Though intrigue levels have been sustained by the succession of strong single releases since Cleethorpes trio ORPHAN BOY signed to Concrete in 2006, this debut album still takes the breath away.
It’s powerful stuff. Hollow bass sounds and cymbal delicate percussion are a precursor to the choppy guitar craziness of bile-infested opener ‘Kick Junk’. Dark and dysfunctional, hollow and ice-cold, it motors along on a frenzied, freaky path, hinting rock but in reality balanced on a razor’s edge.
Self-destructive urges, brooding, breeding ugly violence and scraped out frustration feed the rockabilly poetry right to the sudden halt as ‘Grand Piano’ gives way to the relentless, skanking ‘Satellites’, an uncompromising and direct attack on clone culture that goes down in a blaze of crash chord descending glory..
“Aww, fuck ‘um” spits the appropriately named Rob Cross in a final fit of exasperation. Offerings like this set the band’s three Concrete single releases in perfect context, with debut single ‘Trophies Of Love’ reworked for sardonic effect. B-side ‘Middle Class Roots’ drifts effortlessly resigned into the kind of vinyl scratched radio interference that sees all signals scrambled during the minimal piece de resistance. ‘Alderley Edge’ is utterly jumpy and brilliantly fucked up beyond all comprehension, the fractal vocal anger and random automatic guitar fire held together only by a typically tightened percussive display from drummer Chris Day. Elsewhere, disturbing sub-guitars fuel a frenzied rendition as ‘The Salesman’ motors on.
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Despite the coastal origins of this dissatisfied trio, a delicate acoustic sea shanty still comes as both a surprise and a revelation, but in ‘Ancient Mariner’ there is real and breathtaking beauty clinging to the shores of sanity.
ORPHAN BOY’S strength in depth also shines during the brilliant ‘Lokomotive Blue’, an Eastern European drenched death-waltz of beautiful and magnetic proportions. The vitriolic fire perhaps burns brightest in the setlist showstopper ‘Flicknife’, a dark and bitter ode to the tooled-up Polish kids that stalk the streets, paranoid and disorientated. Featuring fractured lead vocals from bass player/guitarist Smiffy it stands testament to the reversible power of their blistering offensive.
The self-titled theme tune ‘Orphan Boy’ brings this barnstorming record to a showstopping conclusion: surely it is only a matter of time before this trio become Grimsby’s first-ever pop stars
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