Micachu and the Shapes – Never

From the optimal credibility of their beginnings in the UK’s underground grime scene through the homemade instruments DIY aesthetic via that wasn’t-to-be Mercury buzz in ’09 to their Rough Trade signing and stream of mixtapes (some actually on cassette would ya believe?) classically trained experimentalist Micachu and, to a slightly lesser extent, her Shapes have, as Micachu and the Shapes, perhaps by some happy accident, become an archetype of modern cool.

Micachu’s insistence that what they play is pop music may be a little grating and, dare we say, purposely obtuse but this is not an artist intent on ingratiation: as every one of the 14 tracks included here on their second full-band full-length will attest.

It’s not that it’s tuneless, it’s not that it’s try-hard and it’s certainly not unimaginative yet… Yet, yet, yet.

Take a track like ‘Slick’, one of the most accessible here due to it’s hypno-rhythm and bursts of half-spoken, plaintive voice that occasionally stretch towards melody; it’s cleverly put together, certainly. You can admire the artistry and you can definitely cock your head dog-like as you wonder exactly how did they make that sound? But it’s cold. It’s frustratingly disconnected. Perhaps that’s the intention.

Even a great chunk of grinding industrial hip-hop like the frankly excellent ‘Low Dogg’ with its memorable almost-chorus and commercial, buzzing sound ends up feeling impersonal. as Micachu mumbles potential pipe-bomb lines like “Even if I turn my back/Twist my neck until I snap”.

‘Holiday’ comes closest to joyous here, with a Royal Trux garbage-band feel, a Beach Boys borrowed set of sounds and a smiling, mucky-faced, recorded-in-a-dustbin-in-Croydon production style. Still, though, it’s got something of the automaton to it. Is it that the beats are too strict? That the voice is just too disinterested?

Tracks like ‘Heaven’, a pushy, headachey spit of bedsit drawl that sounds simultaneously tortured and drugged, and the fall-apart grunge of ‘Nothing’ are just too bleak and Berlin-bound to wring any enjoyment from, while the phone conversation sampling ‘Glamour’ with its shaking voice and unnerving churn of backing and the Lynchian balladeering of ‘Fall’ provide a little more colour to the palette.

The real standout here is closer ‘Nowhere’ (are you seeing a connection among many of these nihilist titles?) a jerk-rock freakout that kicks hard, acts weird and vomits repition and invention all over your record player for the duration of its admirably brief 2 and a half minutes. It would be a shame for the listener to find the road too tough to navigate and not to reach this belting climax.

Though the songs are mostly brief it feels like a very long record indeed – possibly because this is a record built from a monochrome colour list, only very occasionally allowing itself to break free of the arch and artful into the human and technicolor. There’s a good deal of skill, talent and knowledge on display here yet it’s tough to say that for all their critical love and industry respect we couldn’t do with a little bit of soul to satisfy the heart as well as the smarts that satisfy the head.

Listen to Never