to keep trusting you’re primed for a fall”. All of which leads us to the realisation that the people in charge are not equipped to be the people in charge. They wouldn’t even go to the poxy leisure centre anyway. In the background a member of the public speaks via the news. You can’t hear what she’s saying. Our character’s not listening.

On ‘Written Backwards’ Dan switches between addressing us, the audience, and the main character of the song. On top of which there is commentary in the form of overheard chatter, a favourite tool in Dan’s arsenal. It all starts innocuously enough in the shape of observation comedy: “Left the house keys on the bonnet as you drove off down the road”. Then it takes a turn into Tales Of The Unexpected territory with “The message scratched on the dashboard made no sense to the policeman, or the fire crew as they pulled you, from the window of the wreckage”. All of a sudden the jokes get grim and the screws are turned as Dan describes the scene is agonising detail “swept the glass up from the road, held back the crowds that gathered”. Later on, gawkers return with cameras. We peruse the papers: “Writer crashed into cathedral, husband shocked at sudden loss”. Things aren’t what they appear though, the rumour mill kicks in: “I didn’t see him at the funeral… if this gets out he’ll be crucified” we are told after a ‘Shadowplay’ style guitar solo. The final verse details a supernatural meeting and the resolution, which we won’t reveal. This is simply a stunning piece of writing that crosses many forms of the written media. They should teach this in schools.

‘Mistakes Upon Mistakes’ sees trouble-maker drums and the sound of a fire engine whizzing past a dole office. The bass, circulates like dirty bath water down the plug hole. It sees Total Victory taking on Half Man Half Biscuit. The following passage could easily come from any of Tranmere’s finest: “Gary piloted his Clio into a reservoir and has not been seen since, outdated instruments and an overexcited local sent the search party the wrong way”. Yet again they’re combining mordant humour about death and mixing it up with farce and parodying country dwellers. Just when you’re contemplating all of this, Dan delivers what may be the best line on the album: “The ghost of Nigel Blackwell haunts this room, even though he’s yet to pass”. Total Victory just did a gag about Half Man Half Biscuit – talk about a handing over of the flame! I think Dan must have received the quickening after writing that lyric.

It’s the turn of the look back bores on ‘The Public Weighbridge’, which concerns a driver (a container driver?) who works for Harper and Sons, “expert in haulage”. He doesn’t like change and the modern world, “what’s new is what we’re against, there must be an end to advance” he gripes. On top of which, he’s having a bad day: “rolled off the ferry and out of Europe, fallen asleep on the public weighbridge”. And of course, the shittiness of his life can only derive from the fact that the world is different to when he was young, nothing else. With a typical dewy-eyed view and the Hovis music playing in his head he muses “All ‘round here was only fields, along with the footprints of bombed out buildings” (fields of wheat?) pointing out the fallacy that in the olden days people could leave their doors open because they have nothing worth stealing. This is the kind of guy whose faults are all of someone else’s making and gets so desperate he resorts to begging for extra-terrestrial life. When they fail to materialise he drives off cursing “along the roadsides are sign of the progress and every one of them makes me sick”.

‘Gold Curtain’ hangs on a bass line that sounds like ‘Girl Like You’ on methadone, while a piano and acoustic guitar laments Albions’ end. The country creaks under the weight of the litany of faults that Total Victory have laid out over the course of the album. It’s all about mentalities and mind sets. Little Englanders are crushing England. England is expiring under the weight of the English Martyrs. And what does a gold curtain conjure images of? The prize at the end of a game show. It’s been 2,000 years since the Romans arrived and what do we have to show for it but Jim Bowen unveiling a speedboat bound for a Halifax drive way? Our last story is of a worker reaching the end at his workplace. “It’s bright though it’s late, so much you have to say. But you’ve learned in your way, the boys want you out”. Dan goes on to say “Edged in silk, woven with rose, patterned gold”, fragments of phrases that bring to mind last-minute leaving gifts, as a girl from the office rushes to Card Factory at 2 o’ clock on a Friday afternoon. Our character, like the country, is reaching terminal point.

A landscape of spectres dominates English Martyrs: the album is full of ghosts and spirits; literal and metaphorical. Shadows of the dead walk the land, false shadows of so-called former glories that refuse to fade. England is a land knee-deep in its relics. References to graves, burials, decay, marshland, bones and fields permeate; Ramsbottom’s Peel Tower features on the inside of the album. And on the front, old Penda himself, from the BBC’s Penda’s FenEnglish Martyrs is all about geography, psychology and history. There is no escape: trips to the countryside yield disappointment, trips in vehicles lead to death and despair. In the 21stcentury we are stuck with cup-a-soup and Gore-tex, if we follow ourselves back to where we started we end up standing in the trickling rain among the bones of our forebears.

Lyrically, the most important band around right now.