ORPHAN BOY might be based in the Manchester area, but their second Concrete release lurches and spits with the scenes of their native East Coast.
‘Postcode’ sees Cleethorpes’ first potential pop heroes draw upon the isolated wasteland places where boredom rules, inhabited near exclusively by the living dead. Dark slurred shadowy images, half-mental snapshots of a nightmare vision that’s much closer to home.
‘Postcode’, at four and a half minutes long sprawls and lurches in comparison to its razor sharp predecessor, the explosive ‘Trophies Of Love’. Radio-friendly it ain’t.
Both are sleaze-filled and bad tempered. After the nail bomb goes off there is the aftermath. Delayed shock. The horror of this nightmare vision. There’s a blurred and confused introduction that makes the listener work hard. Guitars still spell chaos, and lyrically it’s as demented as ever, but the howling feedback and distorted anger are deep set within the song. Rob Cross’s reverberating vocal mantras only add to the chaos and instability.
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The drums have as ever the tightest of reins on the whole effect. Chris Day’s beats alternate between weighing heavy like a heartbeat to super fast 1/16ths as the tempo warps within a looping cycle.
Pop sensibilities are melted away, along with marketing considerations – their second single sees the band marginalising themselves, separating themselves from the pack. Like their live performances, the decisions behind their Concrete career so far keep the levels of intrigue sky high. POSTCODE is not explosive, but much more punishing than ‘Trophies Of Love’.
Edgy paranoia, a loose grip on sanity and volatile understated sonic carnage. That’s how I’m gonna sum up this record, one that sees ORPHAN BOY twisting and wrecking the plot from within
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