The defining brilliance of 'Home Is Where It Hurts' is that Hood haven't actually invented anything
While Leeds postniks Hood’s earlier works were characterised by a magpie-like wonder for stolen samples and exotic clutter, the overwhelming atmosphere of their latest mini-LP is of insularity and dread. Occasional bouts of half-whispered vocals are scant comfort against a backdrop of fidgety rhythms and tense, dubby bass.
There are nods across the Atlantic to Chicago post-rock boffins Tortoise and even flashes of Dirty Three’s mournful violin screeches on ‘The World Touches Too Hard’, but this remains an unmistakably English record with echoes of Robert Wyatt and Eno’s ‘Another Green World’. But disappear for a moment through the gaps in the music and you notice that Hood’s defining influences are the hum of streetlights over suburban pavements and the faint whir of late night taxis to suburbia.
Perhaps the defining brilliance of ‘Home Is Where It Hurts’ is that Hood haven’t actually invented anything – they’ve just sat at home and accurately recreated the world that they have been cowering behind their front doors avoiding for the last few years.