Mínus are a band who are maturing. With their previous efforts largely overlooked, they cannot be blamed for wanting to try something different. Whereas it was expected for blistered instruments at every turn and respite to be heinously warranted yet never received, now it seems it is the time for a deeper, sexier design.
These are the same hacked/sculpted song structures as the last album, yet are merely performed differently: guitars have been plugged into different pedal sockets; microphones have dropped octaves and abrasion; drums have lost their high-paced thunders. Gone are the cryptic lyrics of angst unchecked. Gone are the deep, stifling atmospherics infused by Curver. Now they’re singing about bluebirds and cocaine with Katie Jane Garside floating over the top; writing about exotic drugs and filthy passions; playing about their lives. They’re playing about with ours.
They always cited their major influences as Iggy & The Stooges and Cave In among others. While their earlier work exhibited more signs of the latter’s rasping hardcore in an art-flooded stuttering swagger of tortured unfulfilment, the Iggy Pop in them is shining through now. It’s all almost totally mistakable as just another Nordic garage rock band. But to the untrained ear it may seem like something a bit more special.
You know that Mínus have something extraordinary when you feel them holding you down through your ears, slashing you around with their heavenly gusto `til it hurts, kissing it all better with a pair of unfastened leather pants. Maybe. It should be their year.
