THE EDITED PRESS RELEASE: “Thank’s concoction of anxious disco grooves, harsh noise freakouts and inscrutable sprechgesang bluster was borne out of their hometown of Leeds’ notorious — and now sadly defunct — DIY collective Chunk. After the release of their 2022 debut LP Thoughtless Cruelty and a smattering of EPs and splits, they are back with their sophomore album I Have A Physical Body That Can Be Harmed, a volatile yet joyously cathartic post-punk record.
Holed up in Beckview Studios and its attic flat, Freddy Vinehill-Cliffe (vocals and guitar), Lewis Millward (guitar and synth), Cameron Moitt (bass) and Steve Myles (drums) were accompanied by longtime producer Rob Slater (Blacklisters, Mush), and they effectively lived and breathed the album for 24 hours a day during the recording.
“Three of us studied in Scarborough, and during that time we played in a few different embryonic versions of Thank,” explains Vinehill-Cliffe. “We had barely visited for 10 years, and in the meantime our old campus has shut down, our former practice space has been demolished to make way for luxury flats, and almost everyone we knew has moved away. So we were in this ostensibly familiar place where basically every trace of our existence was gone, it was a weird headspace to be in.
“Thematically all the old classics are in there — sex, death and Twitter brainrot. I don’t think I’m necessarily trying to say anything I haven’t tried to say before, I’ve just gotten better at saying it. I still hate landlords, I still hate right wing grifters, I still hate people who hide their cruelty behind progressive language. I do hate myself quite a bit less, so there’s some hope and positivity in there too, as a treat.”
I Have A Physical Body That Can Be Harmed is a brash, satirical and downright stomping full length that melds the raw ferocity of the band’s early work with the ambitious arrangements and electronic experimentation of their more recent output. The end result combines hardware techno squelch, jungle-inspired drumming, synth pop bombast and anarcho-punk spartan aggression, acid-fried and internet-poisoned with a shit-eating grin on its face, landing somewhere akin to The Cure’s The Head On The Door if it was remixed by Jenny Death-era Death Grips.”
