The aching affixing of imagination onto sprawling suburbia is universally understood. Its dull and drab demeanour subconsciously downplays excitement while fuelling a resistance to its monotony. Living and especially growing up in such a place is liminal. The young, tight-knit Shaking Hand, comprising George Hunter, Freddie Hunter, and Ellis Hodgkiss, draw upon their own Mancunian surroundings – long rows of near-identical, aged red brick houses, encroached by the demolition of heritage for redevelopment. Again, “liminal” is a key word – residing somewhere between newness and nostalgia is bound to engender some need to cope.
The three-piece have done so by wielding the poignancy of unwinding, pensive indie rock. Spidery chords reveal a fragility, tension, and underlying warmth that permeates muted but ever-changing suburbia. Every sustained twang, as Hodgkiss beautifully articulates in the press release, feels “like walking through an empty city late at night but catching flickers of life in the buildings you pass.” The constant melodies are firm, like the foundations of claustrophobic suburbia, but the trio’s rhythms brightly emanate hope that cuts through the grit.
It’s a musical excursion faithful to the notions on hand, but also to many experimental guitar outfits that came before them. The band’s take is somewhere vaguely between Midwest emo and post-rock. The obvious nod to Women in their band name can’t be glossed over, but the prowess of the coveted Calgary band is honourably channelled in “Night Owl”’s rising riffage. The opening one-two punch of “Sundance” and “Mantras” exudes uplift, with vocalist George Hunter’s soft-spoken voice caught in the warm grunge, much like any Acetone or Ulrika Spacek song. Prolonged cuts “Up the Ante(lope)” and “Cable Ties” recall Q and Not U’s and Pinback’s more restrained moments, but are injected with dread. The murky chords patiently peter out like Sonic Youth’s whenever they approach near silence. Like where they live, Shaking Hand have built something new from the past’s remnants.
Rhythms that appear to fall apart unsuspectingly do not. “In for a… Pound!” hums with stop-start chords, jolting into saw-toothed, passionate riffage. It’s hazy, rough, and human. The lyrics woven throughout are also vital – like invasive, scrawled graffiti asserting necessary character, the words carry a relatable and abstract quality. Notably, using delectable prose, “Mantras” confronts the need to reinvent: “Certain chances, some strange feeling answered / Letting go of et ceteras and the etiquette of some barriers.”
There’s a strange solace to be found in the suburbs, given they want to impose otherwise. Being so in your own head from that concept leads to finding significance in things that are generally not of note. Shaking Hand’s dichotomous debut record seeks beauty in those contrasts, and the hypnotic guitar strolls they go on take them to it. If you’re ever walking by rundown buildings of the same stature, listen to Shaking Hand and let the colour in the mundanity reveal itself to you.
