Image via @photoswotitook
In the preface for their deceptively dark debut album King Of The Moths, Superfriends declare that
"Music aside, the King Of The Moths is also a guy. I know - I've met him. He is the chaos of modern life, that never-ending buzz in your head, and that pile of junk decaying in the corner that everyone forgot about."
And to be honest, don’t we all know him? It is a painful familiarity plucked out of the mundane, static cycles of modern life. Superfriends are not trying to climb the colossus of war and global politics that appears to be the aspiration of many punk bands who end up condensing a vast and multifaceted issue into something more digestible, ultimately losing any substance or meaning. Instead, Superfriends are offering an authentic glimpse of the ‘normal’ life, of everyday woes and wins that are tackled in equal measures with a driving energy and a bright-clad optimism.
The sub-forty seconds intro track 'Lepidoterans' - named for the order of insects which both moths and butterflies fall into - firmly sets up both the overarching thematic image of the album, as well as condensing the musical essence of the following twelve tracks into its duration.
It segues cleanly into the first true song of the album, 'Moths', and establishes an enthralling duality. There is a great deal of aggression in the performance of these songs, in one of the purest forms you can get: honest, raw and completely free of distorted guitars. The clean guitar tones, on the surface more aligned with indie-rock of the 2000s, exacerbates the energy of Superfriends’ performance: nothing is hidden, nothing is altered, all that is on show is the force with which these songs are played.
The other half of this duality is just how happy much of the album sounds on the surface. The guitars are accompanied by the bright major warmth of synth that has an infectiously happy quality to it.
Yet even with this, or maybe because of this, there is another, melancholic side to the music; a length of shadow stretched beside the sunlight. Between the out-of-reach nostalgia conjured by various musical elements, and the gut-wrenchingly honest and familiar reminiscence of Harry Atkinson’s lyrics, King Of The Moths is permeated by a strange darkness.
'I’m A Moth' begins with a single, shortly sustained synth note that channels both 80s pop and gospel choir, and is quickly blown away by the clean yet thundering train of guitar that is already becoming a staple of the album’s sound.
From here, Superfriends run a seamless transition into 'Bug Bites'. At this point, it seems appropriate to mention the structure of the album. It is not just a selection of singles cobbled together, but rather a cohesive and well defined listening experience. Not all songs are necessarily to be taken by themselves, but rather come truly alive in the surrounding songs of the album. They are songs that elevate each other purely by proximity.
The middle section of 'Bug Bites' deviates from the 'bright-punk' sound that Superfriends so accurately attribute to themselves, and heads through a section of beautiful clean plucked melody.
'SE23' slows the pace of what has so far been a mostly high-octane ride. It feels quietly retrospective, even before we hear lyrics such as "growing up’s more fun with you {...} I wish I could go back." But at the halfway point of the song, the energy returns sevenfold in one of the album's most impactful moments.
The eight track of King Of The Moths and a rough midpoint for its runtime is 'Turn To Crime', the first single released off the album. As with many of the preceding songs, 'Turn To Crime' is defined by a sense of nostalgia. It is a strong, complete song, and an understandable pick for the first single. And yet, within the sequence of the whole album, it feels overshadowed by the songs that surround it: 'What Is My Voice' and 'The Spider's Lament'. This is perhaps a little harsh on the more by-the-book 'Turn To Crime', as 'The Spider's Lament' is arguably the album's best song. It's a soaring six-minute epic, whose desperate melancholy is perfectly encapsulated in the lyrics "maybe we could work it out someday/ Not in this life but maybe the next/ Or the last". It feels as though the album has been building up to this song, where all of its energy and anguish falls together like the surging tide: a focal point and climax, and the standout track of King Of The Moths.
From here, the album enters its equally strong denouement, preparing for the final curtain. The ending melody of 'I'm High And All I Wanna Do Is Hold You' is a perfect, final conclusion to this powerful and retrospective piece of art, resolving its story and leaving only the loose end of what if?
Listen to King Of The Moths here!
