Fungal Punk: The Youth "Nothing But..."
Having reviewed a single release by these guys I have been struck by the dangerous contagion offered and swallowed up the chance to review this album, along with the appropriate meds. These sharp-suited Danes capture vibes of yore and spill them afresh with newfound vitality and animated relish. The repertoire coughed up on this album is, once more, expected to thrill with melody, to kill with startling accuracy and to spill with liquid lusciousness. The Youth have it all on their side, they offered me a taster, now I want a belly full of musical morsels.
The first swill is taken of a piece known as 'Come On', an immediate effervescing brew composed on eager beaver desire and brittle cinder vibes that make quite an intoxicating entrance. The strings are kept glassy, almost sharply fragile whilst the bass is kept bubbled and energetic so as to coincide with the upbeat friskiness of the tympanics and the grooved relish of the throat at the fore. The end result is of an 'happening' thrust of garaged thirst that will not be satiated anytime soon. Those who adore the cacophonic capers of this overlooked sub-scene will get drunk on this spillage and, like me, look forward to the chasing upchucks. 'Looking At You' gets bluesed upwards with a steam train forcefulness and early trashed out tonality that becomes further enhanced as the gobbage blooms from the steamed sonic setting. Industrious and scuttled with a dreamy overlay pushed from vaulted vaginas of yesteryear where a necessary smattering of scuzz was essential so as to pepper the whole dish with a certain reality. I am liking this and make special note of the decent activity levels going on within the weave - nifty.
'You're Leaving' punctuates, froghops on beaned up zest that reinforces the entire framework of the song and gives an encouraging aspect that will keep the idle eared involved. Again we have strains of 'in scene' infection that will only be truly absorbed by the clued in connoisseurs but these titbits should in no way be tossed aside just because they aren't your thang ma'an. Invest some time, roll the flavours around the neglected palate and ponder further - get in to the slipstream, savour the spartanised approach, feel these masters manipulate their melodies and strut their stuff. This one, perhaps is not as effective as the opening two accounts, but it has much to its merit and makes for a thriving opening hat-trick.
Next and the ramshackle rumble and skipped, whipped flurry of 'Girls Like You', a stark and rinsed out prickled product with hive-ish activity and tin can acoustics that reverberate around the inner lugs with generic precision. The song however leaves me a trifle flat as it never fully grasps its potential and seems to lack a conviction between verse and chorus with neither really jack-hammering the listener with direct and decisive tones. It may be a personal issue but it is one I feel worth noting - on I go with honesty in tact (as per). 'Bubblegum' bounces on the palate, improves with each masticated eavesdrop and flourishes the oral organ (ooy sexy buggers) with gnawing acuteness. The bopping rhythm, the cymbalised shadows that surround the skin work and the weaving bass routine that fills in any gaps all allow the guitar to strut its six-strung ass in almost jammed style and so, what we get, is a liberated lesson in easy go tuneage that fuckin' well works.
'Vicious' burrows beneath the skin with a sub-Cavernised sensation that has much self-confidence and decisive 60's pop culturism built in to the overall flow. The deliberate bending of the wires and that shimmered backdrop of neatly shaken not stirred sonica is swallowed in one easy draft with all glass rim additives complimentary to the main flow - easy. 'Count' whips a steel horse across tin foiled plains before easing up and taking time to recharge the batteries with cool dude electro impulses delivered from many immersed souls who know no better and play it for pure kicks. One for the aficionados of the sub-scene or those obsessed with dipping their mitts in the retro clutter bucket with full focus on a joining in the gallop and free-trotting along with a pocketful of vibes - you get the gist I hope. 'Suede' comes on buoyant tones each one bubbled with precise application and feelgood presence. The plucky nature belies the fact that the song is more sobered and deals with a warning. The vocal approach is smoothed and glides over the pimpled surface of sound with ease. The inner snippet soaked in hollered and hollowed tribality is opposing and upholds interest - the standard is maintained. Next up and forceful string strikes come in highly tinned up fashion and grab the attention in no uncertain terms. Tympanics pulse, the gobbage fights through the forthright chops and we end up with a condensed and well saturated sound that goes by the label of 'That's Your Problem'. The band somehow contrive to make a minimalism of noise into a maximisation of racketology and with the occasional surge and hepped up bass line this one is a real driller killer that bores its way into your foot tapping consciousness.
A rattle to the finish line with 4 to go and an appropriate shake ass shimmer to get you in the groove. 'Save My Love' has spunk, loads itself up with backstreet vim and shuffles away with yet more bluesy fragrances neatly dabbed on to what is a well splattered canvas. I find this one though a little too repetitive and not meeting the standard the band have set thus far, it's their own fault. It is in keeping with the route taken but I just feel a little uninvolved and a little less aroused than I do by other tracks. 'The Norwegian Feeling' has more funkiness, more gusto and swings its booty with easier relish thus magnetising the listeners attention and making for a real fruited up experience. The guitars are well wanked, the drums skipped with bluster, the gob as liberal and sub-scorched as per and when combining these elements with the overall jerkiness, the stop and showcase segment as well as the clustered effect, you have another gratifying ditty on yer mitts. 'About To Run' attacks, rolls around, gets set and goes at it with a staggered verse contrasting with the ironed out chorus - all done with the jerk factor high and the lo-fi affect, ahem, low. Metallic, glinting with inner agitation and as brittle-stemmed as you like - pure baby, pure. We walk away into the silence with 'Baby I Am Back', a drawling sneak along with a careful hand sliding up the sonically stockinged leg and offering something of a promise, something of a comfort. The underlying sub-text is blurred but the musical drift and intent is not and this is a fascinating finish that has me wondering if the band are best at alternating the slow and serpentine around the speedy and straight ahead - I reckon so. Either way this is a sound finish.
An album that has much to dwell on, one of those that no matter how many times you spin you always come away feeling as though something has been missed or a certain part of you is left unsatisfied. It has many highpoints to savour however and brings to the table some much needed options for a dude drenched in dinnage. The Youth are a very effective band and yet I still feel there is much more to come - bodes well doesn't it?