Yannis and co.
Trot boldly onto album three
* * * *
Elinor Potts
In a haze
of almost Win-esque vocals, Yannis initiates the turbulent expedition of Foals’
ambitious third album in a flurry of interweaving guitars. This veritable melodic smorgasbord is an
intrepid exposition into what many deem to be the their breakthrough album,
seminal to 2013 (though recently grappling for the formidable Mercury prize snubbed
to by none other than blub-stepper James Blake in the woozy, bluesy wake of Overgrown).
From their math rock roots the Oxford bred collective shuffled onto the scene
in 2005, clean shaven with a fresh faced penchant for similarly clean cut
guitars. Beards a bit longer, minds a bit darker, after cult ballad Spanish
Sahara of 2011 dropped there was always going to be an over-hype for the
infamously tricky third album.
First track
Interlude is a well-crafted tribute to those earlier guitar counterpoints of
Antidotes and textur-alised with the classic Foals’motif. Inhaler proceeds,
leaving a funky trail in its wake. Their decision to incorporate a more
neo-funk element evident from live clips from late 2011, experimenting with the
crossing of musical territories with ‘O Funk’ and‘Krakowfunk’ shabbily
surfacing on YouTube. ‘IMPOSSIBLE POSSIBLE’ he wails at your cochlea, a
grittier tone, with driving festival ambience, ‘I shimmy and shake, I wake and
bake’ that despite proclamations of curbs in collective weed
consumption, his is a blatant nod to drug culture (-or a newfound vocation in
early rising culinary exploration?)
Arguably an unrepresentative first single of
this venture to the mainstream defiant pop ballad ‘My Number’ slinks
light-heartedly behind- a defining mainstream anthem, projecting Foals further
into the public eye. Injections of ‘Oooo’ Beyonce style-y backing administer an
undercurrent of sass from the suburban ass-jigglers.
A slower
affair, the Chelsea favoured ‘Bad Habit’ is tainted by the visual acquisition
of twenty something Cameron hailers and twenty something awkward pauses
dragging our hoofed collective further into the pitiful abyss of Grazia
flicking primetimers.
‘Come this
way’ Yannis beckons you, underpinned by booty shaking bass one can’t help but
fall amorously into the musical embrace as he breathes down your neck ‘every
time I see you, I wanna sail away’.
The solo
Indie serenade ‘Late Night’ is a sort of Spanish Sahara take #2, an auditory
time warp of the 2010 infamous video as you gaze out over a vast expanse of
stagnant water, blubbering. A nod to Two Steps Twice, epic guitar solo storms,
a love child conceived in the womb of rehabilitation, fated for muddy fields.
You can almost hear the future yelps of pretentious new disciples; ‘I’m totally
into the old school The Foals’ holding only this number to their name. It
builds in an expansion of melodic satisfaction as Philipakkis makes sweet audio
love.
You’re
plunged further into a grotto of heavenly noise as ‘Out of the Woods’ emerges, the runt of a
pedigree litter much to the fault of its psychologically harrowing video and
with quite possibly the best goddamn use of glockenspiel synth since the
dawning of time. It makes you think that after 29:50 minutes of incessant
groovin’ you’ve almost certainly acquired RSS in your right foot.
They’ve
come a long way since 2010’s Total Life Tour. As a 14 year old punter caught in
a primary midst of groggy rockers and stale ale, the first encountering of
haphazard musical enlightenment was nothing short of monumentous.
A brew of
angst driven dystopian lullabies whilst perpetuating the Math Rock influence in
playing ‘Cassius’ and set staple ‘Two Steps’ with characteristic guitar solo
that has frontman clambering the crevices of the Brighton Dome. Juxtaposed by
their Reading 2013, this performance displayed a wizened head-down spectacle,
drawing in flocks of pilgrims stretched over sparse Reading fields, a bona fide
Meccah to those immersed in the Indie sphere.
There is a definite musical cohesion to this
record, intertexture prominent and crafted with loving hands. Bold use of
strings and a fluidity of synths that rears its head as the record begins to
round itself off and adopts a more pensive, contemplative stance. More filler
less killer- anyone tells you this is their favourite is a foot-kissing
toe-tapping ultimately bland imbecile.
IS THIS A
CONDONATION OF CLASSICAL ORCHESTRATION? I have scrawled in my notes on
proceeding ‘Milk and Black Spiders’ it’s not quite a Muse but it’s a definite
third album act of pomposity leaving auditory voyeurs frothing at the mouth. ‘I’m
an animal just like you’ he assures in a cursive tones, breathing sultry air
over that recurrent riff. Thereon follows the descent to desolation ‘I’m
falling, deeper down I go’ he says whimsically to prevalent string
orchestration and near tribal percussion in the penultimate Stepson, as Moon
boasts tenacious lyricism from our enigmatic facially furred Cypriot. It
ultimately concludes on a polished, glassy Sigur Ros note making for an overall
emotive, synthesised melange of dominant triumph, all guns blazing.
Peaks and
troughs, of emotion, turbulent this is a veritable voyage leaving one
breathless and gripping the seatbelt for dear life. A triumph regardless,
teetering on the conceptual, still an astonishing feat of achievement in this
age of hashtagged, Internet frenzied, TV roused audiences.
Hats off to
Senor P. and the gang.
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