Harmless Noise
A music blog from Ireland.
A music blog from Ireland.
(No Ratings Yet)I have a pashy patch for Funeral Suits. They’re sorta like the Anthony Michael Hall of indie, lads who’d trip when asking you to dance, only to turn into pop heroes who save the day. If I’m fed up (like now, I’ve been on the go all day and my wisdom teeth are hard masters), I tend to take a listen to their EPs and the sneaky bits I’ve heard of their new album. I’ve always loved deep dancey songs and their live shows get to fizzlin’. They support The Maccabees in the Academy with Two Door next month.
This vid for Greedy is fresh from Muzu.ie. Is that Green Lights‘ artwork I see there?
AU Magazine October 09 Breaking Bands feature follows:
Oh I love it when a band dresses up, brings the kohl and glitter, luminescence, gloss, pigment, powder and feather boas to make up tunes worthy of a preen in the mirror. In this case it’s been like watching a little sister go from a dressing up table to theatre stages, like the Funeral Suits did when they were hand-picked by Franz Ferdinand for their Irish tour support in March. And then The Breeders. And then Local Natives and now, Passion Pit. All this with just two EPs and some gigs.
Modest-faced young men who’ve pitted their wits and burgeoning hits against the Indie-Pop scene over the last three years, they don’t prance like the fabulous Franz, they just play, hiding behind a hat, a hood, a brazen song. Then we hear what they call the sound of “peer pressure and apocalypse” but that’s far too resserved and NME, what we really hear is imaginative synths, swapped roles on guitar, tender, thunderous drums and a depth of feeling extending far beyond their years. Michael cradles his guitar beneath his jacket, Greg is too immersed to think of making eye-contact. They’re radio-friendly and the fodder for the hungry music industry, as all beauties are, but the big difference here is that there’s a distinct lack of air-headed starfucking. You won’t find them in smoking gardens at midnight, these belles of the balls play Cinderella songs and flee, leaving us with a crystal memory of great beauty.
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