There are so many reasons to love ¡Forward Russia! that it can all get pretty confusing. There's the way they've spearheaded the revival of the DIY spirit. There's the fact that they still roadie their own stuff offstage. There's the hilarious confusion caused by their numbered song titles. There's the fact that their drummer is called Whiskas! Like the cat food! Or there's their dazzlingly dextrous drummer, Katie Nicholls.
But perhaps above all there is the moment in 'Thirteen' when after a dizzying series of rhythmic chops and changes, the drums briefly drop away before slamming back and knocking you sideways with the most unexpected and orgasmically gorgeous chorus. This is perhaps the reason to cherish ¡Forward Russia more than any other: the way that they perfectly blend intellectual math-rock arrangements with cheap rock thrills, going for both the brain and the hips.
While they're a scarily exciting live band and masters of stop-start post-hardcore noise onslaught, in Tom Woodhead they also have a lyricist of some depth, and when you learn to decipher his impassioned wailing, there's all manner of esoteric lines like "We all can lean on figures and crutches/The politburos will expect their free lunches" to unearth. There aren't many bands that would build a battering, disjointed riff around the words "lost, lost lost in the sea of conjuncture", and even less that would make it sound so gleefully terrifying.
While they're hardly the Stalinists suggested by the name and the numbered song titles, having their own means of production has allowed ¡Forward, Russia! to take time and not be rushed headlong into their first album. As a result, the most eagerly-awaited Yorkshire indie debut this side of The Long Blondes sounds incredibly assured. Older singles like 'Nine' and 'Thirteen' and 'Twelve' don't overshadow newer tracks like the bass-led, handclap-laden explosion of (did you guess?) 'Seventeen', the aching, chiming beauty of 'Eighteen' and the synth-draped balladry of 'Nineteen'. It's a varied and assured collection that locates the space between Bloc Party and At The Drive-In and tears it to sweaty, delighted shreds. ¡Forward, Russia! have quietly but firmly upped the stakes, and there isn't a wall that could hold them right now.
