A rumble on the horizon. Gritted teeth, nuclear fizz and fissured rock. A dab of pill dust from a linty pocket before it hits: the atom split, pool table overturned, pint glass smashed valley fever breaking with the clouds as the inertia of small town life is well and truly disrupted. Here to bust out of Doledrum, clad in a t-shirt that screams Socialism and armed with drum machine, synth, pedal and icy stare are Working Mens Club, and their self-titled debut album.
Their eponymous collection of songs is equal parts Calder Valley restlessness and raw Sheffield steel; guitars locking horns with floor-filling beats, synths masquerading as drums and Minsky-Sargeants scratchy, electrifying bedroom demos brought to their full potential by Ortons blade-sharp yet sensitive production.
Standouts include the nonchalant existential groove John Cooper Clarke centred around the realisation that yes, even the luckiest guy alive, the Bard of Salford himself, will someday die. The washily-vocalled, Orange Juicily-guitared White Rooms and People, Cook A Coffee which is like a lost Joy Division number from an alternate universe and the frenetic, pew-pewing A.A.A.A.