A pub backroom Mogwai, a fistful of hard-drinking
herberts; the best thing to come out of Manor
House since, um, ever. North London’s Teeth of the
Sea are all these things and more.
Having first come to attention with 2009’s
Orphaned by the Ocean, the band has displayed a
knack for winning track titles, such as Swear
Blind the Alsatian’s Melting and Only Fools on
Horse. They also once saw in the New Year
performing the Flash Gordon soundtrack. They are,
genuinely, not like other bands.
On this their second album, the quartet operates
in the dimension of diametric forms where prog
dynamics meet post-rock and build monstrous
monuments of sound to the dystopian future-fear
out of the subfusc. Your Mercury winningly takes
in elements of shoe-gaze, horror-core wonk-synths,
psychedelic warping and linear new age repetition
to create an escalating unquiet hardcore whole
that dwarfs their contemporaries. This album will
also be cited as reason for several lesser acts to
gnaw their hands off and crumble into dust.
The almost-title-track You’re Mercury is late
Miles Davis duelling with Goblin on a theme to the
sort of garage video nasty that’s still yet to be
transferred to DVD; likewise A.C.R.O.N.Y.M., which
channels John Carpenter into thrilling dark metal.
Red Soil builds into a glorious waterboard of
squalling noise, while closer Hovis Coil undulates
like Steve Reich’s Different Trains to a sudden
stop. Then you go back to the start and play
again, and again.
Like a giant android kestrel occupying an ominous
telephasic cathedral, Your Mercury soars into a
colossal beast of a record that stands imposingly
above the rest of its field, striking maximum awe
and fear into the weak, while it opens Teeth of
the Sea’s account with greatness. This is the
start of an odyssey built on crap lager, British
sitcoms and noise rock that looks set to build
menacingly in the future, and one that you would
be daft to ignore. Play very loud.