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Belfast experimentalists pay homage to their forever fractured hometown in stirring electronic-punk.

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For decades, the complex society of Northern Ireland has been the driving force for many. From the voice of McGowan in Pogues, Christy Moore in the Dubliners to the modernised warbles of Fontaines D.C. and fellow city political peers of Kneecap, the creation of music has been a powerful outlet for many Irish individuals of almost every generation to speak out, stand up and celebrate their beloved war-torn country of conflict.

Joining the ever-growing roster, go by the names of Ross Cullen and Benedict Goddard. A pair residing from NI’s largest have gone by the name of CHALK for a good few years now. And with it, comes a debut widening the lens on heritage and identity. Born on the ’70s punk scene and the ravers in the ’90s that was a welcoming escape, ‘Cystalpunk’ is a brazen chunk of industrial dance punk in a sizeable profiling of a city that was – and still is – never bereft of anger and division.

It is unnerving, damning and highly intense – and that is the point. It’s a record waving a flag to the pairs’ generation – all who were equally lost and confused in a world that was seemingly pulling them in every other direction. The post-punk/electronic maestros’ wanted a sound reborn from the dark dance-floors, a term they settled on as ‘trauma techno’ – and Lordy, that’s what we’ve got. The spiky-gimp suit on the album cover does us no favours either.

It’s safe to say that this album doesn’t hold back. Opener “Tongue” barely lets us have a pause for thought while it’s follow-up Pain backs the previous with a juddered dance romp, perhaps paying homage to the dance cult-classics of The Prodigy. Jilted synth on Can’t Feel It staggers back and forth like a drunk under the blaring club lights, a numbing to it all, as they dissociate themselves from the goings on in the outside world.

Longer meanwhile, keeps up the bargain offering more punk than techno as it exudes sentiment in feeding into a sense of hope. False or not. Further down, we come across Skem – an anxiety-inducing inferno of rampant synths right in your face, reveals all you need to know about CHALK and their roots.

We then meet ‘Béal Feirste’ (Belfast in Irish), an 8-minute crash-out delivering in Underworld-influenced trance trounces as the record takes another turn into another room; another subculture worthy of escape. Its’ pastiche is equally as subtle, as CHALK deliver a beautifully poignant work of industrial sounds. The record itself feels intensely personal despite its make-up. The likes of ‘Can’t Feel It’ and ‘Ache’ brings a sense of unnerving emptiness to a pair of boys who, in their youth, perhaps often felt alone and isolated.

Damning and highly volatile, CHALK spare no expense in chalking off a debut record to remember. When the duo began working on this album, a rule was made that “this is the only Chalk album that will ever exist.” If this was the duos’ first and last hurrah, it wouldn’t certainly be the worst way to go out.

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