Cults - Host Review

Host feels a bit messy, further away from the simplicity and tightness of the eponymous debut, though there is certainly still enough to satisfy the inner indyteen.

Cults' self titled debut was essentially a chapter of the indyteen bible. Most British indyteens reach a point where they come away from the scrappy Camden band obsession and sophisticate their palette with transatlantic musings. In the early 2010s, there was this particularly attractive breed of American lo-fi surf indie; bands such as Girls, Best Coast and Surfer Blood spring to mind as some of those breaking into the brains of the younguns from Slough and Peterborough who fancied some beachside sunsets and wakeboards of the mind. 

Cults were surely one of the best at this sugary escapism, proof found when you think back to the summer of 2011, when you couldn’t go to any park disposable BBQ events without ‘Go Outside’ coming on at least three times. The band remained relatively decent through Static and Offering from 2013 & 2017 respectively, however Host feels a bit messy, further away from the simplicity and tightness of the eponymous debut, though there is certainly still enough to satisfy the inner indyteen.

Lead single ‘Spit You Out’ features a jagged rhythm section before the brazen entry of unhinged guitar lines to knock us off-kilter. Follin here asking, presumably an ex, to sever all ties; “clean me from your tongue” and “wipe me from your nose” degrade the ex to no memory more than bodily fluid. If there is a ‘Go Outside’ or ‘Always Forever’ tier track on Host, this is probably it. Second single ‘Trials’ welcomes us as host of a cabaret club in 1920s Weimar Berlin, with Madeline Follin bringing a creeping sensual vocal, as if crawling across a stage towards her fans. Follin repeats “I know you” as we are transported to summer camp during a chorus both catchy and emotive with descending harmony and hovering synth, perpetuating her desire and desperation for her muse. 

‘8th Avenue’ opens with a bumpy bass line, brushes of keys and flashes of brass. Follin can be found channelling her inner but softer-sided Laura Mary Carter of Blood Red Shoes, for a croon and a swoon while an almost trip-hop, ambient background plays out. The soft drum and bass loops and slowed ambulance siren synth of ‘Like I Do’ take us toward a darker shade of soft pop and the switches between near-isolated vocals and rhythmic crashes are undeniably exciting. ‘Masquerading’ and ‘Honest Love’ both sound like they are written for the merry-go-round and offer moments of genuine, relaxed glee, although it is questionable placing two tracks that are almost the exact same directly next to each other. 

The album takes a turn into a much poppier but sadly less effective corner all too early. ‘No Risk’ brings hopping keys and husky vocals that evoke an American Kate Nash that doesn’t feel quite right, including a barely audible speech in the background a minute or so into the track. ‘Working It Over’ is a slower jam holding a torch to Lana Del Rey but staying in her shadow.

There are even a few explicitly poor songs on the record. First felt early on, the opening “Cliff Richard Christmas song choir on helium” stylings of ‘A Low’ is a severely distracting beginning to a song that progresses into little more than filler. By the time the choir return two minutes into the track we become assured this is the self-titled low point of the album. The delicate synthpop of  ‘A Purgatory’ struggles under a lazy, hazy vocal that closely follows a lazy, hazy synth line to somehow messy, all-over-the-place results. ‘Shoulder To My Feet’ slows things to lullaby pace before the ambient loops, now a trope of Host, set in and mix with the siren-like beeps. But the vocal starts to fade into the background and the track eventually fades out with a whimper. Final release prior to the album’s release ‘Monolithic’ closes the album with yet more ambient loops, forgettable vocals and emotive strings, which ultimately amounts to little interest.

Cults remain a talented two-piece, and Host features plenty of glee and foot tappers, but there’s a lot off with this record. You don’t come to a band like Cults for clever lyricism and high levels of experimentation so the trouble with Host is, in part, the feeling that this is what Follin and Oblivion were striving for. Where there is mess, tired tropes and confusion, there are more than enough quality tracks, particularly the opening triplet, which could be triumphantly played by any indyteens at any park disposable BBQs event.