For as long as there’s been electronic dance music there’s been bands trying to rip off the sound for credibility with absolutely no ear for what it is they’re trying to copy. Remember new rave? What in utter fuck did any of that have to do with rave? Apart from a bunch of lazy signifiers such as glow sticks and synths draped over often derivative indie music. But lurking in the backdrop, Factory Floor were the real deal. A band that incorporated the sounds of techno and early house into their industrial post-punk with an understanding and appreciation for the music they were co-opting. Songs such as ‘(R E A L L O V E)’ sounded like a Giorgio Moroder disco anthem released on early Mute records. They made music that could just as easily be used as a tool by some DJ to tear up a basement club in Berlin as it could be covered in NME.

Factory Floor’s self-titled 2013 debut brought their post-punk sensibilities but wedded them firmly to the dance floor. Shortly after its release, synth player Dominic Butler left the group. Yet the result is that the two remaining members Gabe Gurnsey and Nik Colk – have moved even further away from the sounds of live instrumentation and towards the world of the wholly virtual. On 25 25 they may have left their industrial and post-punk beginnings behind them and moved squarely into the world 4/4 bass drums and acid house synths. But they’ve brought one aspect with them and unfortunately it’s a tendency to take themselves a bit too seriously.

Practically all of the tracks on 25 25 are built upon two central pillars. First the synth line. Providing the main melodic frame, it’s often arpeggiated and frequently passing through modulations as it moves from the subterranean to its cresting peak and then sinking back down. Second is the almighty and omniscient presence of the pulsating kick drum. Everything comes and goes, visiting briefly, while these two components remain like immoveable monuments.

On initial listens – or to someone who perhaps isn’t acclimatised to music this compositionally sparse – it can be hard to find an entrance point into the album. But it’s deceptively detailed and intricate, piling layers of drum patterns upon drum patterns to build complex and propulsive rhythm sections. Whether that alone is enough to retain your interest for seven plus minutes that some of these songs extend for is a different matter. ‘Wave’ sounds like the radar signal from a submarine and twists it into all kinds of demented shapes, while snare rolls and hi hat patterns fill the background like so many busy hands operating the vessel.

Melodies are often reduced down to nothing but a disembodied phrase or syllable. ‘Meet Me at the End’ takes a single vocal sound and tries to ring as much possibilities out of it as is physically possible. Whether shortening it into a snappy, staccato rhythm or stretching it into a kind of elongated robotic sigh. ‘Dial Me In’ is like the soundtrack to some nightmarish instructional VHS. “Give up and Hide / Chill Out”.

There are plenty of moments that you feel like if they were expertly dropped into a DJ set at just the right time in the evening, they could create absolute dance floor destruction. When listening to ‘Ya’ I can vividly imagine the tingle of anticipation as the vocal sample bleeds into the mix, before the whole thing breaks through in pulsing euphoria of jacking hi-hats and a whiplash-inducing 808 drum pattern. Outside of mimicking the trance-inducing state of the dance floor it’s hard to see what context you’re meant to experience the album in. While the almost robotic functionality of the record makes sense, its outright disdain for anything that too strongly resembles melody becomes incredibly claustrophobic. It would be much more palatable if the record came up to the surface for air every once in a while. The best club night experiences I’ve had always dealt in this particular art form. Being able to ride the troughs and waves of tension and release. Otherwise, the dark and sweaty room where you’re meant to experience euphoria, quickly becomes a cage.
Louis Ormesher

Facebook: facebook.com/factoryfloor
Twitter: twitter.com/factoryfloor