Phobophobes
-NIGHT AND DAY CAFE, MANCHESTER-
FEMUR:
The introduction manifests itself into a 4 piece that seemingly make inflicting moderate hearing damage on the spectators present their goal for the evening. The synopsis for this band features a lumbering, somewhat heavy-handed approach (doom metal?) to drumming, guitars that screech, zzzzzzzzzzzzzuzzzzz and just about do everything else in the Neo-Sabbath playbook (if that is actually a thing), bass lines that when not drowned out by their 6-stringed neighbours, articulate into something more than just added volume and a vocal style that covers a reasonable amount of ground (shouts, pseudo-croon, screams, serial killer whisper, even falsetto?) in varietal terms.
Some of the approaches undertook, such as the faux-acoustic opener and even an almost cow-punk venture, alongside a varied selection of interesting guitar textures highlight the potential in this band; alas the instinctive need to catapult all of these songs into aggressive chorus/climax fucks slowly chipped away my interest.
PHOBOPHOBES:
The principal act emerges from the backstage (you know, like every other band that’s ever played there), and much like a clown-car at full capacity, the stage becomes congested with musicians as they assemble their equipment. They make Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompeii setup look like a worn-out ice cream van. The fact that the band contains six members really enables a number of instrumental dimensions that most numerically inferior bands are unable to grasp, yet at the same time really adds an element of challenge in reviewing them (well, attempting to).
With regards to dissecting their glued-on-moustache-dipped-in-tabasco appeal: the darker timbre of the lead vocal, complete with a delivery style that would moderately scare a local Parent Teacher Association, in conjunction with bewildering lyrical incursions (“Let the children fish it out/Presidential suite/Baby Jane waiting to die/Boy… girl… boy… girl?”) that invoke the cerebral concept of ‘Huh?’; ah no matter, conjuring up the imagination is exactly what a competent lyricist should aspire to, cliché as that can be.
I could discern each individual guitar part but that would mean surrendering to academic absenteeism; instead I’d prefer to say that they each added an alternating gear-like effect, creating this towering, disjointed sound that proves you don’t need to crank it up to 11 to short-change a frenzied response out of the audience (they manage to do that without the aforementioned doctrine!).
And the rhythm section: the drumming acts as a sort of mining… worker, ready to emerge at the surface whenever their electrified associates summon him, all the while the engaging bass lines convey a silent horror film villain lurking behind a red curtain; you can just about make them out before getting gutted and/or sent below the surface.
In closing, I would argue that the ardent approach of the lapsteel (overuse thankfully avoided) alongside the Rick Wright-conjoined-with-Ray Manzarek synthesiser playing (complete with the sci-fi reminiscent ring modulator!) really gives this questionable music enterprise the off-beat edge that captures what they are all about (I think I know, though perhaps not). They sublet onto a terrain of controlled non compos mentis that gives their iteration of rock-and-roll an enthralling yet mystifying angle. This is the part where I would compare them to something… I can’t at the moment, ask me later.
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Recent career decisions have compelled me into the journalistic... thing; I could list my literary influences or even debate which 3rd rate beverage has the best economic value per litre (But I won’t). Oh, in addition, I write reviews for the Independents Network.
