Witch Hats - PleasureSyndrome

Wed 21st Dec, 2011 in Music Reviews

Having set themselves apart with sheer sonic vulgarity on debut album Cellulite Soul, Witch Hats feel like a band more content to follow their instincts on Pleasure Syndrome. As it happens, their instincts are pretty good.

On album number two the band take detours into the terrain of luminaries such as Teenage Fanclub, The Sunnyboys and The Clash. Despite all of these excursions though, Witch Hats can’t help but sound unique, perhaps due to Kris Buscombe’s strangled yelp, or the sheer intensity of the playing; either way, such a distinct musical identity is a rare thing, and Witch Hats’ most valuable asset.

It sets songs like Another Worthless Body Sold and Pissing In The Snow apart. More than just the standard guitars n’ bile formula, the latter is an ode to the wastrel life that rolls along on a surprisingly sweet chord progression. The former could be about childbirth, human trafficking or prostitution, but is most noteworthy for now-departed guitarist Tom Barry’s star turn, with a gnarled tango-style riff. In fact, Barry’s barbed, no-wave guitar rivals Kris Buscombe’s vocals for top billing across the album, such is the ferocity and the invention of his offerings.

In moving to more classic pop structures, if not sounds and subject matter, principal songwriter Kris Buscombe’s occasionally struggles with the basic mechanics of his songs. Clunky transitions, weak sections in otherwise strong tracks, momentum-killing interludes, all bob up at frustrating moments on an otherwise compelling album. In The Mortuary is a case in point; an unusual, winding chord progression chugs along with Velvet Underground-like insistence, while Kris plays a self-flagellating, jilted lover. It’s darkly compelling, which is why it’s such a shame when the song breaks out of the psychic undergrowth and into a sunny, cloying pop song. Sure, there’s a veiled death threat (‘in the mortuary/they love you when you’re still’), but all that tightly-wound tension just dissipates.

And these guys know tension. Vague lyrics hint at a dread that never comes into focus; riffs scrape at the limits of control, and Kris Buscombe’s sneer, well, you wouldn’t want to give him your home address. In spite of its mild mechanical issues, Pleasure Syndrome remains a remarkable piece of acidic, misanthropic rock.