Bearsuit

A can pops open. Legos snap into place. Flutes poke, trumpets parry, and evil robots chortle as if Bearsuits' name was Yoshimi. Somewhere in an ever-expanding universe of guitar, synths, and stuff your short-lived bad-kid playground friend probably pickpocketed from 7/11, the guileless boy-girl vocals of Iain Ross and Lisa Horton chase high-fructose melodies that start, stop, and change directions in mid-air like a butterfly or a hovercraft.
Or: In what's shaping up to be a solid 12 months for arty indie-pop and schizophrenic noise-pop alike, English sextet Bearsuit lend the inspired innocence of the former to the joyous chaos of the latter. The gentle, melodic "Cherryade", with clip-clop percussion and May morning harmonies, could be The Boy Least Likely To or a more sonically adventurous Camera Obscura. "Going Steady" goes anything but, the frenzied energy of "Popscene"-era Blur made weirder with herky-jerky changes and this year's nominee for Best Indie-Pop Comeback Instrument, the recorder. "Cookie Oh Jesus" and "Itsuko Got Married" go off to the races with rapidfire handclaps and the whirligig aesthetic of peers like Bunky, or Deerhoof, or the Go! Team, or Architecture in Helsinki.

Or: "Why are the machines so sad?" wonders Ross on the wistful, (post-?) apocalyptic finale, "On Your Special Day". Shit, why indeed? It can't be cinematic opener "Welcome to Bearsuit Hotel", an instrumental unless you count Japanese spoken-word snippets! It's definitely not due to "Rodent Disco", 2:08 of fuzz, sirens, strobe lights, a (deaf?) dumb and blind kid, cheerleader chants ("disco!"), and all of the sudden the tape stopping-- then starting-- then a final 20 seconds of chintzy fucking Casio. Is it the infectious (ha!) Plague-prompted chorus of "Prove Katie Wrong"? Maybe it's tinkly nonconformist ode "Diagonal Girl" ("don't get too straight") or impatient short-song-with-long-name "I Feel the Heat of the Light From Heaven".

Or: Former John Peel favorites Bearsuit don't know a good thing when they see it, but they know not knowing is a better thing-- or another thing, anyway-- and that's all I know, except that once you open the can a fake snake jumps out (it's called love!) and everyone laughs but you can't close it. A fine spectacle, indeed.
- Pitchfork

There’s a vocal riot going, with frantic activity on guitars, keyboards and brass. If you puke you might miss the rollercoaster, novelty sandwich toaster of an album opener ‘Jupiter Force [recruitment video]’. Big band Bearsuit sure know how to entertain, and this is their third long player. Five out of the six members of this band take a turn in vocal duties; it’s just drummer Matt Hutchings left to his own devices. All the other zombies, bears and band-standers in the group are multi-instrumentalists, whipping up an over-the-top celebration of musical misrule.

And the feeling runs deep: three of Bearsuit’s line-up, Lisa Horton, Cerian Hutchings and Jan Robertson, also have a keytar-only project called Keytarded. Also in the past they have aptly toured with their Norwich neighbours KaitO, and the much-loved Deerhoof.

Bearsuit’s songs cover a smorgasbord of subject matters, covering issues that range from the search for tangible proof of a soul on steamrolling latest single ‘More Soul than a Wigan Casino’; lizard loving on the shoutily harmonious ‘Dinosaur Heart’; evil gangs of tiny kids on the Melt Banana-like ‘Hark! The Feral Children’; colonising of the solar system on ‘Mission IO Must Not Fail’, which again makes evident a male vocal at work, one which summons the spirit of Graham Coxon. And then there’s love. Yes, even Bearsuit are prone to a bit of romance on ‘The Love Will Never Find You’. If that all sounds a bit much for you, then there is always time for a slow song with sweet trumpet sounds called ‘Look A Bleached Coral Faced Crow With Jewels For Eyes’.

But Bearsuit are at their very best when the ride is fast and scary, like a psycho-killer ghost train ride. Or, the sound of the track ‘Shh Get It Out’. So this lot, then: they’ve got it all. Creative instinct, male and female vocals, and a plethora of instruments and themes. All they need now is your ears.

9/10
- Drowned in Sound

Right that’s it, paranoid fantasies over, there are people living in my stereo and they are trying to escape and eat my brain. There must be, I can hear at least six figures cloaked in black manifest themselves during the new Bearsuit single ‘Steven F***ing Spielberg’.

