Liars/Miss Black America : Glasgow King Tuts Wah Wah Hut
Misanthropy? Antagonism? Vague irritation?
Never mind that, though, because here, chopping at the air like an enormous pair of human garden shears, is Liars' Angus Andrew. Shattering MBA's mediocrity with a single twirl of his big blonde moustache, he's a flurry of ganglesome limbs: a one-man Ministry of Silly Walks.
While Andrew's NY brethren make like Lou Reed's bin-men, Liars' bag is less bespoke heritage-rock and more rootless musical genetic engineering. With post-punk's blueprint as a map, the foursome strap scattershot samples, lightning-bolt guitars and crazed art-rock sloganeering to a solid, slap-bass backbone. Hummable tunes may be an alien concept to these rubber-legged lunatics, but there's vim to spare in their wildly imaginative, surrealist sketches. 'Mr Your On Fire Mr' sees Andrew strut and hector like a furious lecturer, while 'We Live NE of Compton' rubs saucily up against The Fall's shouty-punk. "Can you hear us?" shrieks Andrew, as unnerving clatterthon 'Grown Men Don't Just Fall In The River Like That' makes a sound case for art-rock's bulging heart being located in their burnt-out Brooklyn basement. Loud and clear, mate. Damn the truth: Liars are all you need to know.
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