For seemed aeons, Bristol has been in dire need of definition, of reconfiguration regarding its various and varied music scenes. Its musical identity has required, yet never requested the opportunity to cement a refurbished reputation of heart and soul in the wake of the dissolution of the city's famed genre that became all too heartless, soulless as it hobbled on into the new millennium. However times change, and basslines of all shapes, sizes, and frequencies seem to have been displaced by the sort of unerring determination that suggests its musical pioneers aren't so much looking to grab the ignorant by the scruff of the neck, but to rip it from any turned back, spinal column and all. Music with a robust backbone, whether it's the outlandish Tropicalismo-tinged pop of Zun Zun Egui, or the hazy, dazed shoegaze of Towns, the West Country has more than a mere slab of driftwood to cling to in these times of change; an ark of biblical proportions has been constructed while everywhere else seems to have looked the other way. And if bands were to enter in pairs, hand in hand with the superlative Towns would most probably be their pals Spectres, a quartet inept in the engineering of 'pop hits', yet overtly capable of bursting blood vessels with a distorted, reckless, overdrive-ridden racket that's intermittently as delicate as it is overwhelmingly destructive. They've tied down the tumult, and enslaved it in the form of the Family EP, a collection of five abrasion-laden tracks that command consummate attention. Recorded with Rory Attwell, once of the revered, sanity-lacerating Test Icicles and latterly of Warm Brains renown, there's a suitably maniacal instability to Family, the opening howling guitar-fuelled bravado of Surrogate Mother caught in a tangled web of white noise and cymbal cacophony.
The portentous thudding of floor toms starkly announces the surging Elephant Skin, as obscured vox reminiscent of The Cooper Temple Clause (R.I.P.) are buried beneath shovel loads of stabbing bass string.
Animal Heart meanwhile is initially relatively subdued for the Bristol-based troupe, as a glimmer of anthemia emerges just past the minute mark. Atypically introverted, deadened vocals are stifled by multistory guitars that loom ominously prior to collapsing into several minutes of tremolo-drenched stridency.
Ben Gautrey, captain of a certain bunch of now-defunct doom mongers, once kicked up the fire to watch the flames break loose, and the interminable ending that is Black Brothers reignites their once-smouldering spirit, as almost operatic raucousness ebbs and flows, before slipping into something a little more sinister, lyrics of breaking up the family sterilely neutralised by the trill of a dogged acoustic.
An opportunely disquieting denouement to a record capable of wrecking expectations and redefining generic presumptions, welcome to the family Spectres.
