It’s hard to look at the current state of the world and not feel deeply depressed. Humanity always fell for the folly of concentrating on the micro rather than the macro, with the resulting egoism usually worsening the situation for everybody in turn. It’s a cyclical motion, not fired up just by ignorance, but also the complex interests of capital and power, who market themselves as benefactors. This leaves an imprint on the younger generations, who sway towards nihilism. The interest in anti-natalist philosophies and romanticisation of human extinction is something you can find anywhere, from lecture halls to bar conversations and Tinder profiles.
It should matter that even the most elaborate of arguments in that field come across as somewhat adolescent thought experiments that grapple with privileged and isolationist tendencies. Think about it: how many anti-natalists have you encountered stemming from a background of having experienced a genocide, or suffering the ancestral trauma of slave trade? If your very existence is somewhat reviled and coloured by the oppression of your culture and identity, maybe there’s more pressing thoughts, such as the evolution of your crushed ancestral heritage in a world forever marching towards automated industrialisation of the human body as capital.
That is probably why some of the most exciting music of the current era is coming from Ireland. Surviving oppression, war, famine and military occupation, Ireland is home to a unique melancholia, which permeates its art, spirit and life philosophy. Its fatalistic worldview is one that, ultimately, leads to acceptance – of loss, of death, but also of violent stubbornness, tinged with a unique understanding of christian mysticism and ancient paganism. It is, in its very definition, resistance.
Two bands that perfectly distill this mixture of ideas and aesthetics into a new sound I portrayed in my essay on Futurismus: Gilla Band and Naked Lungs. Since, the style has grown outwardly and found more representatives, but it is Ireland where the sound truly blossoms. Iarmhaireacht, the second extended play – or mini album – from Foxford’s Nerves comes so fully formed and self-confident, it’s baffling the group hasn’t been widely championed, or released a proper full length. Produced by Gilla Band’s Daniel Fox, their sophomore release marries a teutonic sound of abrasive dynamics with a defiant, heartbreaking grief that seeps from every anguished line.
The record presents a tentative breakup narrative, focusing on alienation, lost passion and symbols of unity being shattered. But behind those metaphors lies a striking, multi-faceted assessment of Irish identity. The pieces are connected by the band’s use of archive material and found recordings, in an attempt to showcase the cultural context of what is ultimately personal struggle: the lack of jobs, the disquieting occasion of encountering cosmic entities. The powerlessness of post-colonial realities renders the broken heart into a dialogue with the state of Ireland.
Similar to Naked Lungs’ Tom Brady, vocalist Kyle Thornton renders the island as animated entity, whose fragmented identity is perceived as elemental betrayal. Thornton is very open about his leftist perspectives, especially in light of right-wing nationalism blossoming all across Europe, and tracks like “Act of Contrition” and “Dirty Fingers” highlight this acidic, bitter repulsion with authoritative control. Rife with tension and sonic experimentation that often climaxes in harsh, noise drenched explosions, these songs portray the struggle for survival, as reality slowly succumbs to a nightmarish, emotional apocalypse. At the same time, they seem drenched in the sepia-tinged tone of pastoral horror films. As the interlude “nélfinn” has a newscaster from the 1950s state: these are songs about people that the world has forgotten, characters you find in José Ramon Larraz’ Symptoms or Wicker Man, but consumed by very different trauma.
The quasi-techno beat of closer “Don’t Let Go”, which has Thornton scream “I don’t want to let go” to the point of exhaustion becomes the record’s ultimate statement. Seeped in desperation, it opens with pure ambience, then moves into industrial dance-punk and finally bursts forth into shattering noise. Yes, it could be read as a simple ode to a failing relationship, but the ring that Thornton references in the opening lines is more of a contract set up with life, with the ability to survive. With vocal samples echoing like distant ghost voices, “Don’t Let Go” seeks to unite past and present to characterise an absence that becomes a defining factor of life, ancestral trauma in a vacuum. It’s a frightening, maddening, deeply impactful song.
The equally haunting “Through my Chest” uses similar dynamics for a cinematic perspective of omnipresent vision, which ultimately leads to an almost Cronenbergian transformation, with the protagonist forcing himself into a productive shape – the consequence of all the hurt, pain and oppression that ultimately shapes people.
The Irish novelist Manchán Magan described the word “Iarmhaireacht” as “the loneliness felt at cockcrow, when you are the only person awake and experience that existential pang of disconnection, of not belonging”. It’s a brilliant choice for a title, perfectly encapsulating the existential terror that Nerves seek to distill; this cosmic imbalance that forces one to ponder madness and futility. Instead of merely succumbing to nihilism, Nerves’ music is a conquest of pessimism, an appeal to resist, to re-configure. It forces us to confront the horror, but never tells us to despair. Sure, at five songs and three interludes and clocking in at 26 minutes, Iarmhaireacht is a little short and can’t fully develop the emotional dynamic of a full length, but it might be the best actual EP (Perverts does NOT count) of the year. In a pointless world, in a country still seeking its lost past, Nerves have a bright future.
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