Rocker (feedbot)
Gold Member
With the conclusion of their debut album’s ten year anniversary tour last year, it could be easy for a band like Foxing to rest on their laurels, feet up. But that’s not Foxing. With every release, they push their own boundaries, evolving in one way or another; be it doubling down on a working formula between 2015’s ‘The Dealer’ and 2018s ‘Nearer My God’ or leaning into an entirely different sound with 2021’s synthpop heavy ‘Draw Down The Moon’. With their fifth, and self-titled, release, Foxing have taken the expansive ‘Nearer My God’, added a touch of melancholic nihilism from 2013 debut ‘The Albatross’ and a smattering of synths from ‘Draw Down The Moon’ to create something that’s deeply layered, serene and, truthfully, beautiful.
‘Secret History’ opens the record in a promising way – ethereal, spacious verses of gentle synths and even gentler vocals from Conor Murphy, peppered with occasional triumphant horns give way to explosive full band choruses that exemplifies the frustration within the context. Reflecting on something everyone in their early thirties goes through – the consideration of whether the dream is over, whether you’re pissing your life away on the mundanity of life.
Quickly followed by ‘Hell 99’, the entire band go heavier and quicker than any of their previous releases, the closest perhaps the coda to ‘Draw Down The Moon’s opening track ‘737’. Guitarist Eric Hudson screams throughout, adding a visceral edge to the lines ‘Is this all there is? Fuck Fuck Fuck’ as chaos ensues; pray for Hudson’s vocal chords if/when they start performing this at live shows. As with all Foxing songs, once the chaos reaches its peak, it fades into an atmospheric soundscape, as if all the rage, angst and apathy has dissipated leaving only the cathartic warm glow of acceptance.
‘Spit’ has an air of majesty to it, with thick, rhythmic beats allow Murphy to really wail in such a way that he must do a killer version of Prince’s ‘Kiss’ at Karaoke. His delivery is pitch perfect, never feels stretched and accompanies the funky guitars (think Gambino’s 3005’ and you’re kinda close) in the verses seamlessly.
Given the name ‘Greyhound’, verses focus largely on aquatic metaphors; oversized whales in undersized lakes, the beauty of being underwater but focusing on breathing, and being tangled up in coral, it’s a picture of suffocation and uncomfortability in their surroundings, unironically struggling to stay afloat in a digitalised world. Rolling in at eight minutes long, it’s a slow building epic that’s layered with both poetry and melodies that hit you both in your ears and your soul.
‘Cleaning’ is largely synth led; not in a pounding party way, more in an uncomfortable electronic droning way like you’re playing it at half speed, while ‘Barking’ hits in a more traditional synthwave (possibly New Romantic) vibe as if it could’ve been dropped in the mid 80s. ‘Gratitude’ is similarly synthwave adjacent, with futuristic synths smattered throughout and a bouncy bassline from Brett Torrence. High levels of angst bleed from Murphy as he rages to feel something, anything other than an apathy for modern life.
‘Kentucky McDonalds’s stoic and restrained opening instrumentation creates a dichotomy between Murphy’s eerie and uncomfortable vocals while ‘Looks Like Nothing’ swirls with ethereal wonder, breaking into a crescendo that is as sumptuous, satisfying and endlessly catchy.
‘Dead Cat’ sifts through a serene dream of higher range vocals, bluesy guitars and sonic dissonance before leading straight into the bouncing the Placebo-esque ‘Dead Internet’ – both twinkly and punchy in equal weight, it’s the proof of their evolved sound wrapped in a sub-three minute bow.
‘Hall Of Frozen Heads’ is undoubtedly a sprawling epic, starting with simple chords and tender vocals, it swells and builds as Murphy laments the unerring frailty of life – be it by crushing an egg, washed up jellyfish unable to return to the sea, or the destruction of a planet; it’s delicacy is matched only by ‘Cry Baby’. An elegant piano ballad aimed, presumably, at the band itself, it closes with an old voice recording of early-teen Hudson stating “I don’t think this song is as good as it could be, but it’s coming along” before slowly fading out. Their perfectionism continues to this day and, although they may be at each others throats during writing/record processes, it’s clear there is an inevitable love, appreciation and respect amongst the band.
