Wintermute
Robot Works
Big Scary Monsters
By Jose Fritz
In Leeds right now this band is hotter than vindaloo curry: The British didn’t have an indigenous emo movement. Then here from the bowels of Leeds is a band that’s the spitting image of Knapsack. They reek of DC all-ages shows, co-headlining with Mineral, crying in the recording studio and making your own flyers with crayons and a Xerox copier. This is a band that celebrates the entire Texas is the Reason catalog.
Exhibit “A” would be the jerky yet clean guitar riffs. Exhibit “B” would be the syncopated breakdowns. Exhibit “C” would be the dual guitar work. Exhibit “D” is the vocals that are alternately raw and soft. If this record came as a white label demo to Deep Elm Records they’d crap themselves trying to sign them. Actually, John Szuch might be changing his Hanes at this very moment.
And for me Wintermute is welcome. The last time emo popped up on my radar was that strange homosexual-fueled emo-riot In Mexico. It was not how I wanted to remember the genre. It’s been a long time since Stephanie Bateman stole my best Emo CDs: I still want them back. Wintermute cannot make me forgive her, but it can fill that lonely 10 millimeter gap on the CD shelf.
Tight pants and falsetto vocals are crucial, but do not constitute emo. Wintermute is not Jimmy Eat World. They are not of that commercialized, over-produced, pandering, posturing side of the genre that turned us off back in the dark days of 2001. They stick to the early sound, in those post-hardcore inflected times. The world was still wide open and the songs simply allowed being themselves without expectations. That leaves Wintermute free to write from all sides. They can write flowing soft numbers built wholly on strings and clean guitar tones like “Emerald Hill” and “An Irrational Fear”. They can rip into Thursday-ish songs like “Disco Loadout” or “Dead Or Not He Was Wearing Sunglasses.”
Anglophiles have needs. They’re like little scrawny brit-junkies in tight pants and thrift-store leather jackets shooting up culture between their toes where their girlfriends and bosses won’t see the track marks. Anglophiles can‘t talk about their obsessions except to other anglophiles. It’s like pederasts meeting by chance at a bowling alley. They ask a few gently probing questions to certify what they hope is true then get drunk on whatever’s on tap and pour their little dirty hearts out. That’s why Bernard Butler has a solo career. Wintermute is not Bernard Butler, is not the Verve and is not the Stone Roses. If you are an anglophile you have come to the wrong place. This is emo.
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