Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Dear Scratchers,
If all the hard work was summed up and legitamised in one review....
The Scratch "Critical Mass" (Ponyland). Last appearing in these very pages via their awesome 10 inch "X-Ray Eyes" (Missive 35) the follow up of course to their storming Buzzcock-ian debut "I relax to spiral scratch" (missive 26 in case you’re taking notes) though we are slightly miffed and grumbling aplenty at missing out on their full length "night bus or milk train" and the "numbers" single that they managed o squeeze out between then and now - alas though its not for us to shout the odds - the barstids. That said disagreeable muttering aside what better way to re-acquaint ourselves with St Albans finest foursome than with two spanking slabs of the - to be filed under the dogs bollocks - part of the listening section Still excavating the refined retro sounds of the 70’s "Critical Mass" is a searing slice of bad boogie all at once excitable, energetic and effervescent, laced with more hooks than a butchers walk in freezer this blistering babe swaggers, swoons and will no doubt shag your girlfriend when you back is turned such is its smouldering high impact uber coolness. Dashed with a pristine power driven pop chassis replete with licks lifted from the arse pocket of Ronson (that’ll be Mick as opposed to Mark) Critical Mass" is so blatantly out of step with current trads and trends that’s it disturbingly refreshing like some coming together fusion of New York’s Ambulance LTD and the Crimea, the Scratch are literally in a different time zone and pissing through the fence over the oncoming competition. Hell we haven’t even mentioned the oh so "Suffragette City" era Bowie references. A killer thing. Flip cut "dear maniac"€™ is even better, no fat or fillers here these kids are literally shitting transistor trouncing tunes by the hundred weight. Featuring crookedly skewif codas doused in odd art pop / new wave nuances sourced from vintage moments found on late 70’s era TOTP re-runs - think Devoto meets Pirroni but with the impish mindset of Stewart Copeland’s Klark Klent alter ego all converging to eke out a disorienting but devilishly dishy slice of awkward sonic sea sickness that possesses about its wares subtle Bolan-esque shimmies before erupting into a frenzied but mightily admirable anxiety riddled attrition lashed finale. Absolutely feckin’ essential.
stunning
mark
Mark you’re a superstar!
xxx
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