Another in our occasional series of records that somehow find their way to us.
Who are they? Raise a glass to genuine strange-faced weirdos. Paul Hawkins is a small ranting man, heavy on lyrical generosity and a strange vocal quirk that draws the last syllable of each line out and upward. Forming four years ago in London, ‘Apologies To The Enlightenment’ comprises two CDs and is their second album.
What’s it like? A series of insights into a frustrated and angry imagination, with real gems to be found. Opener ‘The Beasts In The Upstairs Bedroom’ will sort you out: dense and spat out, it builds towards several mangled wig outs, reaching a highlight at five minutes in as a violin unspools over a wheezing ventilator. Top marks for use of the word “frottage” too. The rest of Disc 1 mixes anger, pathos and grown up bar room indie to pretty decent effect, with the death stomp organ of ‘Monkey Serum’ and ‘Stop Making A Scene’s incremental chorus gear shift leaving the best impressions. It ends with ‘I’ve Had My Fun’, the slightly over-worn targets of New Year’s Eve drinkers and careerist sellouts given serrated edges by a strung out delivery and a long, cracking outro that pings distorted echoes from speaker to speaker. It’s a twisted spark of quality that also ignites ‘The Yellow Castle On The Hill’, the first song on Disc 2, an oddly moving combination of bare guitar lines and minimal strings that takes its time unfolding a story of (really selling it here) unhappiness and mental disorder. It’s brilliant, and the nearest thing here to a love song, even if it ends in institutionalisation. Although it grows progressively quieter, the remainder of the disc follows the same pattern as the first: above average post punk clatter that coughs up occasional jewels (the chorus of ‘Every Word I Say…’ that punches through the jauntiness; some creepy sexual imagery on ‘You’re Never Gonna Leave Behind The Freakshow’) that overshadow pretty good, but less superlative material. There’s a grand exception with ‘The Epilogue’ though, a tune that closes proceedings with low budget, propulsive string stabs and nicely gauche positivity. Whistleable tune too. It’s this melodic undercurrent, however garbled, that’s present throughout this album, leaving the songs to linger in your skull like cranky ghosts. ‘Apologies…’ serves up great blasts of state-of-the-nation anomie, worried and worked up so you don’t have to be, and speaks sense like a madman.
