On the final Friday before the full fat blizzard of Xmas-ness sets in, just ahead of everything turning tinsel and sleigh bells, Monoxide Brothers tip out their bag on the coffee table and hold up their debut EP. This is your first chance to grip their music in your shivering fingers. On Manic Pixie Dream Pop four spirited rejections of the state of things step forward on rubbery legs, blinking in the light.
As great a title as Manic Pixie Dream Pop is, Monoxide Brothers are not exactly dream pop, certainly not in the sense of blurry overloaded indie guitar business, but the title holds other truths about their concerns, their wit, and the cineliterate frame of many of their lyrics. ‘Horses’, you might recall, is named for Ken’s disappointment that the patriarchy wasn’t about horses in Barbie. ‘Spine’ has vocalist Sophie Hack declare a preference to “gorge on horror films, no romance, no fantasy” and then, perhaps inevitably, there’s ‘Final Girl’.
Safe to say they are not greatly enamoured of the exhausting downsides that come with simply existing as a young woman in our present moment. Rather than rage and scream about it their response is smart and measured, there’s a cold fury behind the way Hack deadpans lines like “it makes me want to rip out my spine“, picturing psychological discomfort as body horror. Surveying the available options with dismay ‘Three Pounds Forty’ blinks from the underwhelm of a supermarket meal deal to the larger question of pre-packaged life paths and expectations with unease.
The elastic electronics of their music seem pulled between pop and avant impulses. It’s fun but not hyper shiny, it’s lo-fi and wayward but doesn’t sink into the murk. Fat distorting bass lines and crisp snare hits push the tunes along, tweaking synth lines weave in and out of each other. ‘Final Girl’ moves with a crooked gait, as if it has a wounded leg, while ‘Horses’ rides at a punchy gallop. It’s pleasingly analogue and organic, frayed around the edges, a little unpredictable. The sonic mood and claustrophobic lyrics of ‘Three Pounds Forty’ suggests some kind of wild card on an early 80s electro industrial cassette comp before ending on some apposite till bleeps with a sly wink.
Less manic than it is sardonic, if their sound is a little tricky to pin down, their bandcamp page calls it ‘anxietycore for hot girls’ which works as well as anything. They vent that anxiety while having a good time. I feel like I might not be playing it loud enough to get the full impact of the thumping beats but it clearly points to greater things to come.
