So the story about The Drink is that Rough Trade stocked their “homebrewed” EP despite the band being unsigned. But upon hearing their phenomenal “Company”, I’ve decided that it was hardly a gamble. This album is stupendous, Completely different to what I initially expected.
It kicks off with “Microsleep.” A post-punk bass-line out of a Fugazi track anchors a choirgirl singsong with lyrics about petit mal seizures. Feedback laden guitar descends with a subtle jangle-pop flourish. There are obvious lo-fi influences, but every sound snaps into place the way it should. Every track is well produced but not overproduced.
The lyrics are charming, too. On “At the Weekend,” singer Dearbhla Minogue declares, “It came to me in a blood transfusion. Internally, it was a silent affair.” The guitar embraces the listener with wide arms like a Built to Spill track, but with a deftness of touch that keeps the grit at bay while maintaining plenty of oomph. There’s sweetness here, but it never becomes twee. It’s like a toothier, fuzzier Belle and Sebastian,
That’s not to say that The Drink are one trick ponies. On “Playground,” there’s an African rhythm. Everything ultimately builds to a forceful swell of guitar that erupts into a crescendo undergirded by subtle organ sounds. Similarly, “Dead Ringers” has a bluesy math-rock opening before the cathedral vocals kick back in. Moments of the bassline sound like they mightn’t be out of place in a (gasp) Metallica song. The lyrics describe a severed head, creating a Stanislavski-esque contrast between the vocal inflection.
The Drink manages to be all over the place without sounding like they’re all over the place. There’s enough riff rock for a rock fan to be satisfied, but an atmospheric element that hides the album’s ambitious complexity. Snippets of Blonde Redhead collide pleasurably while a voice akin to that of the Glaswegian gals in Camera Obscura .
This album is great bedroom pop, something for your headphones but not your next party. Somewhere amidst the syncopation and off kilter time signatures, there’s enough for indie rock fans of every stripe. It’s by turns abstract, unabashedly rockin’, gentle, muscular, tender, and brash. There’s experimentalism at play, yet it feels entirely familiar.
The Fat Angel Sings 