Antidotes? To what? Good question, but it probably doesn’t matter exactly, just that it is. Because indeed it is, to a number of probable ills, but the important thing here is that it feels in the most over-arching generic sense to be a proactive, punishing, propulsive experience – from 90 seconds in when ‘The French Open’ begins its taut onslaught it constantly feels like it is achieving. There is barely a moment on this debut from the Oxford uni drop-out post-math-rock outfit that is anything less than compulsively vigilant, quality control is locked down and fanatically tight and the line between man and machine is blurred. This is clearly music made by disciplined men with beating hearts and galloping pulses, there’s an analogue sheen to proceedings, but the influence of technology is all-pervading, machines affect every elastic riff and delay-ridden shimmer and the mechanical accuracy of every strike is almost atomic in its precision.
We deduce, ergo, that it comes stocked with antidotes to complacency, haphazard musicianship and lax craft, bubblegum and flippancy, to bland values, bad musical posture and the like. But focusing on what it trumps invites you to place it in a hierarchy and that doesn’t do the album as many favours. Comparisons with peers, though offering some guarantees of stature, do serve to expose flaws. Stylistically the closest reference point casts them as a Brit redux of Battles’ endlessly intricate post-millennial progressiveness – only Foals’ more forceful focus denies them the fruits of Battles’ more fascinating extremes. There’s a semblance of Bloc Party’s visceral tension throughout, yet lacking the anthemic rapport and connectional aspirations that is key to their success. It’s also hard to imagine Foals existing without Radiohead and Mogwai preceding them, but their niche almost inevitably isn’t yet as clearly forged as either of those heavyweights.
But you mustn’t miss the point that this is still an arresting record when you are deeply submerged in its intricate workings, which – like with many great albums – take a number of listens to fully reveal themselves. And that for all the tightly-threaded anxiety, omnipresent throughout, this is still a record made for dancing. Or jolting. And succeeding big time on that count. ‘Red Sock Pugie’ and ‘Olympic Airways’ even crowbar in a sense of arms-open redemption in carrying on The Rapture-jacked-up-on-amphetamine-psychosis deal of singles ‘Hummer’ and ‘Mathletics’ (bravely not included here, though that becomes less and less relevant after those first few listens). ‘Heavy Water’ and ‘Tron’, amongst others, recall the beat heavy shoe-gaze eclecticism of TV On The Radio, making sense of their decision to invite David Sitek to produce the record and intrigue of the fact that they infamously rejected his final mix.
They are a band ready-made for fascination, but while we leave with a strong sense of what they aren’t and what they are against in the generic sense, either through the abstract nature of the lyrics or the that they don’t excel singularly enough to leave an overwhelming impression, ‘Antidotes’ doesn’t quite leave a strong enough notion on what they are and why, via a truckload of hype, we should care. Although they still get 4 stars. Go figure.