Vocals: Dunstan Bruce
Guitar: Stephen Griffin
Drums: Harry Hamer
Formed in 2012.
"The interrobang", /?n?t?r?bę?/, ?! is a nonstandard punctuation mark used in various written languages and intended to combine the functions of the question mark and the exclamation mark (known in printers' and programmers' jargon as the "bang"). The glyph is a superimposition of these two marks.
A sentence ending with an interrobang asks a question in an excited manner, expresses excitement or disbelief in the form of a question, or asks a rhetorical question.
For example: What?! Say what?! What the fuck?!
On the original moodboard: Gang of Four, Wire, Grinderman, Dr Feelgood, Sonics, the Fall, Art Brut, MC5, you get the picture...
An agitpunkfunkstorm. An angular assault course of taut techpunk. Agonised surging urgency vigour and vim. That's the pulsating present intense intravenous Interrobang. We're totally wired, can't you see?
"If it's a question of curiosity, what's going to happen when I hit fifty? Will I still be hungry, will I still be angry? And will I still have the energy?"
[from "Breathe" Interrobang]
Bruce and Hamer have previous as awkward troublemakers in the anarcho-pop-cabaret troupe Chumbawamba whilst Griffin was a former enfant terrible in the London louts, Regular Fries. We came together to create Interrobang, with a visceral vision that is in the here and now. No nostalgia, no living in the past, no looking back; it's all forward, forward motion.
A zigzagging leftfield account of hitting the age of 50 and what this all means whilst feasting on the bones of a crass blues punk carcass; it's all mid life man-crisis, sometimes slightly shirty, occasionally curmudgeonly.
This baring of souls, this crossroads moment is played out via their battered and bruised brutish uneasy listening. Still anti and awkward and resolute and never the easiest of listens but it's all beat bop shake rattle and looping roll helter skeltering snare bashing with a big flaming frantic farrago skewed quirk punch staccato pop that's buzzing like a fridge.
"the novels of dostoevsky are seething whirlpools, gyrating sandstorms, waterspouts which hiss and boil and suck us in. they are composed purely and wholly of the stuff of the soul. against our wills we are drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with a giddy rapture."
I think we'll leave it at that then