Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Future of the Left - Curses

Hows your fantasy team getting on so far this season? Mine have just recorded a record.

McLusky were one of the best bands of the noughties. This fact is inescapable. I put them on the same pedestal as Biffy Clyro and Idlewild when they were still called iDLEWiLD. McLusky Do Dallas is a work of sheer, sheer genius, and everything else they released falls not far short of that high water mark. If you don't own McLuskyism (the massive three CD version), then I demand you to go out and make the purchase. If you regret it, I'll shit your money back in two pound coins.

I also loved Jarcrew. They were the original dance fucking punk band (this time around, anyway) and they rocked. They were beyond intense live, charismatic, and in Paris + the New Math, had a tune that simply does. not. age. a. day. Jarcrew gave birth to new rave, and everything good and bad that comes with it.

Jarcrew + McLusky = Future of the Left. Awesome.

So is this record. My god, this record is awesome. Imaigne Jarcrew, ten times as evil, cold, calculated and vicious. Imagine McLusky with even huger tunes. Imagine the sound of violence, but not the type you'd associate with Slipknot and such like. These guys are sick, perverted assasins, not depraved serial killers. That is the sound of this record. My god is it good. My god, my god is it awesome.

Highlights? That wouldn't be fair. But if you insist... if we've been following our recorded output we're already very good friends with The Lord Hates A Coward and Adeadenemyalwayssmellsgood, so allow me to intruduce you to My Gymnastic Past and Wrigley Scott. And Suddenly It's A Folk Song. And the re-invented Real Men Hunt In Packs. And we can't forget Plague of Onces. And and and. Oh, I quit. You simply can't pick highlights from something this seminal.

I apologise it's taken another 10/10 review to get me writing again. I doubly apologise because I'm far, far more readable and entertaining when I'm presented with something by The Holloways or The Enemy or something utterly shite like that. I apologise thrice for revealing even the smallest detail about this record, because, in an ideal world, I'd want you to discover every sweet nuance for yourself.

But this is it, readers.

Your album of 2007.


No comments: