Father Sculptor

Published

Ross MacNab

Worrying trends have emerged en masse in the much vaunted Glaswegian music scene. The Pavement revival has led to many local bands seemingly believing that they are indeed from Santa Monica and affect such delusion in their vocals. Similarly, a tendency amongst others has been the strange need to conform to a classic Scottish stereotype. Thus, the admirable emphasis upon folk music in Glasgow has instead created a hideous amount of utterly bland groups. Snow Patrol was quite enough thank you.

Whilst Father Sculptor pay homage to the legacy of legendary local label Postcard Records, they avoid the total deference afforded by many of their peers. The English quintet perhaps owe more to the grey slate of Manchester than their adopted home. The as yet unreleased recordings are rich but dark; pop sensible yet downright bizarre. One track, recorded and produced deep in the grumbling bowels of Father Sculptor’s bedroom is a personal highlight; thundering drums and OMD keyboards interspersed with Mia Farrow quotes complete a sound which is hard to hold with a united fist.

Supporting media darlings Spector to a sold out King Tuts provides the perfect platform for a debut gig. Up close & personal Father Sculptor is a far more muscular and brooding beast than on record. The brief nature of the set is tempered by how emphatically frontman Tom Hall dazzles the crowd with both his tropical dress sense and David Byrne affectations. The rapturous applause offered to the saplings was testament enough to the undoubted potential of this cultured, if remarkably ugly, quintet.

fathersculptor.com