BACKSTORY: Spearheaded by Joe Love, the quintet have perfected their live set over the years in London’s Windmill Brixton scene, which has previously given us bands like Shame, Sorry, and Black Midi
FROM: South London
YOU MIGHT KNOW THEM FROM: Their what-if-I-wore-a-rubber anthem “All The Same,” or their what-if-I-was-covered-in-Vaseline epic “King of the Slugs”—the latter of which was also recently remixed by industrial dance outfit Mandy, Indiana
NOW: After signing to Domino Records, news of their debut album should be imminent following their performance at this year’s FLOODfest
It might seem a bit backwards to hear that South London quintet Fat Dog—who haven’t even announced a debut album yet—are ready to move on to their next era. They’ve only got two singles out, one of which sees lead singer Joe Love declaring himself the new gastropod overlord, the other involving time travel and the power of a condom. But as mainstays of the booming Windmill Brixton scene in their native London, they’ve had years to perfect their current setlist, much of which makes up the album they soon plan to release as new signees to Domino Records.
Following their stint this week in Austin—including an afternoon set at FLOODfest—and a handful of additional US dates, their introduction to the rest of the world will be what local fans have been relishing over the past couple years. Well, sort of. “Most of it’s the live set perfected,” Love reveals of their upcoming debut after Zooming in from London’s Tulse Hill, joined by the band’s saxophonist Morgan Wallace. “I stripped the album back. I should’ve put more on it, but took all the shit songs from our set out of it. Just wanted to make something that if you had a bad attention span you would listen to it all the way through.”
This mention of attention spans is a bit ironic, considering Fat Dog’s official debut single “King of the Slugs” is a little over seven minutes long. That being said, it holds your attention for its entire runtime. “It’s three songs mashed into one,” Love says. He’s not wrong; the track is broken up into tonal chapters—rapturous, then sultry, then frenzied. It’s one big, sticky fever dream featuring church bells, angelic backing vocals, honky tonk, klezmer, and polka folk music. “We've just been playing this set for so long now,” Love says, adding that they haven’t written new music in ages. “We’ve finally done the album, so now it’s time to pretend that we've never made a song and try to make some new stuff.”
“New era incoming,” Wallace announces.
Love openly stresses about getting back into writing new material. “I’m trying to write some stuff now and it’s like, ‘Fucking hell that’s shit,’” he says. “Try and not care too much. Just try and only write. I mean, you can write shit songs that are good, also.”
“Set the bar low,” adds Wallace, laughing assuredly.
Funny enough, with only these two songs, setting a low bar doesn’t seem possible for the group. Fat Dog’s suspenseful rollout reads as a meticulous translation of their humor and tone. Even when Love isn’t reciting one of his modern fables, the music is building its own Lynchian world. The band’s sound is anachronistic, mashing together disparate settings—real and fictional—like the Arabian Desert and Blade Runner’s rainy LA. On “All the Same,” the protagonist envisions going back in time to change his future as a father. The song features a repeated eagle cry, cult-like backing vocals, and darting ’80s synths fit for a workout video—on paper, none of the parts feel like they should fit together. And yet, well, listen for yourself.
Aside from both tracks’ surrealist nature, there’s a larger narrative overlap: escapist desire. “Trying to get out of reality, that’s the best thing for music,” Love says, speaking to this overarching philosophy. “Trying to be somewhere that’s not Tulse Hill. Like that thing with David Lynch, the third room thing. You listen to music and you imagine it somewhere else.” What does it look like in this current album’s room? “I think it’s always raining in my room,” Love notes. “Emo,” Wallace adds, commenting either on Love’s image or her interpretation of the band’s room. Accompanying the soaring eagles, there’s trotting horses and thunderbolts. “Electro doom-Western,” she says succinctly.
“That’s pretty accurate, ‘doomy,’” Love later notes. “Maybe the next album will be really happy,” he jokes.
“Heart of Darkness, that’s what we’re going for,” Wallace dryly says. “Yeah, actually I want to do that. Heart of Darkness with really emo album art—like an actual heart.” Love mentions that Domino is good at giving feedback on lyrics, but the group might be able to get away with what Wallace is pitching. I ask what lyrics the label has vetoed so far, but Love kindly points out they’re not worth mentioning if they’re already gone. “They kind of vetoed the whole thing actually,” Love laughs. It’s such a subtle chuckle that it’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not. “Maybe the ‘Granny Tights’ one,” he quickly adds. Now evident from our chat, Fat Dog’s fine line between ridiculousness and earnestness is part of their charm. Simply put, they have a knack—in conversation and in their work—to keep things from getting boring.
“I just wanted to make something that if you had a bad attention span you would listen to it all the way through.” — Joe Love
These epic, ominous tracks resulted from Love taking a DIY approach during quarantine, drawing much of his inspiration from musicians like Deadmau5. “I thought it was going to sound a lot more electronic than it has, but then you get real musicians that make it sound like real music” (“Ruin it with real music,” Wallace clarifies). Over time, other members gradually started to fall into place. Wallace joined after seeing a post on the band’s Instragram seeking a sax player. Love had known drummer Johnny Hutch since they were 11, attending school together, while he met bassist Ben Harris later on in college.
And Chris Hughes—well, he so intensely wanted to join the band that he lied about playing the viola. I ask if Chris knew any instruments when he joined and Love jokes that “sometimes [he] questions it.” “He’s a bass player,” Wallace confirms. “Like, that's what his training is. He doesn’t play bass [in the band], but he's been playing bass for ages…whenever he does anything he commits to it. I think he quite liked Fat Dog because it’s intense, and he likes things intense.”
“Trying to get out of reality, that’s the best thing for music. Like that thing with David Lynch, the third room thing. You listen to music and you imagine it somewhere else.” — Joe Love
Fat Dog creates a space for euphoria and discomfort, humor and unease. There’s one track from their live set that features the lyrics: “Wake me up when the shooting starts.” Love calls that one “Running,” and confirms it’ll be on the album. “That one is about a man running from his thoughts and stuff chasing him down in the end.” Wallace looks to Love asking if their label vetoed that one. “No, apparently in America you have to go ‘Wake me up when the ‘bleep’ starts,’” he says, mimicking radio censorship, recalling controversial lyrics from Foster the People’s “Pumped Up Kicks” and Wheatus’ “Teenage Dirtbag” before it. “It's weird to have a problem, but then just say, ‘Oh, you know what? You can't sing about a problem,’” he says. “It's not like you’re pro-[shooting].”
Wallace and Love begin to reflect on how writing feels easier when motivated by emotions like anger or annoyance. “If I’m feeling neutral in a day, not much is gonna happen. I’m gonna write anything,” Love admits. Is that where the album’s heart gets its darkness from? “The longer the note, the more the dread,” he quips, channeling his inner Super Hans. He alludes to the album’s opener, which was inspired by the time a guy on the street asked to bum a cigarette. “I just gave him the packet,” Love says, “and he took the biggest chunk out of it. You do someone a favor and they take the piss.”
A techno-Western inspired by stolen tobacco and spoiled kindness. My attention span may be shit, but I’ll be ready when the new Fat Dog lands. FL
