Whilst we incessantly question quite what it is that makes The Strokes so intrinsically untouchable, and the ceaseless and unfounded nonchalance protruding through The Drums' vacuous vapidity so alluring, few acts chewed up and spat out onto the world by the five boroughs are as instantaneously intriguing as
Violens. Seemingly suckling on the 80s, the New York trio's Tim Burton-esque quirk pop showcased on Amoral is infused with the histrionic, towering guitar theatrics of Mew and vocals that recall the Wikipedia thesaurus of singers your parents were reared on, from Bernard Sumner's sarcasm-stained monotone, to Morrissey's enamoured demeanour, to Snappy Snaps' nemesis, George Michael. Are You Still in the Illusion?, with saxophones previously encountered stringing together the Roxy Music discography is wonkily artsy, chameleonic pop at its finest, as cascading washes of sound dribble like John Hoyland's acrylic, and deadpan vox reminiscent of The Shins' James Mercer ooze into synths dripping in kaleidoscopic goo resulting in an abstraction once told uniquely by DalĂ's wristwatch. It Couldn't be Perceived is Tears For Fears, were they commissioned to soundtrack a cross-pollination of James Bond and Lost In Space, whilst Violent Sensation Descends is Race Horses brought up on LSD and The Lightning Seeds. Full Collision is The Smiths splashing about in seas of chorus pedals in place of coral, whilst The Dawn of Your Happiness is Rising sets Violens apart as a transatlantic Wild Beasts of sorts, rampaging wide-eyed through the phosphorescent skyscrapers of Shibuya on the verge of comatose. Amoral highlight Acid Reign channels Mercury Rev's delusions of grandeur, polishing them off and unleashing a bestial wonder far more ravishing than the sum of its parts, as the odd expletive meets guitars more racy, more raucous than any blasĂ© blurted out all too knowingly by Steel Panther. About as probable to set fire to contemporary indie as The Wombats are to incinerate the NME office, Violens aren't intangibly omnipotent although set to tour with one of the aforementioned Big Apple idols (the insipid bowl-cut bunch), they're more than likely to inject a little more visceral, guilt-tinged pleasure into proceedings than dreary surf songs from the concrete high rises of... Brooklyn...
