Dublin has amassed a very specific notoriety for grabbing discord by the chord, and creating something physically untouchable. Whilst Sprints may be the scenes more “recent” offering, it goes without argument that the four piece have been destroying the circuit with about as much nihilistic force as tying a knot between the red and green wires and refusing to stand back and watch the inevitable eruption from a safe distance.
If you like gloriously justified rage, this is for you.
‘The Cheek’ is pure, unadulterated chaos and it’s brilliant. Ringing sarcasm with relentless attention to an impactful after-effect, like a full body tinnitus trip in which one cannot ‘simply sleep-it-off and hope for the best’, this is ‘Malpractice’ gone rogue and shines an unacceptably well-versed spotlight on singer Karla Chubb’s publicly questioned sexuality.
Pressing down on scattered feedback with such determined control, that said invigoration has started to twist and contort into slivers of a kicked up hybrid, forming a unique blend of corruption-corrosive gold; Sprints, as should the rest of us, couldn’t care less who or what you are in life… just don’t be a moron. When we’re all up on the sweaty bar of highlife and nightlife, there’s unapologetically no room for dickheads, so leave folk alone and let us get back to planning a societal revolution.
It goes without saying that ‘The Cheek’ is something to be played loud. There really is very little point in doing anything else. Standing on your neighbours roof in the hail, nature’s answer to anarchy dripping down your spine as you scream “Oh the cheek” to the high heavens and anyone who dares challenge down below. To anyone considering seedy endeavours once we all return to our favoured live music hollows- this, is your first and final warning.
“Bi, bye, bye”. Fuckers.