This past September, O. were the first act to perform at the 10th-anniversary showcase of South London indie label Speedy Wunderground. While the label—which has released music from black midi, Squid, and Lewsberg—has grown far beyond its mission to be a quick-turnaround singles factory, O. are perhaps the most demonstrative showroom model for that expedient, plug ‘n’ play philosophy. Formed two years ago, the duo was already opening large theater concerts when they could still count their gigs on one hand. With their debut EP, O. make an even more convincing case for why you should have them kick off your show: For an often-abrasive instrumental band, they know how to start a party.
As the term “post-punk” has increasingly become shorthand for aggrieved shout-speak and stern-faced severity, O. reassert one of the genre’s original, oft-overlooked facets: Anti-pop experimentation can be a lot of fun. The four songs on Slice hit you with a delightfully disorienting array of sounds. At various points, you might think you’re hearing a hockey-rink buzzer, or a swarm of insects, or a doom-metal drone, or a squawking sea animal, or a police siren, or a brown-note synth frequency, or an incoming ocean liner, or a tectonic-plate shift. And that sonic spectrum is all the more impressive when you consider all those effects emanate from a single source: Joseph Henwood’s baritone saxophone, which, when filtered through Speedy figurehead Dan Carey’s production wizardry, is rendered equally boisterous and monstrous. Henwood’s sax attack is O.’s undeniable focal point, the novelty that would make an unsuspecting black midi fan heading toward the venue bar stop and wonder, “What the fuck is that!?!” before turning around and making a beeline for the stage. But drummer Tash Keary’s frenetic stickwork is the mortar that holds O.’s wall of sound together, ensuring a harmonious balance of improvisation and rock-solid composition.
On Slice, O. are already in the enviable position of possessing both a signature aesthetic and the confidence to stretch it out without worrying about losing their sense of identity. Where jazz instrumentation in a punk context often favors atonal skronk and splatter, O.’s brand of sax ‘n’ violence largely forsakes free-form anarchy for a more disciplined attack that rallies around muscular riffs and fleet-footed rhythms. Slice’s opening title track burrows a tunnel from The Mudd Club dancefloor to a Reading Festival mosh pit, with the song’s aggro-funk breakdowns and build-ups betraying the influence of Primus on the UK’s current post-punk pack. By contrast, on “Moon,” the duo wades into dubby waters without losing their sense of mischief—even as the beat slows and Henwood’s snark-charmer melodies start to ooze like molasses, Keary continues to ride her hi-hat and kick-pedal as if leading a disco band. Not surprisingly, the most mid-tempo tune, “Grouchy,” is the least interesting one of the bunch, its mutant-metal grind suggesting a pub-rock King Crimson. But the duo save their best for last with “ATM,” which affords them the extra space to deploy their full arsenal of effects for maximal drama. Over six white-knuckled minutes, the duo seesaws between ticking time-bomb tension and earthquaking eruptions, as if waging a war between their avant-garde inclinations and their irrepressible urge to just rock the fuck out. And from that chaotic collision, O. forge a sound as unmistakable as their name is unGoogleable.
