Fight Like Apes - Whigfield Sextape EP | Album Review | By Volume

I'm afraid of heaven because I can't stand the height. I'm afraid of you because I can't be left behind. St. Vincent - Regret
whigfieldsextape

Fight Like Apes

Whigfield Sextape EP

Karate-rock turned judo, and have you ever watched a judo match?

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Author: on May 5, 2014
6.4
Alcopop! Records

Fight Like Apes are exactly the kind of batshit-crazy band that could probably get away with an oriental synth riff like the one that opens “Crouching Bees”. It’s difficult to communicate quite how firmly their music’s tongue is entrenched in its own cheek, to the point that they can juxtapose lines here like, “coming up on street drugs,” and “way-aye-ay-aye-ay,” without anybody batting an eyelid. On stunning debut LP Fight Like Apes and the Mystery of the Golden Medallion, they harnessed a frenetic energy from this anything-goes strategy, crafting a record which felt at once dizzying and direct, partly through brilliantly charismatic execution of the messier parts of their sound, and in places through the poise of the album’s structure – 8-second “Megameanie”, practically a masterpiece, somehow managing to provide relief through intense exhaustion.

In this regard, the EP format doesn’t really suit Fight Like Apes; there’s not enough time for them to warm up and wind down. Whigfield Sextape‘s four songs cover a lot of sonic ground, all riotously loud, but not in the same disorienting way as their recordings to date. Closer “Tyson”, in fact, is the only track which spins your head around as MayKay’s vocals intertwine with the declaration, “Don’t leave this band; you’ll go insane.” Alongside this cut, which grows from a simple key motif to a cacophony, and in the context of their earlier work, tracks like “Crouching Bees” and “bwah!” seem distinctly straightforward and mellow; for all their turns and twists, it’s all a little easy to map, a little difficult to get truly excited about. Fight Like Apes have described their sound as karate-rock, but Whigfield Sextape feels more like a grappling art than a striking sport, one which only lands its knockout blow in the round’s dying moments.

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