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human heads – in the afternoon

Human Heads are an electro-pop sprechgesang duo from Glasgow.

Human Heads deliver a whopping sensory twofer; a vial of fragrant oil for your proboscis and six doses of throbbing-synth-extrusions and poetry-speak-sung for your inky flappers. On listening, it’s the overall heaviness what mugs you first – narrative and synthetic. ‘You shouldn’t have met’ is a slice of crafty street recording, school kids on the blab rapping on death, that’s soon dive-bombing deeply like Sabbath picked up a couple of Korg SB-100’s rather than them dirty guitars.

As the tracks unspool we follow stories (possibly reflections, possibly prophecies) on the full-body foxtrot and crucifixion. Pixelated piano is preceded by the delighted squeaking of a small child, a train’s rhythmic rattle and Scott Joplin’s entertaining hands. R.D. Laing is in a nostalgic mood so things end with the sort of dry-rot clunk Kanye would have chipped a tooth for on his self-titled Yeezus opus.


Ben Ellul-Knight
Hannah Ellul


They reverberate,
they also absorb dregs
that came from our teenage diversions
Cold and stony, the rubbery shadow
Brought to life
With a whiff of a dank man-made hole
And now a brightness
Feels higher and more determined
Fuller now, gathering to block out extraneous letters, sights
My own fingers trawling and trailing
lips overstretched
Rid the flavours from the mouth
A narrative fading - good
Metallic churning // reaching out,
receding again and overlaid with a negative etching
A breathing cog
Not circular but returning
// familiar but not mine
a sweet spot between nape, pit, popper, pear //
A breathing cog
Not circular but returning
Do it with your eyes closed
A sweet spot between now, then, the rear of a dream
Trapped Doppler,
Metal is cooling, becomes corky
Lips overstretched, adjective snatched
Sucked and blown
To reach equilibrium //
Thinly domestic now
A drawn out teeter I can no longer perceive
But it came from somewhere massive and hard
A slow shock
// A pattern cut from a metal sheet
and now it’s on the move
lays itself down over spoken undulations
until they form a new pattern, called a beat //
received, pressing, driving,
old and flammable
sneaked up from within a refrigerated box
another slow, pleasant shock
Thickly domestic now as we sink
Survey the scatter
Manipulate the joint
Tiny and early, the echo ate its tail

Rebecca Wilcox


Fractal Meat Cuts, 2021

Human Heads

'Wonky song, magical spoken word and electronic-squelch squeezed into semi-improvised story forms. With a stubborn rejection of the classic ‘rock’ or ‘jazz’ group structure (the sweaty quartet, the junked trio) the HUMAN HEADS settle on the synth-trio as their medium of choice but turn that Yazoo strictly inside-out'. 


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13 Jun 2021 – 7:30PM


£12 £8 Advance £6 MEMBERS