Album Review: The Purpose

On paper, they seem like the most unlikely band ever. Tauranga ‘brothers’ Marcus, Pete, and Ben Walton all have the kind of backstories that Bear Grylls would kill for. According to their press, Marcus John MacRury (guitar) walked away from London’s illegal bare‑knuckle fighting scene after serious hospitalisation forced a life change into music. Peter John Johanson (bass) spent years touring Australasia as a competitive yo‑yo performer, until a base‑jumping shoulder injury ended his freestyle career (his signature trick – ‘The Atom Smasher’ – is still revered amongst the global yo-yo performer crowd). And then there’s drummer Benjamin James Hope, who was lost during a shamanic river ceremony near Iquitos, while studying Amazonian spiritual practice, until he was eventually rescued by family, returning home with a cracked hand drum and a dreadlocked beard. Well, that’s what they say. Who am I to argue?

Verbosity aside, their live shows truly do deliver volume, honesty, and a level of just barely‑contained chaos. All that’s helped build a loyal live following in Hamilton, so far. After this release, that’s sure to grow.

They formed after Pete (who plays with Ben in a covers band called SplintA) reached out to Marcus following music he’d posted in Jam Space. All being children of the 60’s they purloined their name from the popular ‘70’s country-folk TV drama, The Waltons and added ‘False’ to the title to indicate they are not actually related. Or maybe they are. Yeah, Nah!

Their writing process relies on what they call “The Waltoniser”: Accordingly, Marcus provides the early riffs and lyrics. Pete reshapes those crude songs, fleshing out the harmonies and then Ben adds the final beats. The end product, put together at Rocky Cutting Studios, is what’s now blasting my eardrums right now. The Purpose delivers eight tracks of satisfying mid 70’s rock’n’grind, following the template laid down by garage grungers the D4 and The Datsuns – with a few clever twists in sobriety along the way.

Not the expected jazz treatment, Hot Cat On A Hot Tin Roof comes at you full throttle, driving beat and ‘Oi! Oi!’ attitude, channelling fiery agitation and restless motion. If Kiwis ever played CBGBs in the early 70’s then this would have brought the house down.

I’m digging the indie grooves and demented vocal efforts on Carry Fire, which remind me a bit of early Straightjacket Fits and the Abel Tasmans (which are some of my heroes, by the way). The lyrics swagger about, thumbing through a Rolodex of metaphors – endurance, emotional loyalty, heat and heaviness. In a recent interview, the band talks about the song as something of a resilience piece. A nod to a commitment that costs. One must choose to hold the flame even when it burns the hands.

Side On begins with a monologue that appears to have nothing tangible in common with the song: “Dude, when it’s for real. And when I’m awake it’s like a dream. And when I’m walking, it’s sort of like I’m asleep but like in bed. Just think of those words, and what I’ve just said for the rest of your day.” Deep. But those lines cannot prepare you for the explosion of wailing feedback and jagged, yet stomping dark grunge-guitar that’s about to assault you. It’s worth it. It’s a down and dirty slice of rock, stealing all tricks from The Cult to the Jesus and Mary Chain. The main riff reminds me a little of the Phoenix Foundation’s ‘Buffalo, but that aside it’s a bloody brilliant package of noise! The song is self-described on Soundcloud: “Disaster vaporised the whole f***king shit with the atomic number seventy-nine (i.e. gold).” Guessing, maybe this is a sardonic look at possession, marriage, and extrapolating potential emotional entrapment. I wonder.

Slowing the pace to a dream state stagger, Train To Your Town is a beautiful reprieve. Vocals seem to emerge through the fog. “You stole my fury – it was electronic”. What could that mean? A text or email? Consolation by digital notification? And what’s the significance of the train ride? A return, for reconciliation? A homecoming or an escape? Our only hints are in the melancholy delivery of the lines. I’m left wanting. I’m hearing a longing, movement, a cyclical, yet emotional return through the imagery of travel. A bit of road movie, I guess.

Sideways Is King returns the indie na-noise, this time with plenty shoegaze axemanship, swirling bass and kicking rhythm. I read somewhere that the song is a love letter of sorts to lateral thinking. It’s about taking alternative paths, veering off the straight line, going down the detours and welcoming the mischief that might bring.

What Is For Sale goes back to the dark vibes of Carry Fire vocals dripping with agony and angst. The bridge is beautifully desperate and intense. It’s cynical social commentary on modern commodification and the literal, emotional and metaphorical price tags we hang on everything and everybody. We always judge people by worth. But what is the value we are seeking?

A Little Strange embraces outsider identity. If there’s a melodrama to be found on this album, then it’s here. The song builds with a nervous anguish as the singer searches for identity and belonging. There’s an alien feeling in familiar rooms and a sense of misfitting. To reflect that theme, the sauntering bass and drums clash with the uncomfortable chiming of guitars.

For some reason the closer, The Purpose, which is also the album’s title, doesn’t seem to really fit the rest of the album. Initially, at least. But it is their most popular track to stream. That jangly, optimistic vibe is only offset by Marcus’ wailing, mad-hatter musings. It’s a bit distorted, so I’m not exactly sure what he was on about but I liked it anyway. Perhaps he’s been listening to Mark E Smith lately? The song is saved by a maelstrom of static, fuzz, hiss and other guitar slash ’n’ burnings. It’s refreshingly cathartic!

These boys have got the goods, spinning chaos into gold, dropping humour, and earned life experience into the pot and brewing up a tasty, tuneful stew of unhinged alt-rock goodness that’s loud, proud and perfect.