Traams seem to compress into a very small space seemingly disparate approaches: wild abandon in the playing, and studious control freakery in the arrangements. The tension produces great results on their debut album.
Under the overarching principle of brittle guitars everywhere you get the relentless surge of Head Roll, the inspired glam riffage of Fibbist, and undeniable arms-aloft anthem Hands. It’s an immediately likeable set, and in the apparently constant exasperation of vocalist Stu Hopkins, we have a magnetic centre point to their wiry post-punk sound. And even though it’s left field, this is immediate poppy stuff.
They make it seem so damn easy as you get rock back on your heels to one, two, three, more potential singles. I might have to go and take them out in a fit of schadenfreude. “You don’t even know my number, you don’t even know my name” honks the frustrated chorus of Flowers. That’s a situation that won’t last for long given these songs’ catchy vigour.