the bordellos

Latest volume of vault digging rarities served up on one of those ‘name your price’ soirees, the seventh in fact of their ongoing ‘underground tapes’ project, this is the criminally neglected St Helens sore thumbs the Bordellos with four more from the cutting room floor. This is, I guess, the one you could call their ‘love songs’ set and okay while they mightn’t do love songs that most are accustomed to – you know the ones – boy meets girl blah blah blah, the Bordellos skewed and oddly off centred approach is one oozed in a humdrum slippers n’ pipe familiarity. Barbed humour, fading recollections and minimalist wistfulness peppered with the occasional bite are the order of the day on this quartet gathering of fraying fry ups. We must admit to adoring the intimacy of these homeless lo-fi rambles as they slyly blister, prime cut here being the dandelion session take of ‘straight outta Southport’ – a crumpled sonic postcard distressed by life and a moment lost softly spun in a tear-stained nostalgia that probes, picks and prickles at the emotional defences leaving you somewhat humbled and hurtfully cowered, one for the Decoration fans among you. Running it a close second in the affection stakes, ‘jolly old England’ almost had us of a mind to go rooting out our much-loved copy of Freed Unit’s ‘gigglegoo’ while similarly calling to mind the mighty Of Arrowe Hill, which at this point anyone residing close by – please give them a nudge cos its been a long while. Elsewhere there’s the wonderfully ramshackle glaze of the impishly titled ‘tesco chainstore massacre’  while amidst the hazy wooziness of a slacker psych crookedness, you suspect a rollicking killer cut is impatiently waiting to break from the lazy eyed casualness that dulls and stupefies the grooves of ‘they shoot horses don’t they’. Essential – as though you needed telling.

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