Ikara Colt

yourcodenameis:milo (subject of one of my favourite pieces of Joiners graffiti, “yourbandnameis:pretentious”) do a clever thing by starting with the intensely grinding ‘All Roads To Fault’, their biggest hit thus far and the most ferocious call-to-arms we’ve heard since Kinesis' ‘…And They Obey’. Visually the signs are good – the bassist is wearing a Mclusky T-shirt, the singer has gaffa tape on him and the whole group play like their instruments are trying to run away from them. But aurally it’s even better – the veritable (post-)hardcore collision of hammerhead guitars and wailing vocals like At The Drive-In on hot plates. Musically the equivalent of the black capitalised writing on the stark white background that characterises them – this wall of bold and uncompromising rock is what they’ve got, you can either run into the wall or let it crash down on you, either way you can barely ignore it.

Here we go again…Ikara Colt are still the high-octane art-punk thrill that kicked a hole in the door first time around but now with a more refined sound, a new bassist and skinnier ties. If you’re a new convert due to comparisons with The Fall, Sonic Youth circa ‘Dirty’ and other post-punk forms then you shouldn’t be disappointed by new funk-fuelled scuzz gems like ‘Wasteground’ and ‘Modern Feeling’. If you sat open-mouthed at your stereo three years ago when ‘Sink Venice’ crashed its way through a hyper-speed mesh of distortion, shouts and machine-gun drumming, then you’ll fall in love again.

The group storms the stage and goes straight into the feedback-infused ‘Bring It To Me’, singer Paul prowling the stage with intent in his eyes and peroxide-blonde guitar supremo Claire shouting alongside by the time ‘Wanna Be That Way’ jabs a collective punch into the air. Other guitar siren Tracy fits the bassist bill nigh on perfectly, flowing black locks and a lightning bolt across the chest, shooting out spiked notes like spears towards the heart, and should be commended for keeping up with the “hardest working drummer in show business”. That’s right, Dominic is still an absolute beast of a sticksman, like what Fabrizio Moretti would play like if he had Animal’s genes and Schumacher’s velocity. He clenches a drumstick between his teeth, snarls at the cymbal like it’s said something unkind about a close relation and beats the rest of the kit likewise, at about 74 to the dozen.

‘Rudd’ can still be classed as a combustible device, ‘At the Lodge’ does well to not create a stampede and ‘One Note’ is still the most enjoyable lesson in economy we’ve ever had (play one note really fast, sing like a rabid Mark E. over the top, create clatter-pop genius). And, if new tracks like the closer ‘I’m With Stupid’ and the bigger riffs plus louder screaming that support the meat on its backbone are anything to go by then ‘Modern Apprentice’ should be a corker of an album. We arrived in love and left in worship.