Post rock by its very nature – expansive and indeed expanding musical landscapes created usually by several interacting musicians, in dim light – is not likely to produce much in the way of carbon reproduction. Near approximations, naturally, but there are too many variables and intricacies for mimicry to be easily practiced. Yet equally it’s hard to consider the growing hoards who gather like creeping moss in winter, claiming membership of its clique, and believe that active evolution takes place nearly as often as you’d presume it to. Its remits and practices are long established and recognition is awarded for working effectively, even inspirationally, within its constraints, rather than for raining almighty hellfire down on its hefty rule-inscribed stone tablet. As time goes by it becomes yet harder to seem important under its auspices.
iLiKETRAiNS, with their pretentious syntax, raised the bar that must be surpassed before they’d even begun. And clearly not ones for the 5 minute quick crossword, they choose to up the ante further by soldering on ambitious themes to boot, packed densely with peering-pensively-over-their-spectacles audacity. Considering the odds they’ve pulled off one hell of a coup d’etat, enforcing their self-imposed directives to the letter and coming across in the process as erudite, armoured and fairly bloody invincible. Fucking up might be a subject they broach repeatedly through song, but ‘tis not an actual deed they’re in the business of indulging. And yes, there is some bloodshed. Given the settings it was inevitable.
David Martin’s gothic tenor suits his role not as participant or emotional diarist, but as unflinching narrator. Each and every song in their canon is a historical epic. Literally. Topics up for dissection include the assassination of a British Prime Minister in 1812 (‘Spencer Percival’), the Afghan massacre of the British Army in 1842 (‘Remnants Of An Array’) and the Great Fire of London (‘Twenty Five Sins’). As ridiculous as the sound of a man announcing that “this tooown is burning dooown” and “this time the French are not to blaaame” with a croaking baritone over a thumping funereal pace and tense, paranoid atmospherics may be, the unfaltering nature of his character is key to this album’s success, pulling you in close to every tale’s nervous heartbeat. There are no exceptions to the rule, but this is not a concept album. They are a concept band, which is much more impressive, if you can pull it off.
Fleeting glances are not really sufficient to unveil their unique textures and shades, in fact initial impressions reveal a limited monochrome palette drying slowly. But while they don’t exactly operate in Technicolor, off a steadfast framework hang myriad subtle hues, a vast tapestry of fragments that only require your eyes to adjust to the light before they begin to reveal their secrets. Their discipline is especially inspiring – not once does this record rely on obvious devices to motor a song to its climax, one musical act morphs seamlessly into the next, twisting sounds winding with stealth and cunning into one another’s territories until the climax erupts with extravagant furore around all around and you don’t recall its arrival. And nothing is hurried. Nothing. It feels likes real human muscle, sweat and cold determination build every bout of intensity, of which there are many.
It is Interpol who offer the most enduring touchstone for this album, over and above anything more traditionally post-rock; one heavy step after another, reflecting ominously with a grave baritone at each turn, inward-looking atmospherics and a gift to make this gloom all so enlightening. Sigur Ros are a constant influence too, never far from the surface, raising their heads particularly on the barren, humming, piano led ‘Death Is The End’. Whichever angle you approach this collection from there is no mistaking that each and every performance contributes to a weighty tome of some importance; detail, darkness and dexterity practically unparalleled. Nothing strictly revolutionary, they are observers after all, but they’ve liberated a niche with quite some certainty and dug a moat around it. It feels like the forecast is for continued light showers of hell-fire.