Engineers/Clor : Leeds Cockpit

Engineers/Clor : Leeds Cockpit

Engineers will be lucky to even see their shoes throughall that fog, but before that, let’s indie-dance...

Dressed like a charity shop version of [a]The Killers[/a], [a]Clor[/a]

are the type of geeky misfits who were secretly penning shit-cool fanzines

while you were clipping “Kick Me” signs to their backs at school. Like

[a]Aberfeldy[/a] with an electronic erection, they make perma-happy

punk-funk littered with several thousand arch blips and beeps like last

year’s debut single ‘Good Stuff’. But here’s the interesting bit:

unlike every other indie-dance crossover and their dog, they draw their

influences not from Talking Heads but the childlike rhythms of their

side project Tom Tom Club. Combine that with some detours into the

weirdy-beardie jazzcapades of Frank Zappa, Wayne Coyne’s

worldview and elements of The Cure and you have something very

special indeed.

From something light and fluffy to something very dark indeed. Literally.

Between their silhouetted shapes and liberal sprinklings of dry ice, you can

hardly see Engineers. But they are here, exquisitely playing their

orchestral aural equivalents of slo-mo car crashes. Along with Hope Of

The States, they are one of the titans of nu-epic. Like My Bloody

Valentine produced by Doves, they deal in beautiful, emblazoned,

gently pulsing rhythms like ‘Come In Out Of The Rain’, which sounds

like 100 different instruments dragging the same jagged note through a

‘Said And Done’ blisses out like a slow-release Naltroxene implant,

while ‘One In Seven’ launches itself like the soundtrack to an

imagined film about desolation, memories and lots of cigarettes. By the time

of closer ‘A Given Right’ the band have transmuted into Pink

Floyd in the throes of a Kasabian wig-out and are making us want

to use words like “ethereal” and read epic novels by long-dead Russians.

Hopefully that’s just the affects of the dry ice, though.

Priya Elan