DAWN OF THE REPLICANTS �
�SMELL VOODOO�
(4-track EP/ 1998)
Couple of years ago I was holidaying in the Scottish �Border Regions� and stumbled through the small town of Galashiels one day when walking. Like Driffield, there was little of notable worth, but it was quietly charming. I never thought a �proper� band - that was to later come to be one of my faves - could ever hail from there, and I�m now considering re-trekking north as pilgrim to their talent. A couple of months ago I heard the Dawn Of The Replicants for the first ever time, when their queerly Lo-fi-yet-rocking �Science Fiction Freak� begged to be bought, and I�ve since snapped up 4 more of their singles/ EPs, this �Smell Voodoo� 4-tracker being the cream of the flock. If you�ve heard them before, admit it � you�ve rarely felt more hard-pressed to be so naturally intrigued.
�Mary Louise� is flickeringly fingerpicked, Cave-ish piano backing indecisively atmosphere-building beyond, creating dark, untold depth that demands full attention, before �Ballad Of A Thin Man.� �Thin Man� is a Bob Dylan-penned song, with the �Replicants sounding to adhere to �Cover Song rule #2,� sticking tightly to the original�s epic elaboration, the full-on re-working unwilling to compromise on its quality or quantity: �Something is happening here � and you don�t know what it is�� their perverse, sinister fetishes slipping into Dylan�s ugly voice as though Bob�s spirit�s come to haunt, before the vox are voyeuristically distorted to suggest the replicating singer�s identity is to be kept anonymous, unwilling to reveal the man behind their iron curtain. �How does it feel to be such a freak?�
Existing on Alt-rock�s adventurous periphery (a la deliciously dark bands shielding pop power in Subcircus� realm), �Thin Man� proves they�re fond of covering other artists� songs (Science Fiction Freak�s undaunted highlight was their flawless take on John Cale�s Tamed West-rocked �Buffalo Ballet�) and can make them their own, but this time they�re at their best when being 153% original� Myrrh Tingle�s huge leg-sweeping scope inviting brooding darkness �in the porn shop, not gift shop, with my mother�s purse.� I dunno if I�m simply hearing what I want to hear� the �porn� they whisper-of may be �pawn� � but whatever loft-floor vids they�re asking-after, it�s uncertain where they�re coming from with this gorgeous, aorta-caressing highlight, that somehow dumbs-down the seething emotive tension that�s evidently dying to explode, blowing back a small town-shattering trail of carnage. But no, the soul-scarred vocals set straight their mind-bogglingly downbeat yet intensely visionary temptation, desperately wondering �When you likely to come home?�
�Dual Converter� crawls off at a more futuristic, bass-billowing tangent, with Post space-rock synths and strings too esoteric to be to all tastes, but - given a few year�s contemplation� �I go there alone sometimes� is robotically repeated, weirdly and powerfully moving them up the popularity polls of the more trance-crazed masses, disguising religious artifacts. Sharing David Bowie�s prodigal taste for repeat-cycles of reinvention (their �Dual Con.� is Bowie�s more illustrious �Earthling�), and with no photographs to print of themselves, who are these guys? And do they come in peace?
(STEVE RUDD)
FOR CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE SLURRED KIND�
DAWN OF THE REPLICANTS, c/o dumb/ SULK trigg-er, PO BOX 13220, GALASHIELS, SCOTLAND. TD1 2Y.