Punk-rock band Femur has been stealing stages across the UK since 2017 with their wild psychedelia. They stand out amongst other bands with overtly sexual lyricism—no covert innuendos; Femur’s music is shameless in its lascivious desire. In their latest raucous EP, Snake Rock, the band captures a level of feral desperation that matches their unrelenting instrumentals.
Appropriately, the project opens with a scratchy scream in “Watch Me, Watch You.” It’s unapologetically horny, depicting a voyeur’s fantasy with a pounding, incessant bassline. This song begins hinting at the relationship’s unrest that the rest of the EP is all too aware of. While the singer and subject can engage in mutual attention, the subject’s physical presence seems to be spent with others: “But there’s stains on the sheets / Fluid everywhere / But it’s not from me, no.” The singer isn’t happy with this arrangement—their voice alongside the instruments get increasingly restless, breaking out into vocal and guitar riffs alike.
“Die Trying,” the next hypnotizing track, twists this fondness from the opening song in a more volatile direction. The track opens with nothing more than a furious guitar, repetitive in a way that seems like a release of pent-up aggression more than anything else. It’s uncomplicated, revealing little more than rage. The singer “wants to believe” the subject “don’t need nobody else,” but they both know that’s not the case. As the drums crescendo more and more with each verse, the artist becomes almost mocking, requesting to see their partner’s “bloodsport”—aka some alleged unfaithfulness. The taunting still feels possessive of the other person, though; a posturing type of conviction only accentuated by the inherent confidence in rock music.
“Tell Me You’re Running” leans into these cocky genre conventions with its upbeat glam rock, beginning with Femur’s typical persistent noise accompanied by the whiny singer’s pleas. Amidst cries of “I want him outta here,” the band’s usual approach of constantly badgering listeners with their boisterous soundscapes and anguished lyrics is utilized once again. This approach allows their unabashed displays of anger to lead listeners to join in, letting go of their own frustrations. But a little over halfway through, “Tell Me You’re Running” mellows out to a slow bridge. At this point, the artist is all but begging behind a crooning guitar, just wanting their partner—whether current or past—“to obey.” With this demand, the instruments break down, a musical depiction of the very same mental experience. The song ends in a final place as if the singer realized he had hit a wall in the relationship.
Where does the EP end, then? Well, as standard for Femur, the final song “Snake Rock” moves back to their hardcore, fast-paced sound. It’s not a live recording but manages to sound like one as the instrumentals become the star of the show, overshadowing the lyrics in many places to create a more intense atmosphere that only enhances the song. There’s a titular chant of “snake rock,” but everything else is hidden behind the guitar at a constant pitch that never lets up. This track seems to have moved on from the subject of the rest of Snake Rock—at least somewhat. Snake rock is supposedly an allusion to the nature of the singer’s ex, slimy and reptilian, taking on a much more negative tone regarding them, in contrast to the EP’s unwavering devotion. While the whole project is still about this ex, making it hard to believe that “Snake Rock” is truly the end for these two, it serves as a very grand ending. The repetition of the title confirms what the band’s music constantly suggests—Femur won’t be letting up their unique brand of discontentment anytime soon.
