Opening with the musical equivalent of being dragged into an arcade machine entitled Murder on Motorbikes, the helpfully titled Intro is by no means a welcome mat – it’s more a sign that reads: ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’. Within seconds, I’ve complied.
Segueing deftly into second track Demands – ‘segue’ here being a euphemism for ‘indistinguishable’ – the rumbling drums and guitars and effects-laden bass drive implacably forth like some war machine, laying waste to that pesky parasite known as coherent melody. While laudably managing to make their guitars sound like Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson with his balls in a mousetrap, the meandering structure is drawn from the Tower of Babel’s blueprints. White noise follows grey area follows Black Sabbath approximation, a monstrously striated guitar break stabbing away with all the randomness of a hard-on in a bucket full of fannies.
Apologies for the crude imagery, but it’s a dark alley down which Tiny Fingers’ fingers lure you. Pasedena Matador is a vaguely melodic mid-album reprieve, before a rabid dog starts ripping apart the corpse of music itself in Money-Time, its snarling blood-soaked jaws so voracious that the digestive system already seems to be squeezing out the consequences. Meanwhile, Cyclamens somehow manages to fuse post-rock with, er, jazz, which feels like a cacophonous invasion from the planet Noisewank, whose species are so inscrutable it’s impossible to tell if they’re vaguely nodding in chin-scratch appreciation or headbanging.
With Megafauna it barely matters. Some things don’t need translation – just avoidance.
*An edited version of this article is published in the August edition of BrumNotes magazine