A splendid second album to make you gasp, giggle, and buzz like a broken television.
Fraser McAlpine 2012
Have you ever wondered what Dalek soldiers might listen to on their way into battle, to get the adrenaline whooshing through their snotty bodies? Have you ever stuck your head out of the window of a moving car, like dogs do, and wanted that breathless rush recreated in musical form? Have you done this while listening to the Cardiacs?
Are you fond of yelping? Do you wish more bands would remember to add a generous dollop of prog skronk to their punk rock? Do you like science? Yelping about science? Are most rock songs, even the one that purport to be punk rock, too slow these days?
If the answer to any or most of these questions is yes, then this, the brutal second album by We Are the Physics, is all yours. You cannot use music this ferociously twiddly to unite a stadium of weeping dads, as the soundtrack to a wedding, or as the climax of the opening ceremony of a major sporting tournament. But it would be a perfect soundtrack for, say, rolling down a hill, or falling off a wall.
We Are the Physics do not want to make you cry, nor do they not want to engorge you with pride. They want to make you gasp, then giggle, and then buzz like a broken television.
And they have the technology. The songs are not just about robotics but Applied Robotics, there are Circuit Babies, all of their friends are JPEGs, that kind of a thing. And in true robot form, the Glasgow band has taken all of the good stuff from their first album, 2008’s We Are the Physics are OK at Music, and made it stronger, louder and bigger, while still being essentially shouty cyber-kids with a passion for in-jokes.
Nothing is funnier, to a skronky prog-punk robot adrenaline junkie, than a song called Olivia Neutron Bomb, or singing “NAPOLEON! LOVED JOSEPHINE!” over and over again in lieu of anything better to do.
All of which is, of course, furiously irritating, and of no practical use to a well adjusted, laidback human person with no developmental hang-ups whatsoever.