I got to see the diseased maelstrom that is Mutton in May last year when they supported Gazar Strips (during their Sparkling EP launch) and Scul Hazzards in the Grace Darling basement. The band were a force of nature, yet somehow vomiting vitriol in a controlled vein - it reminded me more of a latter-day Pissed Jeans show, or of Brisbane contemporaries Clever (hurry up and put something out guys!) I hope I have the opportunity to push these guys as a Sonic Masala band sometime in the future, as their brutish debut self-titled EP is closely followed up by 7” Flyblown. I say closely - I've had digitals of this for a long time, but vinyl delays (don't you love em?) have held off the fury until now. Aurally we step away from the pigfuck mantras a little - the anarchic dirge of 'Awkward' plays into the bloodstained embrace of Tom Waits and David Yow bareknuckling it in a carnival knockout in Hell - but then songs like 'Cocoon' are chaotic blasts of diseased glee. The band maintain a calibrated desiccation, a mid-pace march into the maw of carnage, laughing at the futility of it all. It all hinges on the maniacal howls and presence of Max Ducker, who looks like he has just shirked the butcher's apron but is still smeared in livestock viscera, brandishing a verbal cleaver, the corner of his mouth and whites of his eyes twitching in unison. Melbourne is strangely adept at carving out damaged noise punk that hits like blunt trauma and leaves you addicted to the aggression. Add this Mutton grist to your mill.
(NB - this is a painful reminder that I haven't got tickets to Pissed Jeans here in London tonight. Sigh. But I have scored a ticket to see Sunn O))) as part of Meltdown as curated by David Byrne. I am mightily tempted to go and watch while listening to this on the headphones. Fuck em all).
Buy Flyblown (in oxblood red, of course) here.
No comments:
Post a Comment