Temples and The Wytches – two new bands of the month
by Matt Dyson
In my head, the ‘60s are the default golden, olden days that everyone thinks of when mythologizing bands and scenes. But it’s occurred to me that most wide eyed minstrels, carving the next zeitgeist were probably born after 1990. The whole decade, which seems a mere hangover ago is now fogged heavy with the rose tinted glow of nostalgia. It is even more surprising that more and more of these criminally young pioneers skip their ‘ 60s and are still diving into the actual ‘60s for inspiration. It would be like Nirvana growing up listening to Glen Miller.
Some of you will be thinking “what’s new about that?” Well, nothing really but what’s different is it isn’t all Beatles and ‘Stones imitation. The ever growing ‘60s revival is going under the floor boards and into the dark corners, breathing new life in the sort of unhinged garage rock that led many a casualty to end their days shaking fists at traffic in downtown San Francisco. Which is great.
The Wytches have the neurotic menace of an ill-advised festival in an asylum. They sound like they’ve been locked in a log for a year with nothing but Rickenbacker’s and cigarettes to keep them happy. Think of The Sonics with sleep deprivation and a nervous tick. Kristian Bell (vocals, guitar, organ), Mark Breed (guitar), Dan Rumsey (bass), Gianni Honey (drums) are climbing the walls in their Brighton hometown and releasing EPS brilliantly out of step with everything. On Beehive Queen you can almost hear Kristen swat away bats and whatever else has possessed him to cough up a tortured battle cry over big, glorious helter-skelters of psychedelic garage swagger. Burn out the bruise has a bass like a back firing camper van, sauntering down all sorts of dark alleys to do whatever grizzly shit sounds this devilish. It all ends with squalling feedback and possibly arrest.
Temples, on the other hand, prefer to kick back in the corner, draping themselves in the sort of ‘60s pop hooks which could get a thousand wide-eyed groupies sat cross-legged at their feet. And yet there is something bubbling underneath. They might not shout it out but that’s probably as their heads are full of mind blowing sonic invention. Shelter Song slops down the wall as it tips a feathered fedora to everything from the Monkees to sandpit era Beachboys. They band shout out proclamations as Singer James Bagwell spins a head f*ck of a yarn. It’s like Timothy Leary directing Sesame Street until it all drift out on a kaftan of plunking, tubular melody. And they’re from Kettering. Kettering, for Christ sakes.
Both of these bands need albums. Now. In the meantime we can all hunt them down through the internet and wonder how their generation have managed to be simultaneously better than us at technology and nostalgia. The loveable b*stards.