Showing posts with label Fuck Buttons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fuck Buttons. Show all posts

Friday, July 26, 2013

Fuck Buttons...exactly how does this work?

Hey look, I've got another interview up at Blurt today.


THE IDEOLOGY AND THE ECSTASY: Fuck Buttons

A billion bloody fans can’t possibly be wrong, can they? Fuck no! But what will they think of the new avenues of expression the British band traverses on new album Slow Focus? Benjamin John Power and Andres Hung have some explaining to do.

BY JENNIFER KELLY


Two years ago, a Fuck Buttons song was broadcast to over 1 billion people. It was “Olympians” and, fittingly enough, it was incorporated into the London Olympics’ opening ceremony, along with the equally blood-pounding, equally ecstatic “Surf Solar.”

“We were approached by Rick Smith from Underworld who was working on the opening ceremony,” says Benjamin John Power. Power, along with Andrew Hung, has made up Fuck Buttons since the mid-‘00s. “He just proposed to us that he wanted to include us. We didn’t really know in what capacity our music was going to be used until quite late on in the day. We were as surprised as anybody else.”

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FUCK BUTTONS - stalker - TARKOVSKY from joppippoj on Vimeo.


I reviewed Tarot Sport a while back for Dusted, too.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Fuck Buttons

Here I go embarrassing my kid again with my filthy mouth. Not my fault this time, it’s the band name. Their new album Tarot Sport out now-ish on the All Tomorrow’s Parties label.

Thanks, Simon, for the heads up on this band. Also, thanks Arjun for pointing out that the review was live. I wasn’t expecting this one to run until tomorrow.

With this second full-length, Fuck Buttons continue to move from noise to transcendent raves. Their early singles may have sounded like a less abrasive Black Dice, but Tarot Sport calls upon the beat-driven, spiritually-enflamed techno a la Moby and Underworld. Even the album name hints at Fuck Buttons’ volatile combination of mysticism and sweatiness. Here, glistening swaths of synthesized other-ness are punctuated by the driving, drum-machine pulse of vigorous exertion. (read the rest here.)