Squid - Bright Green Field Review

DISORIENTED AT THE THOUGHT OF MUNDANITY

And so, all eyes remain on Britain. The Art Punk renaissance injected into the veins of their youth has produced some incredible music, still outscaled by boundless potential. Squid, the oldest of the lot that includes Black Country, New Road, black midi, shame, Dry Cleaning, and more, took time to hone their craft and decide their fate. Lino - Squid's debut EP from 2017 - moves in stark contrast to their present material, shifting arduously with exacerbated weight and despondency. On Bright Green Field, matters are taken to the precipice. High-octane cries for help disguise themselves as Dance-Punk manifestos, straddling an equilibrium between LCD Soundsystem's grasping vehemence and Gang Of Four's primitive tumbling. Krautrock ('Narrator'), Post-Rock ('Boy Racers'), and ominous, Radiohead circa In Rainbows-inspired Art Rock ('2010,' 'Global Groove') flesh out an underbelly rife with poise, purpose, and panache.

Squid present themselves as musicians without restraint. Ideas spiral, indulging in excess while aggrandizing the minutiae. One minute, Ollie Judge's patented scream-shout (more on him later) presses headily against a Wall Of Sound meant to dull the senses through brazen bombast ('G.S.K., 'Narrator'). The next he's warped through alien signals ('Boy Racers') or removed entirely in somber, pensive breaths ('Flyover'). There's much-needed variety in the compositional work on Bright Green Field, a necessary evolution over the cursory nature of Post-Punk, and only possible due to decades of ambitious Rock theater. Though Squid do become redundant when relying on rhapsody, as epics like 'Narrator,' 'Peel St.,' and 'Pamphlets' all attest to that inevitable, anxious build towards oblivion. At a certain point maximalism sours subtlety, but damned if the result isn't always cathartic. 'Peel St.' was a pleasant surprise after the slew of stunning singles, with constant acceleration offset by imperative resets. At times, Judge feels as though he's about to pass out. Hell, I would.

Speaking of the frontman, there's a lot to discuss here both good and bad. Much like Geordie Greep of black midi, Judge thrusts his idiosyncrasies to the forefront regardless of reception. His hooting and hollering leans to the point of absurdity, squelching with unbridled commitment and zest. Benefited greatly by his simultaneous drumming. You can't avoid him even if you want to. At times, his hysterics blend with the fervor ('Narrator's' cataclysmic coda), but elsewhere, like on the album's low-point 'Documentary Filmmaker,' he's left out to dry. It's here where his dubious lyrics shatter the consequence of tone. Though Squid do, occasionally, pass meaning through abstraction ('Global Groove'), more often than not the irrelevant and trivial dialogue clashes with Judge's supposed existentialism. I fail to see how lines like "the sweat dripped off my plastic sheets / Oh, the sweat dripped down onto my knees" requires maniacal, end-of-rope gushing. It doesn't, and the same can apply to much of Bright Green Field's largely inconsequential lyrics.

That being said, this is still a ravenous debut filled with grit, polish, and vigor. Whether appreciating the eccentricities, or losing oneself in the hotfoot grooves, Squid's inconceivable palate keeps listeners guessing with erratic fluctuation, heedless to any consultations on sanity.