Review: Swim Deep, The Bodega
There's something quite zoological about Swim Deep. A moody, animalistic flow which roughly massages the mind of every listener. Primitive rhythms, channeling nature's call with growling angst. Wild melodies that hiss and roar until bloodied prey drips from ceiling to floor.
However, this groundwork looks more juxtaposed than a tortoise with racing stripes against feeble lyrics and limited dexterity – wounded gazelles which lie in the sun, waiting for pitiless vultures to pick their carcasses clean.
Leopard's need to change their spots instinctively throughout a gig.
It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and this sombre serenade is dangling at the bottom of the food-chain.
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King City does manage to briefly disrupt the tragic stream of gloomy miscues – but alas, carrying the wearisome set proves far too much responsibility.
It's soon squished, slug-like, under Honey's ominous weight – mirroring the fate of an otter being piggy-backed by a pregnant hippo.
The band does momentarily shoot off on a lightning-fast relay race which sees an ostrich, cheetah and hawk blitz the competition. But when the baton gets passed to their final runner, they find a snail on crutches in the form of Beach Justice – allowing many woe-funk bands to gratefully streak past.
There's only so many times you can zap electrodes through a toad before accepting it has croaked.
At this moment, Swim Deep are bobbing along on a turbulent tide – lacking the ribbits they need to hop into a mainstream pond.
They might still make it, but the indie jungle takes no prisoners.