The Tubs

On the band’s second outing, UK jangler’s The Tubs tap into a confrontational energy that drives them to new heights. Rooted in the lesser plumbed wells of jangle pop – from The Housemartins to The Sundays — the band combines their pop acumen with a lash of the acid tongue. Not that the first album let the listener off lightly, but here Owen O. Williams finds a way to make the usual melancholy sighs of the genre move aside for menace, self-sabotage, obsession, and the awkwardness of social interaction. Williams can levy equal amounts of spite and contemplation in a song, layering the record with the kind of sneer and smarts that have made classics out of more than a few literate LPs over the years.

Williams isn’t the only pillar propping up the band, though. Often the engine behind the band’s variety of strums, swinging from the indie arm of the ‘80s to ‘60s folk, George Nicholls makes his presence felt on the new album. The guitarist may stand further from the spotlight than his foil at the mic, but even more so than on Dead Meat, this record feels driven by Nicholls’ riffs. He’s able to balance virtuosity and vitality, bound to wind a song up and let it spin away in a flash of light, then salve the singe with a tender turn on the next track. The band squirms out of expectations, boasting the skill of Felt but preferring the bluster and burn of the Dü. The Tubs toss listeners against all sides of the pub until the hooks have been pounded into the brain and we all leave giddy and glad for the mental thumping. Some bands need to worry about where their second album will leave fans of the first, but on Cotton Crown, The Tubs spend little time hemming and hawing about fan service and instead proceed to best themselves on their own terms.

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