Death at Sea

They’re awash with the depth and danger of maritime nightmares. They’re the place where coruscating noise meets haunting pop melody and brutal lyrical honesty. They’re Sonic Youth, Pavement, The Strokes and Echo And The Bunnymen eating each other on a raft adrift in the Arctic Ocean. They’re Death At Sea, the best band to emerge from a vapid Liverpool scene in decades. And they’ve come to give rock the kiss of life. They’ve got all the characters. Sam Peterson, the art-­?rock guitarist with the tortured past. Ruaidhri Owens, the technical home-­ studio whizz kid, capable of making an entire album on knackered equipment held together with old school ties. Carl Davies, the hyperactive drummer spooling endless tales of shark documentaries and Merseyside scene gossip. Neale Davies, Carl’s bassist brother; the silent, swarthy enigmatic one. And Ralph Kinsella, the taciturn art-­?school poet on a mission to admonish his sailings and discover his true nature through his lyrics. “It comes from a constant state of melancholy,” Ralph admits. “Sometimes it’s about me being an asshole and writing about it, admit and cope with that.”

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