The Longcut: "Out at the Roots"

“Cotton and guns,” quipped Alan Partridge while trying to demonstrate his knowledge of Manchester. He might as well have said “Cotton-Eyed Joe” for all the cool points he scored with his Manc builder, whose wizened contempt and escapee peroxide match the Longcut’s own brand of rebellion. Hailing from the mean streets of the Halls of the University of Manchester (Lambert and Fairfield House—like Basra, but with book fines), the three-piece offer a raw alternative to the city’s thirst for dub techno, taking all that fury suppressed between slide keys and releasing it as sub-zero punk. “Out at the Roots” is the first cut from their new Open Hearts LP, and—much like Alan Partridge’s Manc builder—dishes out serious firepower to those with a runaway bathroom mould problem (I’m talking mega-serious; so grim that even this shit won’t fix it).

Crawling up from some guttural scratching into a snarling, sabre-toothed rock loop, the track sidesteps briskly into vocals—vocals that any level-headed producer would blur and submerge in shoegaze. There’s no denying that Stuart Ogilvie sings like a man waking up through his own vasectomy, but there’s also no denying that it’s unquestionably, irrefutably brilliant, seething alongside wintry rhythm guitars straight from the Bloc Party debut. OK, so this may be the Longcuts’ second debut—A Call and Response was 2006, back before things began toppling—but you do get the sense there’s more control happening here now that the band has embraced total hopelessness. “Well you can’t say we didn’t warn you / You can’t say you didn’t see this coming / Put on those dancing boots and drive this poison out at the roots,” screams Ogilvie through eight layers of gaffer tape, his battle-cry brimming with the pent-up aggression of a Mine Clearance Diver on shore leave. No doubt this really will kill all weeds stone dead, and, in common with other bleaching agents, it becomes steadily less painful and more cathartic with every regular cycle. In my capacity as hypochondriac I’d recommend it be swallowed in times of complacency; if you’re thinking of popping the entire album, though, you’ll need vodka and the Samaritans on speed-dial.