With ears pointed straight up and hairs on end, South London's Fat Dog have arrived, snarling yet ready to play. They know that ruin begets ruin, but in this mess, there’s no time for hesitation; it's time to show some teeth and romp around in heat – Fat Dog commands us to dance!
By dance, they mean twist and writhe like a tick torn from its host, frantically searching for a new life source and adrenaline bump. Fat Dog's debut record, Woof, provides this high in erratic doses, hits that consume us whole, only to projectile vomit us into an absurdist's oblivion where the only thing you can do is vibrate and contort to the hedonistic rhythms that fill the space.
On the surface, Woof boasts with indulgence and a relentless drive to be as loud as possible, with no care for restraint or breath. There's no reprieve – what’s there is held close, every bit of space filled with frenetic energy, barrelling forward with an intensity that's claustrophobic, impulsive, and stingy – what's there is theirs, and what's ours, especially our ever-diminishing attention spans, is theirs too. And the deeper one gets through Woof's grotesqueness, the more Fat Dog lays bare the apocalyptic endgame of our culture's unquenched thirst for excess and chaos.
A fusion of blood-pumping art rock and colorful EDM,
sharpened with a serrated industrial edge, Fat Dog have taken the
sterility out of rave. This is chaos, decay, and survival music for a
world already wasted away. In this wasteland, however, there's object of
worship. Close your eyes; you'll find "Dog," you will also hear Joe
Love and company playing his oh-so sacred and acrid cord, pulsating with
a fervently unserious faith. However, the theatrics of Love's pompous
performance throughout Woof would have you believe that it's as devoted as can be.
Needless to say, the world here is in shambles, the future
feels as empty as the present, but their uncompromised, luny posture is
the only thing cutting through the fog – they just ask of us converts
nothing more than to dance, and when in "your darkest hour, look for the
light, and [Dog] will be there," Love announces on the tensely
unraveled album opener "Vigilante". But even as the original apostle of
this Dog, Love is lost, confused, running from himself and the clarity
he fears. His disjointed thoughts and muddled intentions paint a picture
of futility, yet they drive forward with unbound energy.
There are "Crackheads to the left / Clowns to the right,"
Love observes in a haze, delivering what feels like a twisted hymn in "Clown". As the self-proclaimed "King of The Slugs," he slips from his
pedestal, realizing the weight of his own delusions on "All the Same". Just a sad sack in the wind," he mutters, the end in sight, ego
battered and bruised. This constant oscillation between delusion and
self-mutilation of said ego is disorienting, and yet, it's hard to say
that it strikes any real emotional chord, let alone feels sincere.
Thankfully, the volatile nature of it all intensifies the unruly sounds
and structures that accommodate these murky, intoxicated tales, spurred
on by religious fanaticism.
Towering cliffs of cityscape hypnagogia crumble, fissures
widen, and the spirits of a decaying urban landscape are released. They
dance to exercise their delirium and hopeless stasis – we're to join.
The invitation to dance, though, feels like a taunting billboard, bold
and vibrant, beckoning us from the edge of a ledge, right into the
record's technicolor abyss below. Death is near certain, but Woof
is a promised thrill ride to that end, a party for the end of the world
that is – an exhilarating release of urban urgencies realized through
some of the nuttiest dance or punk music heard in 2024. It scrambles the
brain, leaves the heart feeling empty, but compels the body to move. Woof scratches that primal itch. It's the sound of a society unraveling, and Fat Dog has captured it.
