Buscar:westside cowboy

Westside Cowboy aus Manchester zählen aktuell zu den spannendsten neuen Indie-/Alternative-Bands
Großbritanniens. Das Quartett, das sich vor drei Jahren in Manchester formierte und kürzlich bei Island
Records UK unterschrieben hat, veröffentlicht am 21. August sein Debütalbum It Goes On.
Mit der neuen Single „Kick Stones (The Boys)“ liefert die Band einen ersten Vorgeschmack auf ihren
mitreißenden Sound zwischen euphorischem Indie-Rock und emotionaler Intensität. Gemeinsam mit Produzent Loren Humphrey (Geese, Cameron Winter, Wunderhorse) entstanden elf Songs, die die Verwirrung,
Verzweiflung und Hoffnung des Erwachsenwerdens einfangen.
Westside Cowboy konnten bereits mehrere ausverkaufte Headline-Shows spielen, darunter im Scala in
London und im Gorilla in Manchester. Im Anschluss tourte die Band als Support von Geese durch Großbritannien und Europa, bevor sie im Herbst mit einer eigenen UK- und Europa-Tour unterwegs sein wird. It
Goes On ist das eindrucksvolle Debüt einer Band, die man jetzt auf dem Radar haben sollte.

Westside Cowboy return with their new EP ‘So Much Country Till’ We Get There”, released January 16th via their new label home Adventure Recordings. With their particular blend of self-titled ‘Britainicana’ the Manchester-based four piece have been heralded as one of the best live bands in the country, winning Glastonbury’s Emerging Talent Competition, and appearing as a regular fixture on the BBC Radio 6 Music playlist.

Debuts come and go. Some serve as juvenilia. Others showcase lost promise. Rarely are they cultural touchpoints. Enter This Better be Something Great by Westside Cowboy, an EP rammed with nu-generational indie. It’s been a while since something so era-defining dropped but you get the impression that Westside Cowboy are about to become a reference point. Shorthand for a new movement in guitar music. And when the dust settles, held in similar acclaim reserved for only the most influential of indie bands. With a sound raw as a carpet burn, they ride a thrilling lo-fi boxcar tuned to the melodic precision of Teenage Fanclub and held together with the slacker cool of Pavement. Authentic, fidgety and immediate, the guitars on this record crackle like a twinkling bed of kindling primed to ignite at any given moment and when they do it’s a barn dance of headrush overdrive & blitzkrieg drums leaving listeners raw and fully exposed to each bristling, crackle of magic coming their way. File under: modern classic.

Newly signed to indie heavyweights Heist or Hit (Westside Cowboy, Her’s) EP two: ‘Marionette’ has been produced by Daniel Fox (Sprints, Melts, Psychotic Monks, Naked Lungs, Nerves, Ronan Group) and it’s set to be seminal. A set text for future musicians with aspirations of innovation. “The theme of the marionette is present throughout each song, involving some aspect of a power struggle and a lack of control within oneself.” Opener ‘Chocolate’ bounces in on a synth line as slippery and hyperactive as anything Aphex Twin ever cooked up. Crispy offbeat electronic cymbals play counterpoint to atonal guitars and pugilistic drumming before the track dry-wretches its way into a nauseating cacophony of euphoria. It’s a tale of crippling social anxiety and a preference for an unflattering, lonely reality. The muted guitar pluck in the intro to ‘Crows’ is the sonic equivalent of biting one’s nails. An anxious, involuntary tic that speaks to the theme of guilt, especially surrounding digital culture: “children can watch what they please, just with viewer discretion.” The track lurches between textures, weaving themselves in and out of focus. Guitars blare like sirens, interrupting paranoid urban centres at 2am, while the bass sounds like the inside of an insomniac’s head on day four of a REM drought.

