They say you should never judge a book by its cover, and I’d say the same is largely true of CDs – although I’ve seen no shortage of terrible sleeve designs that housed equally abominable audio works, but that’s by the by. The cover of ‘Coma’ doesn’t really give much away.
The mannequin shot in arty black and white, in juxtaposition with the neon green lettering in a fairly naff-looking afterthought of a typeface says anonymity. It says not much idea. It says lack of image or direction. It maybe even says electro or hip hop. It doesn’t say neatly crafted songs with unexpected changes of direction. It doesn’t say gritty guitars. It doesn’t say rock, and it certainly doesn’t say rock with a distinctly mainland European flavour.
I’m not talking about spandex and leather trousers, ‘The Final Coundown’ and all that cal: I mean it’s the kind of rock music that’s not overly concerned with confirming to a specific (sub)genre. Too l’aissez faire to be AOR, it’s nevertheless more cerebral than the kind of rock marketed at the kids or the mainstream. They’re not as hackle-raisingly bombastic as Muse (one of their cited influences); nor are they The Foo Fighters. But they do know how to work the dynamics and kick out some riffs, coming on in places like a poppier, less mechanised Young Gods.
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In fact, Sunday Recovery sound – albeit fleetingly - like many bands. ‘Pornstar’ has the lumbering riffage you might expect from QOTSA, while singer Mirko Petrini comes on grungy and sleazy. Elsewhere, ‘Press Play on Tape’ begins with has mournful strings and a gentle acoustic guitar before swelling into a cinematic chorus reminiscent of ‘The Wall’ era Pink Floyd. Given that they draw inspiration from Porcupine Tree, King Crimson and Bends-era Radiohead, it’s perhaps not surprising that a number of tracks remind me of Oceansize, but Sunday Recovery curb the sprawling tendencies to sculpt compact, tightly-compressed miniature epics. They do a pretty good job of it, too.
Sunday Recovery Online
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