The first full album by Wiltshireโs finest purveyors of psychedelic indie shenanigans, Clock Radio, was knocked out to an unsuspecting world last week. Itโs called Turfinโ Out The Maniacs, which perhaps should be fact-checked as it sounds to me like theyโre letting them all in, as they arrive on yellow submarines and check into Frank Zappaโs 200 five-rhombus rated motelsโฆ..
Self-described as โeasily triggered, dishonest, cryptic yet flirty deluded jangle rockers,โ Clock Radio have produced a string of catchy slacker pop wonders here, as they continuously reach inside the box, like theyโre four elfish Rowan Atkinsons all cast as Paul Atreides. But one thing is for certain, Chris Genner, Oliver Daltrey, Gary Martin and Fraser Wilson will entertain you.
Turfinโ Out The Maniacs sound like the results of the Coral offering The Divine Comedy a hashpipe in a moulded teenage boyโs bedroom; thatโs a compliment by the way.
The opening tune Blood on Chrome certainly reeks of that breezy retrospection of Merseyside garage bands or sixties surf-rock, with an added preliminary Quo guitar riffs. Stoned at the Dojo, which follows emphasises the mock lounge style of The Divine Comedy. Itโs vaudeville throughout, all Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Bandโs twirling circus, and an accordion welcomes in the next song, yet the tempo is upbeat indie rock. Handsome Weeping Man might leave you questioning if itโs necessary to connote the narrative, but it will leave you amused.
Clock Radio knows precisely what buttons to press to evoke a mood, and press them with free will. To say itโs a tad bonkers, itโs only a tad, and Mountains Beyond the Sun kindles a gentle side, drifting surf-rock, sunny side of the street vibe.
Thereโs ten three minute heroes on this impressive debut album, recorded, mixed and mastered by Dominic Bailey-Clay at Nine Volt Leap Studios, with Fender Rhodes piano, percussion by Dominic and a triangle by Shoshi B. If weโre content with getting halfway through and assuming theyโve calmed slightly, No Death takes us back onto the weird and wonderfully expressed if questionable muses of the opening.
Turfinโ Out The Maniacs is a comfy yet nippy prank, like being stung in the bottom but launching away from it to splash into a chocolate lake. Not so unlike Noรซl Coward playing a Bond villain, with Bowie as Bond; something you couldnโt imagine happening, but being Marie-Georges Mรฉliรจs directed it and itโs on FilmFour at 3am, you might as well grab a bag of cheesy puffs and thirty grams of Amber Leaf, stay up watch it in your pants. โCactus is cooler, Iโm no Ferris Bueller, I do as Iโm told,โ is just one line Iโm cherry picking to illustrate my point, youโll be amused and rocked in plentiful equal measure.
It has an acoustic ending called Complex 5 which will leave you incarcerated in the meandering yet meticulous peculiarly pulp portrayals of Clock Radio, as if you melted into a bubble sofa. It is available now on the streaming platforms, or buy the digital album from Bandcamp.
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