The metallic intent of ‘Discipline’ squats on the chest as though Steve Albini is your sleep paralysis demon. The pain of accountability spews from the industrial regularity of the beat, apt to the narrative of a soldier coming to terms with the lies that made him commit atrocious, violent acts. EP closer ‘Servant’ starts like a Spectrum loading screen. Dial-up modem-coded, it pauses for moments of white-noise-vomit and existential bloops. Fitting for a more abstract take on the idea of the power struggle filtered through religious imagery and self-awareness of one’s own actions, coupled with an inability to exert control over them. The band pile on the textures with sadistic glee until the evil is exorcized and the modem melts. Connection severed. Across the EP, vocalist Joseph has a tendency to hyper-fixate on themes of control and unhappiness. Creating rooms in which doom and isolation ricochet. Not that it’s all bad news “we like to think that by shedding light on the negative, it commands a sense of hope.” Influenced as much by the liminal-space horror and uncanny dread of Silent Hill as the existentialist theatre of The Twilight Zone or the absurdity of Twin Peaks, they occupy a space between unease and impulse. Makeshift Art Bar are not a band interested in being liked. They’re a band interested in being necessary. There’s so much eating and drinking in their work that multiple listens simply don’t satisfy; something new reveals itself on each return visit. Audacious. Idiosyncratic. Vital. A young band carrying identity, defiance and an uncompromising vision as if it isn’t a rare cargo.

Newly signed to indie heavyweights Heist or Hit (Westside Cowboy, Her’s) EP two: ‘Marionette’ has been produced by Daniel Fox (Sprints, Melts, Psychotic Monks, Naked Lungs, Nerves, Ronan Group) and it’s set to be seminal. A set text for future musicians with aspirations of innovation. “The theme of the marionette is present throughout each song, involving some aspect of a power struggle and a lack of control within oneself.” Opener ‘Chocolate’ bounces in on a synth line as slippery and hyperactive as anything Aphex Twin ever cooked up. Crispy offbeat electronic cymbals play counterpoint to atonal guitars and pugilistic drumming before the track dry-wretches its way into a nauseating cacophony of euphoria. It’s a tale of crippling social anxiety and a preference for an unflattering, lonely reality. The muted guitar pluck in the intro to ‘Crows’ is the sonic equivalent of biting one’s nails. An anxious, involuntary tic that speaks to the theme of guilt, especially surrounding digital culture: “children can watch what they please, just with viewer discretion.” The track lurches between textures, weaving themselves in and out of focus. Guitars blare like sirens, interrupting paranoid urban centres at 2am, while the bass sounds like the inside of an insomniac’s head on day four of a REM drought.

The metallic intent of ‘Discipline’ squats on the chest as though Steve Albini is your sleep paralysis demon. The pain of accountability spews from the industrial regularity of the beat, apt to the narrative of a soldier coming to terms with the lies that made him commit atrocious, violent acts. EP closer ‘Servant’ starts like a Spectrum loading screen. Dial-up modem-coded, it pauses for moments of white-noise-vomit and existential bloops. Fitting for a more abstract take on the idea of the power struggle filtered through religious imagery and self-awareness of one’s own actions, coupled with an inability to exert control over them. The band pile on the textures with sadistic glee until the evil is exorcized and the modem melts. Connection severed. Across the EP, vocalist Joseph has a tendency to hyper-fixate on themes of control and unhappiness. Creating rooms in which doom and isolation ricochet. Not that it’s all bad news “we like to think that by shedding light on the negative, it commands a sense of hope.” Influenced as much by the liminal-space horror and uncanny dread of Silent Hill as the existentialist theatre of The Twilight Zone or the absurdity of Twin Peaks, they occupy a space between unease and impulse. Makeshift Art Bar are not a band interested in being liked. They’re a band interested in being necessary. There’s so much eating and drinking in their work that multiple listens simply don’t satisfy; something new reveals itself on each return visit. Audacious. Idiosyncratic. Vital. A young band carrying identity, defiance and an uncompromising vision as if it isn’t a rare cargo.

