The Mighty Roars are so frenzied that clich� rarely catches up. Posturing, posing and manicuration all goes out of the window in the name of a visceral spirit that grips you by the head and feeds you rhythm via a shovel. From the opening Sellotape to the closing Whipped My Bitch you’re rarely allowed time to breath, and the most thrilling aspect of Swine and Cockerel is its glee in cutting trad sensibility to shreds.
How much of this is conscious genius I don’t know, but the racket is grand. Few bands of the moment can cause a stir like this without becoming casualties, but the Roars really do lack any kind of risible self-consciousness. There could be highlights here, but I haven’t had time to slow it down to look, it all seems pretty fucking ace, and I don’t normally swear.
The guitars are turned up to eleven with riffs at twelve. Lara Granqvist’s vocals have a devil-may-care ethos that makes you smile from ear to ear. The lyricism is outlandish as the tunes. The screeches and screams come as unforced as winces from unexpected blows. And devil signs come back into fashion like they never sailed into ridicule in the first place.
The Mighty Roars are just what we need right now, eating from industry hands while punching them in the face. Hopefully they’ll be huge. If we’re looking for comparisons I’d name Be Your Own PET, who respect the man in a similar way by kicking him in the balls. The Mighty Roars are BYoP in a deeper pact with the devil, out to corrupt the cold and complacent in a blazing trail of fire.
I’m just listening to Kiss It, all punched-out guitar loops, crazy bass-lines and adrenalised vocals, and I wish I could play it to industry heads in an endless stream until they wake from their despicable slumber. There’s soul here too. It couldn’t survive otherwise. It runs through the high-tempo numbers that mercifully make up most of the album, and finds another level on Wish Everything, which is like they’ve momentarily fallen asleep in a moment of inspiration and dreamed in candid splendour.
They don’t ask for any thanks on waking, just shoot it to the stars again on the back of more of where the others came from, and the lack of pretension is a revelation. If deepness can be gauged on contrary nature, then the Roars are rock’s equivalent of Bergman. Swine And Cockerel pummels you to death with dancing feet. It’s a great way to go.