Come On You Slaggs

I don't seem to have anything to moan about today. Bloody typical.

DR. SLAGGLEBERRY – THE SLAGG FACTORY (Crash Records)

The inner sleeve to this release tells us two interesting things (the front cover tells us nothing, being a likable cyber-Vorticist sketch of a sort of mechatibbles robot cat thing, for some odd reason). Firstly, it’s that the musicians involved value their anonymity, having their eyes or faces obscured on all photos, and crediting the music starkly to Bateman, Turnbull and Pethers, making them sound like extras from a Frank Richards novella, or provincial solicitors from the ‘50s; secondly, it’s interesting that the collage of flyers and posters for previous gigs features just one from Oxfordshire, despite the fact that the band hails from Chinnor and release music on the local Crash Records label. Could it be that Dr. Slaggleberry’s brand of math metal intricacy hasn’t caught on in the local scene? Or does their atrocious name simply put prospective listeners off, as it sounds like they should be a gang of 4th formers playing slovenly Chili Peppers covers?

Whatever the explanation, Oxfordshire is missing out on a quality band, and this EP is a selection of tasty little noise nuggets, layered, handmade and rich, like some weird avant-metal baklava. Although we’re slightly sad to note that the maximalist Primus-influenced japes of old have mostly been shelved, Dr Slaggleberry have noticeably matured, and this EP is a wonderfully adept balance of schoolroom tricksiness and straight up fleabag rock out riffing. We’ll start at the bottom, with “8 4 5”, which opens with a swampy delayed guitar figure, all Steve Hillage wooziness and Ozric Tentacles dope fug. All very well, but after two whole minutes, we do start to wonder whether the band have hitched a lift on Gong’s flying teapot and left all their taste and subtlety behind due to intergalactic luggage restrictions. At this very moment the whole band kicks in, and whilst it might wake us up, it feels like a pretty facile musical trick, and the track wanders to a stop a minute or so later.

If we ignore this slightly unsuccessful ambient drift, the rest of the record works a treat. “13 Grades Of Filth” starts with a repeated lead guitar twiddle sounding Philip Glass continually turning his Donkey Kong handheld game on and off. The playing is tight, but unlike so many prog influenced acts, there is a praiseworthy lack of showboating flabbiness on display, and instead the production gives the sound a nice compactness. EP opener “Feed Me A Stray Cat” starts with sort of rock fanfare, and the first 90 seconds are a measured processional, like a Purcell march for metalheads. “13 Grades” continues this stately gait, and the music develops in a very orderly, almost baroque, fashion. Much of this record could be post-apocalyptic court music for some greasy Mad Max principality.

“Basterd Brew” (sic – who’s your proofreader, boys, Quentin Tarantino?) is likewise built on a good roiling churn of a rhythm, and the lead guitar has a nagging, accusatory tone, like an embarrassing memory trying to force its way through a hangover. The drums get something interesting to do on this one, and exhibit a neat stop-start dynamic, which makes this the best track on the release. The closer, “Gone Devil”, is essentially bits from the other tracks cut up and stuck together, but that’s no great crime. It’s an intriguingly formal sounding release, and a long way from aled up hair swinging classic metal antics. If Handel had written “Zadoc The Priest” for the coronation of Best Leather Chick in some cyber biker bar, he may have come up with something like this.