Junk Drawer - Year Of The Sofa

Junk Drawer - Year Of The Sofa 

There are many words you can use to describe Junk Drawer. Traditional… would not be one of them. The Belfast based quartet have won the hearts and minds of many with their DIY ethos, genre fusion and John Osbourne-esque predilection for cynicism. Assimilating an assumedly unpalatable mix of Krautrock, Indie, Post Punk and Psychedelia, Junk Drawer are somewhat of a puzzle box. Charming, yet morose. Funny, but anxious. Aware, but in an excessive, bliss shattering way. Junk Drawer sounds like they’re playing a prank, and you’re in on the scheme. You’re privy to the inside jokes. You’re in the inner circle, and it’s a whirlwind of derisive one-liners and filthy, toothsome riffage. This spirit of glorious discomfort is the foundation upon which Year Of The Sofa was built, and it carries on Junk Drawers tradition of releasing guilty pleasure for rainy days. Superb stuff.

Receiving the music video treatment (visuals by Ciara King, colouring by Matty Killen), Year Of The Sofa follows the travels of a lonesome cowpoke through the annals of Belfast and is sodden with satire. Year Of The Sofa does not as sweep you away as much as it perches on your shoulder emanating apprehension, like a hungover guardian angel praying that its wallet is in his other coat pocket and not in the backseat of last nights taxi. The video sees the viewer play the part of carrion crow, following closely behind as our faithful hero smiles through the musical lethargy, like an episode of Black Mirror. Grim, trudging vibes emanate from the get-go, and all the while there’s a panicked, laughing energy in the background. Liquid psychedelia lounges into focus on the back of echoing riffs, its streams muddied by lyrics mire in self-contempt and antipathy. An apathetic, slacker groove and an indifferent sneer convey upon the tune a grin-inducing humanity that only adds to the absurdist humour of it all, while nervous licks and the constant plod of the drums ensure listeners remain wary.

The melody and riffs tighten as the song progresses, hurtling towards a tense climax. Grungy, distorted licks contribute to a growing wall of nefariously stripped back wall of sound, all the while our rhinestone cowboy continues smiling through the paint and disgust (“people talk about the golden era. Well I saw it and nothing changed, but I could tell you that from my sofa”). Consistently cynical, witty, mellifluent and jagged, the hulking pace of Year… has a real menace to it that would almost be punk except it never takes itself so seriously. It’s part of the charm, that lack of gravity. The realism in the murky troughs of Year Of The Sofa is, excuse the repetition, painfully real. It's human, it's flawed, it's funny and it’s just a little bit damaged. If any of their numbers were more deserving of being prettied up for the audio listener, then I’m not aware of them. A first-rate effort from all involved.



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