Album two finds the north Londoners dwarfing their contemporaries.
Ian Wade 2010
A pub backroom Mogwai, a fistful of hard-drinking herberts; the best thing to come out of Manor House since, um, ever. North London’s Teeth of the Sea are all these things and more.
Having first come to attention with 2009’s Orphaned by the Ocean, the band has displayed a knack for winning track titles, such as Swear Blind the Alsatian’s Melting and Only Fools on Horse. They also once saw in the New Year performing the Flash Gordon soundtrack. They are, genuinely, not like other bands.
On this their second album, the quartet operates in the dimension of diametric forms where prog dynamics meet post-rock and build monstrous monuments of sound to the dystopian future-fear out of the subfusc. Your Mercury winningly takes in elements of shoe-gaze, horror-core wonk-synths, psychedelic warping and linear new age repetition to create an escalating unquiet hardcore whole that dwarfs their contemporaries. This album will also be cited as reason for several lesser acts to gnaw their hands off and crumble into dust.
The almost-title-track You’re Mercury is late Miles Davis duelling with Goblin on a theme to the sort of garage video nasty that’s still yet to be transferred to DVD; likewise A.C.R.O.N.Y.M., which channels John Carpenter into thrilling dark metal. Red Soil builds into a glorious waterboard of squalling noise, while closer Hovis Coil undulates like Steve Reich’s Different Trains to a sudden stop. Then you go back to the start and play again, and again.
Like a giant android kestrel occupying an ominous telephasic cathedral, Your Mercury soars into a colossal beast of a record that stands imposingly above the rest of its field, striking maximum awe and fear into the weak, while it opens Teeth of the Sea’s account with greatness. This is the start of an odyssey built on crap lager, British sitcoms and noise rock that looks set to build menacingly in the future, and one that you would be daft to ignore. Play very loud.