Prego

Be it a residency at the Islington Academy, or at Steve Lamacq’s 6 Music unsigned sessions, Prego’s rave reviews are sticking to the band as easy as shit underfoot.

Prego aren’t the scripted headliners: that band asked to switch. This night becomes theirs and they remind everyone that meticulous preparation, namely shoring up a catalogue containing B-sides as first-rate as A-sides – a tactic oft-documented of Suede at their best – is soon to signal an industry P45 handout. In other words, any serious label honcho will fire the duff A&R who fails to sign this band.

The music’s a mix of intricate, luscious melodies, culminating with massive, thrash-rock finishes that pay off colossally in this relatively small venue. But it’s not wall of sound in the white noise sense, as the perfectionist nature of Edd Simpson’s songwriting – vital when there’s three guitarists to co-ordinate – results in each melody interlocking in consonance and playing its crucial part in creating the epic Prego sound.

All the hallmarks of the post-rock genre are here: especially the textured and dynamic build-up, which generates the archetypal aurally swathed mindscape in which to rest the most brooding contemplation. In short, these songs are big enough to evoke emotion.

What sets Prego aside from the emo genre, however, is the emphasis and use of the voice as another instrument. That voice belongs to Simpson, and in him Prego have an immediate frontman who is both efficacious and formidable, especially once he starts giving his songs the grandiose bearing they command. It’s fucking awesome, spine-tingling no less, watching this guy warp his hulking frame into his equally powerful songs. The sensitivity of the lyricist transforms into an episode bordering on the manic, and it’s absolutely incredible.