Fuuuuuuck, what is that thing coming towards us in the middle of the night in this dark scary wood, it’s bloody glowing. It looks hungry and we’ve got bones that it can cheeeeeeewwwwww.
Oh thank fuck it’s only Tom Rees, completely hairless, naked, covered in goo.
Forth with, Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard have birthed a second LP, it be called Skinwalker and it’s a bloody horror show. Not that it’s a terrible record, no, it’s a dark, sweaty, dank room of a rock record, with riffs from Black Sabbath and waxed chests like Take That circa 1991.
The promo for this album has been a tease involving strange creatures in forests, stalking your nightmares, a scary movie that makes you keep the light on at night. The thing is, Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard can’t help the humour. They’ve got a song called ‘My Star Sign Is A Bassett Hound‘ for crying out loud. So basically this LP has more in common with Shaun Of The Dead than The Blair Witch Project.
What could be better than that, I hear you cry?!?! Well, QUITE.
We get 45 seconds of Tom heavy breathing and scuttling through dead leaves on the dirty ground dans a tree laden area of South Wales.
Then.
WALK
As if to guide us in from LP one, Backhand Deals, which was chock-a-block full of glam stompers with big sparkly platforms and high pitched harmonies, ‘National Rust’ has elements of all the above, albeit with a slightly more sinister bridge. It’s as bouncy as ‘Good Day’ maybe just with not such a sunny disposition. More in common lyrically with ‘Crescent Man vs Desperate Dan’, and it’s gentrification of our towns and the slow disintergration of our once great nation, the UK. With jazz hands.
‘Chew’ has us on a lead as they ramp up the noir. Whilst still a rollicking sing-a-long, this ode to his sweet innocent pup that wouldn’t hurt a fly, Tom had to think of a way to pen lyrics about his beloved pet so he pretended they were a rabid, snarling beast that would knaw on your tibia given half a chance. With a big fat riff, pounding drums, and shrieks of terror. You’ll be quivering.
Aforementioned ditty about the Bassett Hound continues the canine theme, with hooks with so much meat on them, they dangle into the jaws of the beast (666). It goes “bow wow wow”. Yeah!!
‘Sugar Sandwich‘ would give you a sheer heart attack, if Freddie gave one to the queen.
‘The Drowning Bell’ is the cooling off, the dip in the pond. Except what’s just touched my leg? There it is again. Eerie organ means you aren’t exactly convinced it’s just a little tiddler. One of those little buggers that trims the dead skin from your feet for a tenner a pop at the fayre, it ain’t.
‘Leatherbound’ personifies the manifesto for heavy heavy rock barre chords. It’s a wallop of head down, not long hair flowing obviously, he’s as bald as a coot now. Kind of ironic really.
‘In My Egg’ appears to be an account of Tom’s struggles after the first LP, a metaphor for being strung out, stressed, exhausted and wanting to invert and hide away. It has a taut, intense atmosphere. Explosions of distortion, strangled guitar lines and manic screams.
‘Therapy’ seems perfectly placed straight after as an answer to everything he’d just opened up about. The dog that he needs “a professional to put the dog down” seemingly the black dog of depression. As with everything Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard, there’s a light side and the tune is a bopper, with a twisting groove to it. Get down bitch.
‘Human Compression’ is perhaps the most disturbing track. It’s fairly disjointed and unsettling, walls of heavy overdriven guitar, a mix of Black Sabbath riff and Iron Maiden thrust and speed.
Finally we get to ‘Night Of The Skinwalker’ which is naturally forbodding, unhinged, creepy and yet still fun. They can’t avoid it. Which is why this is more Simon Pegg with a cricket bat than Leatherface with a chainsaw. Penelope Wilson turned zombie rather than a decapitated Texan.
Embracing the issues he had, Tom has taken the songwriting as a cathartic release. He needed therapy, the song was it. And probably running around in the buff in winter covered in vaseline and illuminous sminge. Whatever works for you. He’s pushing the envelope.
It was always going to be interesting where they were going to take Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard next. The pop sensibilities may have given way to the heavy heavy monster show somewhat, however there’s always something to hook you in, pin you down and slather you in chunky riff goodness as you squirm in delight. Or maybe that’s just me. To each their own.
All hail the number of the beast. BBB. Beware Big Barre(chords). If B was a roman numeral it would be 11.
Still rockin’ (devil horns).
