Under the gloomy tint of dissonance, the eccentric 10-piece have penned a vibrantly aberrant ode to abject scepticism.
When you think of Fake Turins, a few things spring to mind. Figurative prose being one, almost as if it were scribed by Tennyson himself. Then comes their pseudo-vintage mannerisms, spearheaded by a tangible buzz of live-wire eclecticism. It all echos the poetic reverence of the 1950’s beatnik movement, and it’s utterly enthralling.
Going against the grain is their course of action, shroud in a dominant display of vigour. It’s ardent and actively seeking to push the boundaries of subversive sophistication.
Their entire discography follows the same motif, bearing the succulent fruit of decadent worldliness. Like the news of the day, there’s no inkling of predictability.
As Evergrown did before it, ‘Down’ rewrites the big band handbook in neon gel pen, even saving enough even spunk and guile to line the cover with gilding. Despite being rooted to the floor dressed in post-punk brogues, Dominic Rose and his clique of idealists have successfully delivered their updated manifesto of harsh realities that somehow manages to soothe the weight of social expectation.
“Down!” is a song that exists against the daily struggles of depression, cataloguing a personal experience of cynicism fighting nothingness. The song itself masks the tragedy with a raucous psychedelic mayhem, tonally shifting into something darker as we collectively scream all of the reasons the Down has found us. Both verses respectively explore these mundane & profound responses to grief, expressing both the sanctity of life & the meaninglessness of it.”
In typical fashion, the Turins question normality and propose a more befitting solution to enduring the pandemonium of the 21st century. There’s no protensity, a spade is called a spade. Refreshing? Yes. Cathartic? Absolutely. But what is most striking of all is the vitality in which their authenticity has manifested. It’s quixotic without the bright-eyed naivety.
Aside from his obvious flaws, Forest Gump was onto something with his ‘life’s like a box of chocolates’ analogy. You never really know what you’re going to get, but the sweet and creamy sensation of cocoa induced indulgence renders you completely unperturbed by the capriciousness of the whole thing. In this instance, Fake Turins are the box, and their back catalogue, the chocolate. But not a generic last-minute-present box of thorntons. I’m talking a sheek and elegant cuboid of the finest truffles, adorned with a sparkly celebratory bow and hand picked from the window of a master chocolatier.
Selfishly, the decennary have sacrificed their own state of impenetrability, choosing to walk in the darkness so that others can see the light, and for that we should be grateful.