The Murder Capital - Gigi's Recovery

 

I didn't enjoy yesterday much, but it was mostly my own fault. I'd been out the previous evening, my Friday night, with a very good friend and we'd pushed the alcohol boat out good and proper. Even a couple of White Russians each to round off the night. Highly inadvisable at our age.

Then I'd woken up the next morning with the head I deserved and not felt like doing anything at all the whole day. I didn't go to the Native Harrow gig I had for because I didn't feel like it, much as I like them. And to top it all, my football team lost.

So what am I doing listening to The Murder Capital utter glumfest second album Gigi's Recovery early on Sunday morning? Am I determined to embrace misery all weekend?

Because it's a fine record. I've already listened to it any number of times since it came out about a month back, bought a copy and marvelled at its glass half empty, Friday Night, Saturday Morning muscle and I'm more than happy to do so one more time.

This seems to be the sound of Dublin right now. It's next to impossible to mention The Murder Capital without bracketing them immediately with Fontaines D.C. The two bands have so much in common.

Post Punk rage. Kitchen Sink melodrama. Bookshelves of well thumbed Penguin paperbacks in a rundown bedsit flat with constantly dripping taps. At the moment The Murder Capital have the edge for me because their vocalist has a greater range and their guitars a welcome reminder of McGeogh's existential chill. On the lyrical front they're neck and neck. Acerbic and thrilling, with wisdom and poetry far beyond their years.

Eventually both bands will need to develop more strings to their bow if they're to endure. But right now they're both spitting vitriol and hitting bullseyes. Sometimes there's nothing like a drop of pure anguish to cheer you up something rotten.