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Released on April 18, 2015 via Riot Season Records
You can’t really review Henry Blacker without mentioning Hey Colossus, what with 2 of their 3 members being in both bands and the other being one of the shared member’s brothers. This is especially true following Hey Colossus’ recent release In Black and Gold – in their move into glorious psych territory seem to have shed a lot of their grit and gristle and Henry Blacker sound like the thing it congealed into. That might be too convenient a narrative, but I’d be surprised if it were entirely coincidental; their first record came out last year, around the same time as Hey Colossus’ Cuckoo Live Life Like Cuckoo had set them off in that direction. It’s as if whilst they head off into space Henry Blacker is the part of them that chose to remain laid in the gutter, staring up at them amongst the stars, drunk as a lord and grinning like they’re the only one holding the antidote.
That first record, the majestically feral Hungry Dogs Will Eat Dirty Puddings, was apparently put together for £450, whilst Summer Tombs was recorded over a single day in a barn. Given what they do with such meagre resources I’m tempted to recommend they collectively take over George Osborne’s post in the cabinet. It’s fair to say sound is indebted to early Queens of the Stone Age (particularly on ‘The Plague’, which would have fit fairly neatly onto their self-titled debut) as well as the bands Kyuss inspired rather than spawned, but the production from Part Chimp’s Westminster Brown is positively filthy. This is dirty groove laden rock weaponised and wielded with ill intentions.
They riff as well as any stoner band you’d care to name – ‘Million Acre Fire’ could be Orange Goblin after the booze runs out – but with Henry Blacker you don’t have to worry about enduring lyrics about some cosmic nonsense or dungeons and dragons type shenanigans. ‘Landlubber’ is about a ship full of men dying at sea. ‘Million Acre Fire’ is about a really big fire. ‘Shit Magus’ is about a Shit Magus. If that makes it sound like comedy, well, they can be pretty funny – but you might not want to say that to their face lest they go all Joe Pesci on you. They come across like the wild-eyed drunk in the bar with all the best lines who will doubtlessly show you great night – but it’s a toss-up whether it ends with them telling you they love you or ramming your face into the quiz machine.
It’s the kind of dirt and swagger that might have seen Amphetamine Reptile wink suggestively at them if they were around in the early 90s, but there’s something essentially English about their approach. They seem to revel being underdogs and losers lashing out. Singer/guitarist Tim Farthing has a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on – one minute he’s mumbling in a low drawl like Josh Homme crossed with Eeyore and then the next he’s snarling and growling like there’s something malevolent in him desperate to get out. They coax you in and chew you out, like they’re pulling you in for a warm embrace and then throwing up down your back.
Then just when you think you’ve got them pegged they come at you with the title track – a slow, brooding 7 minute lament about terminal cancer. It’s hard to tell whether this change of pace is them pushing their black humour to its extremes or whether you can take it at face value. It’s either surprisingly touching or utterly reprehensible; after the preceding tracks I’m not sure which. But as the song descends into feedback before coming back in for some good old fashioned rock n’ roll catharsis it feels genuine.
Henry Blacker came into the world sounding pretty much fully formed, as many spin-off bands do, so if so it’s heartening to see there are other levels to them, other avenues they’ve yet to explore. We only have to wait for them a few quid down the back of the sofa and a couple of hours to spare to see what else they can come up with. For now though Summer Tombs will do nicely.