Newly signed to Heist or Hit (Westside Cowboy, Her’s, Nature TV), Georgian's forthcoming debut EP 'Crackled Grounds' reads like an anthology in the vein of The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. These aren’t just songs, but scenes, self-contained worlds that glimmer with strange detail before dissolving into mirage. “We recorded on a farm just north of Amsterdam” states James. “It gave us space and focus and helped us channel the Western feel we wanted to impress upon the tracks. Arno gave us lots of pedal board options and guitar choices. Those things in particular helped us fine-tune the sound we were chasing.” The resulting collection chronicles the ups and downs of existence and blooms with natural imagery. ‘Strike a Wound’ seethes with revenge. The slow attack on the guitars has the onomatopoeic effect of enacting each blow. ‘Crackled Grounds’ conjures an apocalyptic wilderness that wouldn’t be out of place on the ‘Kill Bill’ soundtrack. ‘Medusa’ is a parable of strong women overcoming obstacles and jolts with the energy of those early Johnny Cash Sun recordings. ‘Gardens’ lingers on the awkward tenderness of running into a long-lost lover; while ‘Californian Jeans’ pays homage to denim as talisman, armour, and second skin.

Much like the duo’s music, the story of Rural France is both mundane and magical. Tom Brown (also of transatlantic janglepunks Teenage Tom Petties) and Rob Fawkes moved to London in their mid-twenties. Despite living under the same roof, they never picked up a guitar – except for one drunken, failed attempt at writing a Spoon song (“Big Chops” …don’t ask). It was only after both separately relocating to Wiltshire and starting families that they began assembling songs as a way of meeting up. Tom had amassed a pile of sprightly slacker jams that were calling out for Fawkes’ messily melodic guitar lines. Rural France was born.

After a debut album on their hero, ex-Lemonhead Nic Dalton’s Half-a-Cow Records, they retreated to a garage to record their next two albums: RF (2021) and Exacamondo! (2024), both released on much-respected jangle label Meritorio Records. Despite being lo-fi in the truest GbV sense, both records were warmly received by the DIY indie blogosphere, with their short, scrappy, but supremely melodic songs landing on numerous AOTY lists. RF even won Album of the Year at Janglepop Hub.

Raven Sings The Blues probably summed up the sound best: “With drunken visions of Beach Boys harmonies playing in the back of their heads and hooks that consume Teenage Fanclub cheeriness with the same beautiful brevity that drives Tony Molina, the pair have knocked out eleven rumpled classics.” Album four, SLOTHS, arrives via Meritorio Records and Safe Suburban Home Records on 08/05, and is a slightly different beast. For one, it’s been mixed by a professional – Rob Slater (Westside Cowboy, Yard Act, Thank) – giving the guitars and drums room to breathe. It’s easily their most high-fidelity record to date. It’s also their jangliest, most baroque and thoughtful album yet. But alongside added organ, horns and mellotron – and drums from Tom’s Teenage Tom Petties bandmate Jeff Hamm – it still retains the buzzes, hums and little freak-outs that stick to the duo’s original “Pavement playing Teenage Fanclub” mission statement. “Rob and I both wanted to do something a little slower and a little more melancholy,” says Tom. “We resisted our usual urge to hit the distortion pedal and made something that fitted where we are now and celebrates how we still listen to Meatloaf when we get drunk.”

SLOTHS is also the most thematically consistent Rural France record to date. While it wouldn’t be right to call it grown-up, it definitely has homeowners’ insurance. From the Silver Jews-esque Americana of “Slab” and mid-life rallying cry of “Thirty Seven Forever”, to the horn-embossed loser anthem “Lonely Heart Pyramid Scheme,” the songs celebrate (and rail against) the absurdities of getting older, forming a band in your thirties, and the strange phenomenon of time passing. Because no matter how slow you move, everything else goes fast. SLOTHS.