CityLife

They're peerless synth popsters

TO read interviews with some tortured souls with similarly torturous music, you'd think being in a band was about as deliriously enjoyable as watching the post-mortem examination of a close relative. Late Of The Pier, however, do not subscribe to this po-faced philosophy.

"There's a whole indie mantra of restraining yourself and being cool, but we're so far away from that," explains giddy synth-molester Sam Potter.

"We're too painfully honest. We're just having fun. Loads of fun. We can't wait to have fun and for everyone else to have fun and to see how many times I can say fun in one sentence. I'll say it once more... fun. There."

Formed in 2005, the Nottingham-based quartet of 20-nothings are true 21st century post-Hadouken! forward-thinking pop alchemists. If the beginning of the Noughties was characterized by dreary sonic weapons of mass acceptance such as 'Oldplay (formulaic Esperanto music), recent years has seen the dancefloor incubate new and ever-evolving hybrids of genres.

They brilliantly follow the Xenomania idea that the jigsaw of a pop song no longer has to be assembled in a way that makes up the picture on the front of the box: hence, we get visceral music that sounds like its getting drunk on a good night out, excitably veering off into unexpected tangents.

"We work well at festivals, because we're often the missing link between bands," points out bassist Andrew Faley. "You get so many styles there and we're so many different styles in one band."

Indeed, their single, Bathroom Gurgle, was something of a neon Bohemian Rhapsody, oscillating wildly from art-pop to Krautrock, to stadium-shaped prog, to day-glo new rave. Phew!

"It comes from having short attention spans," says Faley. "We toured a lot last year and when people turn around and say, 'Oh it's amazing, this song's great,' we'd be sick of it and hate it and want to do something different."

Hinge-point

It's little wonder they've found a mentor in Erol Alkan, the DJ-turned-producer who was instrumental in causing indie kids to dance, and dance kids to rock at the hinge-point of the millennium. "Erol had always been an idol to us," gushes Faley, "just from hearing about Trash. When we were 16, we'd hear about this place where all the weirdos could go to listen to indie music you could dance to.

"It was amazing. His music knowledge is ridiculous. He's a walking Wikipedia. You can ask him about a song and he'll tell you the barcode on the first 50 pressings of it. He's so excitable as well, so for him to produce our album seemed a logical fit.

At this point, their own Yoda Alkan seizes the phone: "He's a slave-driver and he's got murderer's eyes and he's been horrible to us all night. I've got scars! Not just mental scars, but ones all over my body."

"Hmmm... he's also schizophrenic," notes Faley.

Like a hereditarily disease with an asymmetrical haircut, electro music was partly in their genes. Cherubic frontman Sam Eastgate's dad is a former Eighties electro musician from such un-unforgettable bands as My Dog Has No Nose and Smokey & The Fall. Growing up in Castle Donington with nothing to do, the four schoolfriends - completed by bonfire-haired drummer Ross Dawson - immersed themselves in his bulging Eighties post-punk record collection.

"Coming from the village, we were shielded from the world," remembers Faley. "It helped us because it was untouched by any scene, so we were never involved in one kind of movement, we were always floating in between genres."

Having released their formative bedroom recordings, known as the 11-track Zarcorp Demo ("Sam knocks out so many songs, there's no point just keeping them on us," says Potter. "They may as well collect dust in other peoples' houses.") on their MySpace for free, they built up an ever-swelling fanbase through relentless touring. They have a penchant for performing topless, in the fine tradition of such cultural titans as Take That and Phixx.

Overfilled

"We were playing this really small venue that was completely overfilled, and we got so hot we had to," says Potter of looking three women short of a Bananarama video. "And then we realized it's quite nice playing with no top on. You have no sweat, it's cool and it feels good. And then people started liking it and we all got beautiful girlfriends and we thought, perhaps it's the way to go."

Well it worked for Adam Rickitt... oh, wait.

Poised to play Manchester, what can we expect? Aside from a combination of Numan'n'nipples?

"We're going to get Zeppelins in," promises Potter. "Maybe hot air balloons in the sky. We'll fill them with glitter and then send up missiles to shoot them as a finale. And if the budget doesn't allow that, then an explosion of immature energy translated into a very serious art form."

Resistance, as they say, is futile. Before long, you'll be joining in Bathroom Gurgle's Timewarp-style command of `So put your hands on your waistline/And move your body to the bassline/And get your hands on some cheap wine'.

"I think everyone can do it. It's universal," says Potter. "I mean, my nan could do it but she's got dodgy hips. But she tried anyway, bless her, and then the bottom half of her body fell off and it was really messy cleaning it up. So perhaps it's not for everyone."

Late Of The Pier play Club Academy on Sunday, February 17. Their debut album follows in the spring.