The thrilling debut album from this intense New York City trio makes their city feel alive once again
Cardiff Terminal 396
...their presence lingers on. Lingers, like a stubborn bloodstain.
What's great about the Hump is crystallised in the body of Matthew Evans. The greatest streak-of-piss frontman since Jarvis Cocker, he hurls his lofty frame into blunderous scissor-kicks and AC/DC-style stage acrobatics. Meanwhile, current single, 'Booze And Cigarettes', lurches from a flowery love fable into a thunderous T Rex burnout. Sweet, funny, utterly irresistible.
Similarly fjted are The Crocketts - although it's a bit trickier to understand why. Three seconds in, and their frontman - that's, er, Davey Crockett - gets a full pint between the eyes. Accident? Hardly. Bring it on, motherf--er!
Frankly, the best way to treat the lumpen pub-rock of last album, 'The Great Brain Robbery', is to turn it into a bar brawl. But on the small-town angst of 'Lucifer', and the wired accordion-punk of 'On Something', The Crocketts give Gladiator a run for its money in the visceral thrill stakes.
They're not heroes. They're certainly not role models. But once they've clambered off, gore pouring from Davey's head after a nasty, apparently intentional collision with his guitar, their presence lingers on. Lingers, like a stubborn bloodstain.
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