Chins For Lefty is the debut album and first recording by Gichard, a new duo chronicling the absurdities of end-stage capitalism and mouldering social rituals from their vantage point in Glasgow, Scotland. Recorded primarily in the bandâs home studio straight to tape, Chins For Lefty combines gorgeous, ramshackle melody, DIY kosmische punk, drum machine + synth and, in vocalist/lyricist Lisa Jones, an absurdist commentator on the human condition as it navigates the anxieties of the modern world. Instrumentalist Chas Lalliâs swirling music accompaniment stitches an evocative mix of musical styles, the ragged wind beneath the lyricsâ wings.
Although the duo first collaborated in their previous group Dragged Up, their disparate musical and artistic backgrounds make for an alluring mix in Gichard. Lalli has spent the last 20 years in the Glasgow underground, most notably in the noise rock group VOM, while Lisa Jonesâs practice was in poetry and spoken word. Beginning as co vocalist in her previous band, in Gichard her lyrics are centre stage; the vision concocted alongside Lalli amounts to a total world-build.
Chins For Lefty scans almost like a novel, with each track elucidating a skewed universe that bears only some resemblance to the one you and I partake in. Like all works of fiction Gichardâs songs are rooted in reality and the lived experiences of its authors, but here characters are exaggerated, social mores and habits are pulled apart to reveal their inherent alienness. Universal emotions are laid bare, the bright light of anxious examination searching out every hairline fracture in our relationships. Distorted and cracked, the mirror that Gichard hold up to our world is also pretty damn funny.
Opener Cholesterol Test launches an expansive, cosmic guitar and synth intro that belies the Tascam-tape recorder it was recorded onto, like a Chromatics cut substituting anxiety for overt sexuality. Here Jones intones an apology to a non-responsive recipient, in the medium of a long voice note forensically deconstructing an interaction from the night before. Over punk guitars and shuffling, lo-fi drum machine splutters, the narrator in Asking The Apes âprefers things to peopleâ before being taken hostage in the city zoo to confess an obsession which consumes the protagonist, ending with the immortal two liner âI sleep in a cocoon of old newspapers at the end of your street / And I think I have been fired from my job,â On album standout Posthumous Hologram, the narrator is faced with a human simulacra, in this case an undead pop star; the face of the encroaching technological singularity. Yes, it does requests, it can do My Way in 200 different language options. But what are the implications? While youâre left pondering, the alternating deadpan verse delivery and undeniably catchy chorus keep you company.
By the time Break Up With Johnny Dogbirth rattles into view, the band are satirising a suburban inanity blown up to cartoon proportions, soundtracked with a drawled musicality that recalls Rowland S. Howardâs post-Birthday Party balladeering. This approach is furthered on Human Resources: over an angular guitar+bass track, Jonesâs short story recalls Dry Cleaningâs erudite lyrical post punk. On Soft Face, Lalliâs guitar and drum machine are swathed in echo and delay, as Jones dissects dating rituals with a west of Scotland drollness. Hamming It Up brings a porcine perspective in a short story that begins with the line âI was breastfeeding discreetly in the service station. She didnât mind.â What follows is a passage punctured with canned laughter and a narrative involving tribute acts, modern farming techniques.
Brilliant first single Your Private Hell closes the album, the closest the group get to earnest perhaps, filtered through a surreal central Scottishness. While Your Private Hell might seem like a sardonic take down of romance, perhaps itâs the very distillation of love in all its awkwardness, selflessness and weirdness. Here thereâs a distinctive Glasgow-ness to this doomed romance: the protagonist falls for an outsider, offers them cheap jarred hot dogs and carbolic soap (the infamous, excoriating soap dished out in schools and government buildings throughout Scotland), offers to cover up a murder, stalks them in the all-night Spar. Itâs a short story of intrigue, murder and the irresistible pull of self-sacrifice to share in someone elseâs suffering. If thatâs not love, what is it? You can see this vision mapped out in black and white on their video for 'Your Private Hell'.
