In a time before Teeth of the Sea, there was JAWS. A mythical beast that existed chiefly in its members’ imaginations, it was to be the ultimate incandescent and unsavoury aural burnout; a bracing, no-rules tarpit of abjection and intrigue. Then they actually had a band practice, and
found that instead it sounded like an inept, drumloop-driven racket. Only mildly disheartened, the band lay dormant until a decidedly blurry, in-the-red evening at a show in one of the murkier quarters of the metropolis, when its entourage were excited enough in their addled state to forge a master plan once again: Their mission: to stand atop the scrapheap of modern avant-rock like some wayward, drunken colossus. Armed with freedom of intent, irreverence
and sheer hedonistic spirit, they would banish the legions of laptop-tapping timewasters and po-faced noisemongers that habitually blighted their evenings out, forever.
Then they actually had some band practices, and were pleasantly surprised to find that what emerged from the new lineup was a turbulent, fiery and atmospheric instrumental brew that encompassed searing cosmic psychedelia, melodramatic giallo soundscapes, mariachi melancholia and kraut-tinged droning occultism. This band hence metamorphosised into Teeth of the Sea. Two years and more have now passed since that fateful night, and though their sound has blossomed into the expansive, evocative and electrifying elixir you’ll hear on their Rocket Recordings debut Orphaned by the Ocean, their modus operandi remains exactly the same: To forge onward irrespective of genre, fashion and occasionally common sense. To have no agenda save what thrills them at any given moment. And to place reckless oblivion as the ideal destination for their quest. Orphaned by the Ocean, a far-reaching
travelogue boasting an embarrassment of riches in texture, atmosphere and bloody-minded amplified overload, is nonetheless merely the first stop along the way.
In the vein of: Goblin. Liars. Eno. Harmonia. Butthole Surfers.