HOBBY CLUB

Rare eye conditions and a shared fondness of complaining. Hobby Club are Kerouac disciples with a Wes Anderson aesthetic. An alliance of follow-your-nose chaos and mannered virtuosity.

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Brimming with the kitchen sink realism of Sheila Delany and the melodic framework of early Cherry Red cassettes, Hobby Club – Beth Truscott and Joe Rose – are a two-piece jangle pop outfit out of step with the currency of Instagram filtered lifestyles, yet perfectly in time with the reality of day-to-day existence. “Not everything can be glamorous and exciting all the time, and that’s fine” states Beth “it just takes some coming to terms with.”

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Their story book world has a tether to adulthood, yet freefalls through a sub-plot of virtue and a counter narrative of suburbia. Recorded in an ex-shipyard canteen, debut EP ‘Video Days’ carries a similar industry; candy sweet guitars are smelted by a lyrical domesticity that evokes harbours and market towns, polyester and chip wrappers, bus tickets and the slow burn of auburn street lights. “Think about every single shit house party you’ve ever been to. We wrote a song about that.”

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The minutia of greenbelt survival is examined in near atomic detail: “I picked my skin off on the tube train” sings Beth on Bedroom, recounting the mundane while simultaneously exposing the delicate balance of the everyday actuality; satisfying when it goes right, painful when it veers off course.  Guitars chime with the clarity and expressive dexterity of Marr or Butler – ascending above the tracks, escaping the humdrum, before twisting and falling back into the groove. Fluidity and escape are pivotal themes in Joe’s playing. “Ever since I first saw ‘A Bigger Splash’ by David Hockney, I wanted to somehow make my guitar sound like that.”

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Formed and cultivated in a bedsit in Brixton, the duo quickly formed a friendship embellished by a love of video games, Japanese food and chicken shop chips – a cluster of disparate hobbies that seem lopsided when set against the conduct of the more commonplace, but make perfect sense to those in the club. It’s an idiosyncrasy that sits well with a band that once played a jangle pop set in an ex-Georgian brothel where Asbos were handed out to the event organisers.

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Recording was an equally eccentric process. With the building that housed the studio closed for breaching fire safety laws, the band were forced to enter under cover of darkness to record; a process they termed ‘panic tracking’ so concerned were they that they’d be caught by the landlords. The energy of those illicit sessions was captured on the resultant recordings, a giddy soundtrack characterised by the excitement of love and loss, mixtapes and best mates. An energy akin to being three drinks deep with your closest friends.

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