Three years in the past, when London trio Bar Italia emerged as signees to Dean Blunt’s mysterious World Music label, they curried area of interest intrigue amongst devotees ravaged by their foggy mystique. The world is way greater, although, which meant that the music wanted to be convincing sufficient to transcend on-line chatter—troubling, maybe, for a bunch whose shadowy aesthetics tended to bleed into just-as-shadowy songs. Over the murky first months of their existence, two interpretations of Bar Italia’s sound appeared apt: tongue-in-cheek provocation akin to their World Music friends, or earnest slacker rock that solely felt vapid since you weren’t listening for the precise issues.
Throughout their preliminary stint with World Music, the group launched Quarrel and bedhead, a one-two punch of LPs whose stark preparations and compact lengths left individuals wanting extra. Earlier this 12 months, they signed to indie powerhouse Matador. Tracey Denim, their first album for the label, took tangible steps in direction of establishing an identification, versus languidly tip-toeing round one. They had been honing a sound—a deadpan, cut-and-dried effort shared between (very) novice vocalists and evenly fuzzed guitars—that left a blurry hint of bigger ambitions. Not solely may they stand alone, however they had been additionally keen to offer it a attempt that lasted longer than 20 minutes.
5 months later, they’re again with The Twits, an try to develop on a tried-and-true components. It’s bookish, looking-out-the-window music: foot-tappy and barely unnerving, greatest consumed by means of defective earbuds it’s important to maintain at exactly the precise angle to function. The group echoes the identical moody UK rock influences they at all times have (The Treatment, Slowdive), however with a willingness to experiment that means they’ve grown bored of mere imitation. The result’s a slackish near-hour of aspirant dorm-room rock, augmented with nerdy undertones and a teeny—dare I say too teeny—pep of their step. “You don’t notice it, hardly acknowledge it,” their voices tease within the report’s remaining minute, disembodied shouts driving eerie guitar suggestions. It appears like what the Shining twins may create with secondhand Stratocasters in a makeshift studio on the Overlook Resort: music so unsettling, and so serpentine, that it virtually feels as if it’s laughing at us.
