Dream City Film Club
In the Cold Light of Morning
The opening track (“Killer Blow”) — a sparse, Red House Painters-esque cloud of contemplation — to Dream City Film Club’s In the Cold Light of Morning offers the only respite for the caterwauling to follow: the rest of the band’s second album is nothing short of a drunken birthday party in the funhouse. Like fellow Brits Fifty Tons of Black Terror, DCFC (now a trio) grind a noisy sleaze-rock down to its gutter origins, the putrid and the piss laying in full view. Whereas the blues-bent 50 Tons pick up where the Jesus Lizard left off in their prime by going for the throat, the Film Club go for the mind’s inner goo with a Velvet Underground-gone-caveman throb ‘n’ thud, the kind of which achieves a coma-like state through a vacuum of squalor and skree, the whole shit-fest swathed in a fevered melancholy. If the band’s more-dynamic self-titled debut proved to be the plate of slugs to serve as their palette, In the Cold Light of Morning knocks that plate to the filth-encrusted floor and mashes its contents into a pulp.
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