On the Horizon: Sand & Slime, Cold Warps.

Maybe it's my predilection for the apathetic, or perhaps my inability to comprehend accents and idiom foreign to Southern England but "I'm gonna slime you" doesn't make a whole loada sense to me. Gently psychotic lyrics such as "I got you in my head: I don't know what it means/ I dreamed that you were dead: I don't know what it means" confound similarly although irrespective of apprehensions and incomprehensions, Cold Warps' Slimer crackles, spits and sicks the sort of delectable lo-fi statics it's nigh on impossible not to be entirely fascinated by. Like disgorged hunks of carrot soused in spew although far more fetching. Sonically akin to Sex Hands were the Londoners to wash themselves clean of the filthiest of pretences, Cold Warps wangle their way with a sort of head-in-the-sand, hand-down-your-swimmers surf stridency. Which I totally get. Thus consider me caught in the undertow, choking on the compelling furies and jejune insecurities of it all.