Almost every song on Loom, Fear of Men’s full-length debut, includes a reference to water. The narrator in these songs risks being consumed, overwhelmed, sunk like a stone, or washed away completely. The drowned romanticism of the band’s lyrics (“I tried my best to destroy you but the waves/ Keep overflowing me/ Washing me out ‘till I’m empty”) is reflected in their music as well—a kind of delicate, twilight indie pop swirl that belies the heady darkness that seems to always be simmering just underneath. At first listen, Loom plays like an appropriately wistful dream pop cousin to Young Marble Giants or the Marine Girls (or something resembling Camera Obscura’s awkward stepsister). But underneath all the jingle-jangling guitars and twee musical meanderings, Fear of Men are quietly seething—a prim librarian who just happens to carry a warm switchblade in her book bag.
Fear of Men is essentially the work of two mindful British art students: Jessica Weiss (guitarist and vocalist) and Daniel Falvey (guitarist). Taking their name from a rare anxiety disorder (“androphobia” is an abnormal and persistent fear of men), the band set about making songs that took on mortality, mental illness, and loneliness and set them against a melodic backdrop of Smiths-like guitars. The fruits of the band’s early efforts were collected into an aptly named 2013 collection called Early Fragments, a release that showcased the band’s ability to marry the beautiful with the slyly profane. It’s a concept the band pushes even further on Loom. When Weiss sings “Lie alone until the dark takes it all/ Without a body, I am free to dissolve,” it’s a fitting descriptor of the band’s aesthetic: Personal melancholy and romantic dread loom large, while an ever-present ocean of ambiguously deep feelings threatens to wash everything away.
Musically, Loom is a nice step forward. “Green Sea” and “Seer”—both of which appeared previously on Fragments—sound bigger and bolder here, each benefiting from more assured production. The record’s best songs—“Inside” and “Descent” among them—balance the record’s darkest lyrical sentiments against it’s brightest melodies, which generally proves to be Fear of Men’s neatest trick. Though the band’s committed DIY aesthetic is admirable—they employ a strict hands-on approach to everything, from the production of the music to the album art to the band’s videos—the music might be better served by the help of an outside producer. This is far and away a more sanguine listening experience than anything the band has recorded before, but even with the addition of a full-time drummer (Michael Miles) and a live bassist (Becky Wilkie), the rhythm section can’t deliver the kind of punch the material demands. And the album’s shimmery sameness (and turgid melancholy) eventually starts to feel a bit rote.
When the band does cut loose, as they do on the sublime “America”, the albums’s best track, you get a sense where they might go next. The song veers from gentle strummer and escapist fantasy to something resembling heaviness, with diaphanous guitar lines momentarily giving way to a bit of roiling feedback and what sounds like a tiny little amp being mercilessly overdriven. It’s a rare moment of abandon. Fear of Men are likely never going to shred riotously, blow up their gear, or even raise their voices to anything resembling a scream—they simply aren’t that kind of band—but here’s hoping that all that well-considered vitriol in Weiss’ lyrics might eventually bleed over into their music.