In a month where we’ve seen a couple of reunited bands, one who never evolved their sound and one who evolved it too much, Foxing have ably hit that intricate balance of upskilling and progressing, without losing their distinctive sound. The softest parts are the most vulnerable they’ve ever been, while the heaviest parts are their most visceral to date. Often being included in the same song, it’s nothing but sheer hard work, perseverance and, frankly, stone cold ability that allows them to flow between sounds so clearly. If you like your music full of heart, honesty and some huge melodies, this is the album for you.
ANDY JOICE
‘Secret History’ opens the record in a promising way – ethereal, spacious verses of gentle synths and even gentler vocals from Conor Murphy, peppered with occasional triumphant horns give way to explosive full band choruses that exemplifies the frustration within the context. Reflecting on something everyone in their early thirties goes through – the consideration of whether the dream is over, whether you’re pissing your life away on the mundanity of life.
Quickly followed by ‘Hell 99’, the entire band go heavier and quicker than any of their previous releases, the closest perhaps the coda to ‘Draw Down The Moon’s opening track ‘737’. Guitarist Eric Hudson screams throughout, adding a visceral edge to the lines ‘Is this all there is? Fuck Fuck Fuck’ as chaos ensues; pray for Hudson’s vocal chords if/when they start performing this at live shows. As with all Foxing songs, once the chaos reaches its peak, it fades into an atmospheric soundscape, as if all the rage, angst and apathy has dissipated leaving only the cathartic warm glow of acceptance.
‘Spit’ has an air of majesty to it, with thick, rhythmic beats allow Murphy to really wail in such a way that he must do a killer version of Prince’s ‘Kiss’ at Karaoke. His delivery is pitch perfect, never feels stretched and accompanies the funky guitars (think Gambino’s 3005’ and you’re kinda close) in the verses seamlessly.
Given the name ‘Greyhound’, verses focus largely on aquatic metaphors; oversized whales in undersized lakes, the beauty of being underwater but focusing on breathing, and being tangled up in coral, it’s a picture of suffocation and uncomfortability in their surroundings, unironically struggling to stay afloat in a digitalised world. Rolling in at eight minutes long, it’s a slow building epic that’s layered with both poetry and melodies that hit you both in your ears and your soul.
‘Cleaning’ is largely synth led; not in a pounding party way, more in an uncomfortable electronic droning way like you’re playing it at half speed, while ‘Barking’ hits in a more traditional synthwave (possibly New Romantic) vibe as if it could’ve been dropped in the mid 80s. ‘Gratitude’ is similarly synthwave adjacent, with futuristic synths smattered throughout and a bouncy bassline from Brett Torrence. High levels of angst bleed from Murphy as he rages to feel something, anything other than an apathy for modern life.
‘Kentucky McDonalds’s stoic and restrained opening instrumentation creates a dichotomy between Murphy’s eerie and uncomfortable vocals while ‘Looks Like Nothing’ swirls with ethereal wonder, breaking into a crescendo that is as sumptuous, satisfying and endlessly catchy.
‘Dead Cat’ sifts through a serene dream of higher range vocals, bluesy guitars and sonic dissonance before leading straight into the bouncing the Placebo-esque ‘Dead Internet’ – both twinkly and punchy in equal weight, it’s the proof of their evolved sound wrapped in a sub-three minute bow.
‘Hall Of Frozen Heads’ is undoubtedly a sprawling epic, starting with simple chords and tender vocals, it swells and builds as Murphy laments the unerring frailty of life – be it by crushing an egg, washed up jellyfish unable to return to the sea, or the destruction of a planet; it’s delicacy is matched only by ‘Cry Baby’. An elegant piano ballad aimed, presumably, at the band itself, it closes with an old voice recording of early-teen Hudson stating “I don’t think this song is as good as it could be, but it’s coming along” before slowly fading out. Their perfectionism continues to this day and, although they may be at each others throats during writing/record processes, it’s clear there is an inevitable love, appreciation and respect amongst the band.
In a month where we’ve seen a couple of reunited bands, one who never evolved their sound and one who evolved it too much, Foxing have ably hit that intricate balance of upskilling and progressing, without losing their distinctive sound. The softest parts are the most vulnerable they’ve ever been, while the heaviest parts are their most visceral to date. Often being included in the same song, it’s nothing but sheer hard work, perseverance and, frankly, stone cold ability that allows them to flow between sounds so clearly. If you like your music full of heart, honesty and some huge melodies, this is the album for you.
ANDY JOICE