Shack confronted the wicked wolf of fate; a twelve-string pick-up packs up and goes for an early bath, accompanied by the hush backdrop of lengthy mid-set breaks, but this Shack wouldn’t be huffed and puffed away.
Fresh from a support slot on the Fall tour, I expected something more jagged and uncompromising, yet there’s nothing ramshackle or random about this four-piece. Built on the solid foundations of The Pale Fountains, the Shack attack consists of waves of frenetic acoustic strums and self-important basslines, beneath which the muted vocals bob and weave.
It’s a classy, comprehensive sound which treads in traditional footsteps yet has that rare ability to empty lungs. Discovering a luxuriant seam of harmony as they uncoil for the climax of their first song, they sustain the consonance until (reluctantly) discarding the jewel when frazzled forearms can no longer cope with the vibrant velocity.