Barry Dobbin and Luke Smith first began writing music together after the punters had all been sent home from their Bad Bunny club nights in Soho. Judging by the influences draped and smeared all over this, their first album, the club’s play-list must have been pretty special. Analogue synths judder giddily through the mix; meanwhile guitars are so sharp they could cut cheese; and the singer sounds like the mechanised voice in a lift. Let’s guess then: Ware-era Human League? Devo? Early Roxy? ‘Are Friends Electric’? Japan?
Get behind me Ro-mo; I hear you shriek. Well, it will be your loss.
You see, Clor are terrific – in that well scrubbed, fat-free, pallid-skinned way that all of the explorative greats mentioned above were. The fact that devotees of such serious futurists have now, of course, become committed classicists is one of those po-mo conundrums that obsessives loose their hair over; for civilians, however, the result is most welcome. Because, this is wonderful music; which, initially, you admire for its precision and straight-backed nobility, but then come to realise bleeds with emotion.
If Eno had ever gotten his hands on Pavement, they may have come up with a sound as lovely as ‘Gifted’, ‘Love + Pain’, ‘Garden Of Love’ and ‘DangerZone’, meanwhile, see thrilling pop choruses driven forward with the kind of vitality and urgency not witnessed since the first two Clinic LPs.
At a time when most bands settle for the grim routine of nine-to-five rock, Clor have pitched their wagon on net-free, imaginative freelancing. It’s a career path that may well be risky but it’s certainly nice (kraft)werk if you can get it.