Dark and mould-flecked, The Phantom Band's post-apocalyptic pop is menacing and grim in all the right places
With all their talk of man’s inevitable demise and their pride in self-constructed instruments, Glasgow’s [b]Phantoms[/b] play down their wry post-apocalyptic pop as if it were just scatty, TB-afflicted doom-mongering played on Wickes-own plumbing. But they should believe, these [b]Phantoms[/b]. For theirs is confident, muscular, oats-fed folk-kosmische that summons brilliantly the propulsive menace of ‘Here Come The Warm Jets’-era [b]Eno[/b], the careworn voice of a [b]Bill Callahan[/b] raised in the Gorbals and the clippy-cloppy electronica of [a]Battles[/a]. If it weren’t for the album’s dank mould-spotted soul, it might even be uplifting.
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