After four years or so away London based oddballs Michael return with a gift and a grin. What they’re bringing us is a bag of Nite Salad. I’m not clear on what exactly that is but it’s chopped and crunchy, probably has vivid pink mystery pickles in it and comes in pita bread to offset the heart-attack grease load of some bestial night bus craving. The cover illustration has veggies bathing in moonlight at the window. Are they vigilant or are they sleeping? It might be more fitting to imagine them ready for nocturnal mischief once the coast is clear.
Weaving multiple strands from the harder, heavier, end of things Michael are a rock band that needs no prefix. They’ve built their idiosyncratic little world from familiar and well worn elements but keep the genre moves or scenes they might slot into at arms length. The more you think about it the harder and more impressive that is for a band whose music is so direct. But it probably doesn’t help to think too much about it, Michael do not appear to have an agenda, their music is not a channel for the usual rage, depression, curdled lust, or nonsense about wizards/satan.
Much of this inevitably falls on the shoulders of frontman Milo. A less singular vocalist might make them seem like a weird metal, noise rock, or even hard psych band. Thankfully he is more than up to the task, flying their freak flag in a pink silk shirt. A compelling figure on stage his voice is strong but never showy. His lyrics tend to contraction and repetition, chopped and crunchy, short and inscrutable, delivered with conviction. The sort of cut ‘n’ pasted everyday surrealism more common in awkward 80s indie bands than hard rock.
The album opens with a driving single chord coming straight at you, instantly sweeping you along and “We’re tearing up paper and finger bangin’ windows, tiny little windows, one face at a time”. Um…yeah. After a minute and a half it suddenly goes all cosmic and dreamy for a long spell before finally coming back around. The thumping ’50 Buff’ just seems to be about being in a band as, possibly, is ‘Thank U’ although it’s often hard to be sure. Potentially veiled references to drugs and or decorating abound. ‘The Jogger’ is straightforward enough and brings the delightful “I’m a rice and potatoes man, skippin’ the ham I am”.
The words are a lot of fun is what I’m saying, if less immediate than the music. I’ve been lucky enough to catch Michael live a couple of times in the run up to this release. At Supernormal this summer they absolutely killed it, knocking out the sort of set that suddenly made everyone else look a bit half-arsed. Caught them again last month and it was no fluke, they are really on fire so if you get the chance – do not miss out. Nite Salad doesn’t quite match the power of the live experience but it is full of the joys of rock ‘n’ roll. It’s loud, dumb, weird, greasy, noisy and exciting. It hits the spot. Chili sauce boss?
