“… this party continues without me.”, SINGLE: THUMPER – Topher Grace
by Walter Price
With the sonic power comparable to Cage The Elephant, psych leanings of King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, and the dramatic lyrical depths of Nick Cave, Dublin’s THUMPER have a recent single that’s ready and willing to blow your sensibilities into a new consciousness. An examination of what you think you are or will be in contrast to what reality and destiny actually have in store for you. Kind of what social media has become for many a person. Show the world who you want them to see, after a bit, you start to believe in your own distortions. Ultimately a lonely, more self-destructive than productive journey to be someone of note. It’s all a gnawing farce.
On the bag, I’m a made man
A made-up man, I know I am not
I hide in bars. I drown in words. It seems absurd that I’m lonely
Make a safe bet – If I left, this party continues without me
On writing this chugging slow burner, vocalist Oisin Leahy Furlong shares some insight, “In writing the song I wanted to see if I could free myself of the songwriting crutches I would normally reach for, like structure and melody and replace them with a more considered approach to lyric writing and performance. It’s a terrifying thing to hone your craft only to tear the rule book up, but the results were very rewarding. I spent the best part of 3 months writing the song on scraps of paper and iPhone notes, recording several different demos until I plucked up the courage to bring it to the band. It ended up being a very cathartic experience and tapped into a creative space we had never gone before.”
If you’re a fan of chaotic truths, the crunchiness of desert rock, and/or the witty wordsmithery of Mark Oliver Everett, then add this one to your contemplative playlist. You can stream the track and watch the Samuel Beckett inspired film, below.
Band photo by Ruth Medjber
Directed by Oisín Leahy Furlong
Filmed/Edited by Holly Hudson Taylor
Text animated by Daire O’Sullivan
“Simmer down the wet confetti, the geneticists still aren’t ready to come home so I’m alone for now. One trick phoney to the three-act addicts, foreplay takes five minutes, sex is next I guess? “Rock and roll is here to stay”, my mantra on bank-holidays. A self-fulfilling prophecy, oh yes. Make out with the mirror, practice chat-up lines, and figure out which thin veneer to debut as sincere moi. My fingernails are a frayed knot, my self-esteem has caught the cot death. Breathlessly, I’m eager to be redeemed. Still sleep with both arms in the air. Still making room for your hair and head to rest upon my chest, I guess. Still fantasise about the war. Still wolfing down the singular. The Liffey’s swallowed all my pride today. And Spielberg’s in the kitchen stink eyeing my side on the brink. Lining up the shot of his career. My fingers make a square to frame a cinematic, sincere pain. My ego is the Best Boy in the room – woo hoo.”