Out Hud are the new spandex. Out Hud are the new grey.
They’re the floppy fringe brushed out of your
eyes just in time to let the spring sunshine blind you.
They’re the song humming around your head. They’re
a lot of fun.
Out Hud are the choppy strumming on a million Haircut
One Hundred singles. They’re Martin Fry’s
sharp intake of breath. They’re the echoing reverb
on Unknown Pleasures. Out Hud are the tsk tsk
of Dreaming Of Me. They’re the twanging
of Hooky’s lowslung bass. They’re the peppy
bounce of Wordy Rappinghood. They’re lots of things
this reviewer doesn’t know anything about at all.
They’re homemade, wrapped up in tissue and placed
carefully in a snug-fit Tupperware container. They’re
the bright red and white cheesecloth pattern on a big
skirt. They’re skipping and earnest (preferably
at the same time).
Out Hud’s images have been altered using sand
and glue. At times they might be the ghost of The Slits,
but they probably aren’t. Everybody keeps scrapbooks
whether made of paper and card or the sparking of the
synapses - pieces of this, fragments of that and wisps
of the other – all threaded together to make your
very own sense of a flow which – with a dash of
zeal, good fortune and skill – has every chance
of triggering someone else’s enthusiasm. I’m
seeing wide-brimmed hats and frizzy hair. And I can
see the outline of the girl on the Voodoo Ray
video and a crowd of others, all of them dancing enthusiastically
both in memory and in the present time, perhaps –
hopefully - even onwards into the future.
Ultimately, it’s the sense of sincere enthusiasm,
apparent lack of calculation, gloriously messy sound
cobbled out of a multiplicity of eighties and nineties
styles ranging between original new wave, the first
waves of analogue dance bands and girl groups (the frontline
vocals of Phyllis Forbes and Molly Schnick are a joy)
that convinces and put a big grin on this listener’s
face. Oh and they sure know how to name a tune, take
for example The Song So Good They Named It Thrice,
2005: A Face Odyssey and Dear Mr. Bush,
There Are Over 100 Words For Shit And Only 1 For Music.
Fuck You, Out Hud.
Colin Buttimer
4/5 |
