Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Ian Grimble and Richard Matthews of Communion Music at 2KHz, Crouch End, London
A song like "Power Watch," by The Pheromoans is one that immediately sets the table for what they're going to get you into. They're going to argue and they're going to support creative vandalism and thoughtful shit-talking. They're going to jump to conclusions when they see a suit and a tie, when they see a guy with a badge, when they see a guy with a smug look on his face and an expensive smell to him, step out of a shiny car, wearing expensive shoes. They're going to find legitimate reasons to get themselves agitated, just not enough to break a sweat. They're likely to take their gripes and throw them into clever, ramshackle avant garde punk songs and let them speak for themselves, to whomever will listen.
The young UK band enjoys the pastime of prodding and cajoling the upper crust. They're not necessarily tired of their lot in life - they're just tired of the selfish pricks having all the fun and having all of the nice shit. They don't like the demeanor and they see the possession of cool and expensive shit, of having the means to obtain it, as an affront. It's as if, when they see someone driving a Mercedes, that person might as well just open the driver's side door, step out from the vehicle, unzip their fine trousers and piss all over them. It's the same thing, in so many ways and it's what the Pheromoans specialize in.
Theirs are somewhat bizarre and erratic musings on power and money in a similar way to how Art Brut mused on fame and the business of making and putting out records. They are mostly tongue-in-cheek quips about social and financial inequality, but really they're just the gentle jealousies that we all have when we're seeing assholes reap such stupendous benefits and we're left struggling to make the ends meet. They sing about someone who must be a celebrity, or someone who wants to be famous, saying that they should have silver shoes and a car - preferably that Mercedes referenced above, "Cause I am entitled, it was decreed by an editor." When you put it that way, of course it's going to feel shady and gross. Then, to add insult to injury, they continue counting the many ways that this is all a travesty, singing, "And it's just a coincidence that your favorite football team is the most successful and your favorite sprinter is the fastest." It's sure hard not to hate a real prick like that. The Pheromoans are absolutely right.