If the ancient sport of smashing instruments was judged with ice-skating scores, 7 Cycles would get all 9.9s. The bassist trashes his amp with serial-killer-in-a-tantrum force. Sex-droog singer Simon sends splinters of his homemade guitar up the noses of the slightly surprised clientele. It appears, since they’ve only played three songs, that 7 Cycles just got bored with the whole idea of audience wooing.
This is not a polite and well-adjusted group. A three-piece of Birmingham scrawn and scorn, they summon up the kind of demonic ghoul rock that according to tradition should be accompanied by [a]Marilyn Manson[/a] costumery. But the Cycles dress down, demonstrating an evolutionary superiority with their fuck-you attitude and ability to shape the malevolent grinding into wicked Billy Corgan-tinged song form.
[I]”You are a gho-o-o-st…”[/I] croons Simon spectrally in the insidious ‘Ghost’ and as he slashes into his frets with discord-maestro aplomb and the Cycles‘ plateau of neoclassical storm-chording levitates, it seems entirely possible that he’s addressing Placebo and telling them to get the flubber into the afterlife, now.
7 Cycles. Three songs. Five-star crowdsurfin’ skull-cruncher rock. The Smashing Brumkins have arrived.