Irish artists have a history of struggling with their second albums, whether that be U2’s anaemic and preachy October or Hozier’s trite Wasteland, Baby!, with its irritating exclamation mark.
Others have stumbled, too. Fontaines DC’s A Hero’s Death was among their least essential, and The Frank and Walters spent years wandering the indie wilderness before releasing Grand Parade (admittedly their best release – but did it have to take so long?).
None of which weighs even for an instant on the shoulders of the Dublin postpunk four-piece Sprints, who follow up last year’s spectacular Letter to Self with an irresistible wrecking ball of a sequel. All That Is Over is a courageous album that represents a sharp departure from their debut, a heavy-hitting affair but one front-loaded with melodies that functioned as sugar mixed in with the spice.
[ Sprints: Letter to Self – Confessional album deals with experiences of struggleOpens in new window ]
All That Is Over exorcises the sunshine and goes big and dark. The album is confrontational and compelling, and it cares not a fig for expectations. In an industry fuelled by hype, it dares to be confounding and to require active engagement from the listener.
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All That Is Over doesn’t take you by the hand: many thrilling moments are scattered amid the gloom, but it asks you to seek them out for yourself rather than laying them out on a platter.
It is a record of ideas, above all. Assembled in France with Daniel Fox, of Gilla Band, as producer, the album is, according to the group, a reaction to the many traumas in the world today, whether Gaza or the transformation of the United States into a dystopian Magaland. There are so many horrors that we can take our pick.
Hard times call for harsh songs, or so Sprints have concluded. Where they came flying from the traps on Letter to Self, here the tunes unfold darkly and languorously. A stygian doom envelopes the opening track, Abandon, where guitars prowl and growl and the drums go off like depth charges before Karla Chubb takes the stage. “Abandon all hope, hang the rope,” she growls.
It’s a bleak line that sets the tone for an LP wreathed in a feeling of despair that curls and curdles like fog rolling in from the sea.
Heavy though it was, Letter to Self was also stuffed with bangers. Second time out, Sprints are self-consciously suppressing their talent for effervescent pop. In its place the band bring raw, unvarnished catharsis – on Need they sound like a hellish version of the indie crowd-pleasers Wet Leg, zipping guitar doing battle with Chubbs’s nail-gun delivery. “Won’t you tell me you love me? Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she shrieks.
Like sunshine after thunder, the mood mellows somewhat in the second half. On Pieces, Sprints deploy roiling Pixies riffs as Chubb unpacks personal drama in a half-spoken chant. “Help me, help me, I’m a mess / She’s left my mind in a state of undress.”
That Sprints can be as catchy as anything when the mood takes hold is confirmed on the penultimate track, Coming Alive, which features a beautiful avalanche of guitar and a vocal as addictive as anything Taylor Swift, Chubb’s musical hero, might come up with.
That throat-clearing is followed by the project taking its leave with the broiling, purgative Desire – the sound of an indie disco shaken and stirred by pile-driver riffs. “It’s the good, the bad … the best you ever had,” Chubb intones as the song goes thermonuclear. It’s an outpouring of unfiltered fury that roots the listener to the spot.
All That Is Over isn’t a straightforward affair. If you feel music should be a refuge from the outside world, you may find it needlessly cruel and punishing. But it’s an album brimming with big concepts about the strong imposing their views on the powerless, and its rage feels well judged and of the moment.
In this troubling age we need pushback and anger. Sprints provide both in knock-out quantities.
