Just as there are many things in this life not to be knocked until they've at least been tried, post-rock should never be attempted without gorging on Scottish miserablists
Mogwai prior to emulation and even then, any attempt is almost irrefutably destined to melt away in imitation like ice cap chippings drifting away and dissolving in Hebridean waters. Seventh LP proper Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will is a record so titanic it's capable of quaking both heartstrings and the earth underfoot, opener White Noise meticulously constructed from searing euphoria and enough effects pedals to fill the Royal Albert Hall. Instrumental or unintelligible throughout, Mogwai have continually rendered lyrics all but superficial to contemporary song structure, as crescendos wax and wane over ebbing cymbals and Stuart Braithwaite's howling and flowing guitar hysteria. Whirring organs asphyxiate vocals obfuscated by vocoder on Mexican Grand Prix, a track shrouded in as much glorious ambiguity as its title, whilst Death Rays revels in harmonious disheartenment reminiscent of 2 Rights Make 1 Wrong. Rano Pano is Lemmy trudging to Braveheart-esque battle, before ethereal chimes beam in and permeate a bass-laden distortion encountered in DFA1979 dreams, whilst San Pedro sounds like shlurping Orange Juice while hurtling around Silverstone in a wheelbarrow towed by Sebastian Vettel. Given the dearth of lyrics throughout, each track title assimilates enigmatic aspects, as with the exhilarating, if bewilderingly entitled George Square Thatcher Death Party, perhaps the envisaged sound of Conservative execution in an apocalyptic Glasgow city centre. Letters To The Metro meanwhile sounds altogether celestial, best celebrated in Union Chapel as stained glass windows shatter overhead and clamourous bells ringing in 2012 toll, whilst How To Be A Werewolf undulates and bobs in both major and minor key atop stringent drum foundation, before launching headlong into a wall of cataclysmic decibel elevation, finally languishing exhaustedly. Overtly imposing denouement You're Lionel Richie condenses a day of Reading Main Stage antics into eight and a half cochlea-ravaging minutes, gradually ascending to overdrive zenith, headbanging until its skull rots and rolls off. Existentially speaking, we're all going to die. Mogwai, too, will one day expire. But whilst hardcore may not appreciably enhance our existence (not that Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will particularly touches on the genre), this record just might.
