TFCF

Andrew spends TFCF discovering sounds that previous incarnations of Liars somehow never explored, whether it's the oddly majestic psychedelic flamenco of "Cliché Suite" or the brittle piano pop of "No Tree No Branch," one of a streak of surprisingly catchy songs on the album's second half. Amidst all the change, Andrew holds onto some quintessential Liars qualities.

Perhaps these songs take on a more chaotic, messier, and a little dirtier appearance than they might have in another possible incarnation, but they’re still clearly of the same extraction as what came before.

TFCF might well be an Angus Andrew solo album under the Liars banner, but what he’s achieved here fits within the his band’s remit for consistently morphing and confounding expectation. More importantly, it’s heartening to see an album as intriguing as this emerge from such a traumatic time.

Fifteen years on from their first album, it reminds you that this band's trajectory is beholden to nothing except Andrew's own insatiable curiosity. Long may it remain this wayward.

Despite the band's downsizing, TFCF demonstrates that Andrew has always been the beating heart of Liars. This time, the unexpected was hearing him bare his without any uncertainty.

As soon as you get a grip on it, TFCF wriggles into another shape. But even at its weirdest, Angus Andrew’s songwriting couldn’t be clearer, and that’s what makes it a mess worth unravelling.

Where TFCF will stand in Liars’ overall oeuvre remains to be seen, but for an album that wasn’t expected to be a solo piece, Andrew does very well on his own to make his mark.

The collection is likely to be remembered as a curious transitional chapter rather than placed on a pedestal alongside 2006’s meisterwerk Drum’s Not Dead. Even at its patchiest though, the sound of Andrew re-finding his feet offers greater rewards than most groups’ fully realised records of derivative blues-rock mating calls.

TFCF marks yet another shift in sound for Liars, as Andrew battles with dense samples and new instrumentation to compensate for the loss of former members Aaron Hemphill and Julian Gross. Like some of their greatest records however, TFCF creates a metaphorical space for the listener to explore to excellent effect.

This earnest, well-crafted jumble couldn’t be a more appropriate marker of the irrepressible project’s evolution, nor a more fitting testament to Liars’ legacy.

It can be a bleak listen at times, but for every scuffed-up shadow and turn to negative space, there’s a song like “No Tree No Branch” or the frenetic “Coins in My Caged Fist” to pull you out.

The mix of hollow percussion, melancholy synth drone and further bird sounds on ‘Crying Fountain’ add up to a conclusion that seems to aim for open-endedness, but is mostly just half-hearted. This phoning-in is concerning, but the other eight tracks are as good and as interesting as ever.

TFCF is riddled with confusion and self-reflection, and it faithfully continues Liars’ unconventional stride, though this time it had to affect him intimately and personally to take him there.

TFCF is undoubtedly a record for recalibrating Andrew's personal and sonic compass but, rather thrillingly, suggests that despite the realignment, great things lie in the future.

Acoustic guitar features, alongside synths, samples and field recordings, but for all their adventurism, these songs have structure. Still, diversity rules. [Sep 2017, p.32]

It could be said that this album distills most of the group's themes and explorations into one grim package. [Jul-Sep 2017, p.58]

Under all the Iggy Pop mumbling, splintered ballads and warped Western themes, it seems they keep bubbling back up. [Oct 2017, p.105]

Messages from the deepest isolation are most likely to be a SOS or the increasingly deranged words of someone losing touch with their sanity. TFCF somehow manages to be both. Alive with unease. Shorn of every accessory, everything to mask the sharp taste, the familiar duality of Liars is starker than ever.

TFCF lacks the forceful unity of the best Liars albums, particularly the thoughtful avant-garde theatrics of They Were Wrong So We Drowned and Drum's Not Dead. The songs here function more like a series of half-developed sketches, often invigorating but a tad shambolic, the lyrics' cryptic nature failing to connect with any coherent central thesis.