Riffs, rhythms and madness as Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs return with more elephantine eccentricity…
Like hogs in a swamp, Geordie collective Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs are wilfully difficult to get a handle on. Melding the fuzzed-up, stripped-back muscle of heavyweights like Black Sabbath and Motörhead to progressive sludginess, then pouring on a generous helping of the wryly abstract humour of IDLES, this third album is a strange, unruly offering.
The momentous, squalling dissonance of the curtain-raising Reducer seems to signpost where they’re going, but then they spin off into a twisted, eight-track labyrinth. Rubbernecker swerves on a nihilistic squeal, while the helplessness of New Body overflows as frontman Matt Baty repeatedly cries ‘I don’t feel a thing.’ They even invoke early Mastodon in the title of ominous spoken-word interlude Blood And Butter, before following up musically with the riff-tastic World Crust.
Most impressively, there’s no sacrificing impact for unexpectedness, and even as Hell’s Teeth brings it to a swaggering close, there are still surprises to be unpacked.
Verdict: 3/5
