Length:  48:22 (min:secs)




Find out more about the band

No this isn’t a review for a gay reggae band, Sunshine Republic are actually five blokes from the south of England who together enjoy using vast amounts of electricity in the pursuit of creating a prolonged period of noise and in particular the lower frequencies of the auditory spectrum. With each track exceeding 15 minutes - and there are three to be found on this demo - it may take a little stamina to absorb all that unfolds with this form of experimental metal. It is best to allow it to wash over you and become immersed in an auditory fog - like going for a long walk don’t worry about how many miles it is, just enjoy the experiences while heading for your destination.

Starting like a demonic haunting by a rusty Iron Man with the most chastising title of “Ransack Your Mansack”, this seventeen minute ramble through oxidisation creates a hedonistic atmosphere containing enough rust to induce a reformation of the Austin Allegro Restoration Club. It’s a steady headache of feedback and distorted beats, punctuated by ghostly vocal moaning and gut wrenching heaviness that without the assistance of a melody single handedly pounds out an experience you are unlikely to forget this side of getting locked in a busy Sheffield foundry during the night shift.

Occasional but without being random, a rhythm of symbols and drums begin a rough sketch of the bizarrely entitled “Gimme A Blowjob”. It’s a loose jam of cadence and feedback that begin the baggy shape of something welded together by twisted guitars and deep rumbling bass. Very slowly building to a crescendo and causing structural movement equivalent to no.8 on the Richter scale, you are warned not to turn this up too loud as it WILL destroy your neighbourhood (unless you live in north-west London where it is absolutely encouraged).

Then to confuse “Celebrity Fat Cunts” shows signs of actually being a song with significant evidence of composition and melody and riffs and a groove.  A driving rhythm of solid drums and bass providing the main platter for a defining guitar that daubs and splatters sound onto an auditory canvas and makes way for the definite formation of an image - an image that will probably never be captured exactly the same more than once, as it should be with all the best jams.

This is probably not for those that like their music to have structure or tune or reside under the safe definition of a song. Their work is not so much John Constable as Vincent Van Gogh with Tourette's syndrome; post-impressionist in essence and far less concerned with recording auditory accuracy than with producing symbolic or expressive possibilities of representation and then giving it a rude name. These are collective sounds which chisel out an atmosphere that can almost be touched, that can almost be felt and that can almost be tasted, but they are collective sounds that maybe difficult to class as a song in the strictest sense of the term. This is simply an epic passage of creativity captivating a destructive moment somewhere out in the sunshine republic, without a note of reggae to be found!

12345678910 - Rigsby  (30th April, 2007)

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