Throng Of Nobs
07 October 2013
So, Wet Nuns have announced that they’re splitting up. As they gleefully posted on their Facebook page, “our four year long joke isn’t very funny anymore. We’re sick of the sight of each other and the band is imminently to cease to exist.” Fair enough. For a band who’ve spent nearly half of a decade arsing around, this hardly seems like an incongruous end. Rest in peace, Wet Nuns. Remain in obscuria.
But this isn’t true, of course. Not the splitting up bit; that remains fairly convincing (it stands to be seen whether this is a Niklas Kvarforth kind of joke, which will end in one of the band faking their disappearance on the last leg of their tour, only to return years later with a different identity). The band may like to have given the impression that last four years has been a combination of slinging beers, fanny jokes and average musical output, but that just isn’t the case. This, their self-titled debut (and now, final) album is proof that if the career of Wet Nuns was one huge fucking pun, then the joke is indeed on them.
Wet Nuns, as you’d expect from a band who had the bollocks to call themselves such a name, haven’t written this record as an epithet. I mean, they’ve barely written any new material. ‘Heavens Below’, ‘Throttle’ and ‘Broken Teeth’ you’ll have heard (or should have heard) before on their past EPs, but they’ve been slotted into an album filled with much of the same musical fare that you’ll know if you’ve ever come across this two-piece; the name of the game is still sleazy riffs, Southern groove and vocals from a mouth that had moments before been acting as a conduit between the gut and a pavement in Sheffield.
Watch the video to ‘Hanging’ by Wet Nuns:
This transformation to full-length could have killed the charm of a band who thrived off the no-nonsense and laid-bare appeal of songs like ‘Why So Cold?’, but it’s only served to highlight their undeniable talent for writing monstrously catchy music. You’ve only got to listen to the atypically unaggressive ‘Only Sometimes’, which starts off like Urge Overkill’s ‘Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon’, to realise that the sputum-covered malaise of Wet Nun’s sound has always hidden a kernel of brilliant, essential music.
But, of course, all this probably means very little to a band who are calling it a day. We’re losing Wet Nuns, and sadly, we’re also bereaved of a considerable boon to modern rock music. Buy the album and listen to the last ever heavy band who didn’t rely on gimmicks to make excellent, synapse-splintering music.
Sounds Like: The Deep South, by way of Sheffield. Pissing on your shoes because it’s funny.
Standout Tracks: Throttle, Only Sometimes, Don’t Wanna See Your Face No More