Of course, I can only imagine what sort of twee-horror rituals they plan to undertake during this brief encounter, perhaps a round of crazy gold using severed limbs for clubs, or trying to cremate C3PO over a badly-bled radiator with some sparklers. But the soundtrack – well, it just so happens to be the bestest most aptly-cinematic slab of moozikal brilliance since His Graciousness (played here by Gruff Rhys) cast his powerful hand over the ears of the enraptured and said whatever the ancient Latin is for “sod rock and roll, give me more cello DAMMIT!”.

With one sticky-back plastic epic of an opening, twinkling white light and scrolling credits forming in the mind’s eye, the song blossoms into a spangly orchestral beauty of a tune, all tribal drumming and trembly strings and even tremblier voices and bristly guitars and lip-fraying flute work and cryptic lyrics and black glitter and a perverse sort of JOY.

And jeepers, we haven’t even got onto the B-sides yet, reserved for those who like bands sounding like they have to cough up their instruments before playing them, only to create the sort of stop-start pop-shock that manages to be the happiest and angriest noise all at once. “Woooooooooo!!” goes ‘Shhh Get Out’, and 85-second sugar tantrum where keyboards are bashed until they bleed and the bears shriek blood-curdling commands through a mouthful of jelly and ice-cream. ‘XXVVV XXVVV’ on the other hand somehow gets the instruments to all spiral tornado-like together, guitars buzzing skyward, gert lush melody complimenting the frenzied screaming and the whole band occasionally stopping for a whistling interlude. Yes, all in a two-minute pop song.

Truly this is a band to cherish more than most, and here’s seven-and-a-half minutes’ worth of more reasons.
- Drowned In Sound

Two years on from his passing, a world without John Peel continues to blow. Take Norwich's DIY heroes Bearsuit.
Sure, the Festive 50 veterans' jarring art-pop tempo changes and screamo-indebted vocals are unlikely to appeal to the mass populace (yet since Razorlight do, that's not something that should be held against them). But like all their cutie pop offerings, their third album (and follow up to 2005's brilliant 'Team Pong') is the kind of difficult, yet fun, fresh and exciting listen that deserves to be enjoyed by more than the four bowl-cut fanzine writers that already do.
You just know that, post-Peel, people are missing out.
Case in question: we could listen to best song 'Dino Heart' until our ears fall off, and probably will. We know we're not alone. Until someone comes to replace Peel's mumblings on the airwaves, shout their wonder from the roof tops, then.

- NME

Pushing all the right buttons, Bearsuit return to reassure us that everything’s gonna be ok. Underneath, ‘Muscle Belt’ is a tender duet that could have been modestly accompanied by a Spanish guitar. Instead, it has been hijacked by some futuristic, disco-loving androids, obsessed with the Magic Roundabout. Never go for the easy option. SJB

- Artrocker

Bearsuit don't only sing, but they dance just as good as they walk. The madcap UK indie-pop superheroes have already covered a lot of the terrain between Deerhoof hyper and Boy Least Likely To cute on a trio of albums, including last year's OH:IO; in a ramshackle, Festive 50-ready way, new single "Muscle Belt" revisits their debut LP's "Rodent Disco", only without the rodents. "Tighten up like a muscle belt," goes the refrain, in between singer Lisa Horton's excited entreaties (threats?) of "dance for my love." Bearsuit romped through this then-unreleased number at last year's CMJ, and its catchy mix of handclaps, cowbell, funky bass, zapping synths, boy-girl shouts, and dance-punk guitar spazz almost makes up for not being able to see whatever adorably ambitious costumes the sextet would've imagined for themselves this time. Oh, and about their dancing-- they probably walk sort of twee-ass. Which is fine: You! Me! Dancing the "Tighten Up"!

- Pitchfork

PICK OF THE WEEK
Bearsuit's More Soul Than Wigan Casino (Fantastic Plastic)
Of course they shouldn't have given their record a title that invites all manner of Blues and Soul-reading Mister Logics to counter that, actually, Wigan Casino probably has more soul than almost all individual songs could ever hope to muster.
In fact, ... Wigan Casino is about as far from soul as it's possible to be (it has one trumpet as its brass section), yet it also isn't, being beserk, flailing, entirely eccentric call-and-response hoohas in the spirit of Stax lunatics like Rufus Thomas or Sho'Nuff, only in this case filtered through the fizzing, groaning amps and reedy vocals of Help She Can't Swim.
Entirely brilliant, in other words. - The Guardian

Cinematic doodlings, screamy art punk, and many twists and turns, condensed into less than half an hour of fine, left field pop. - The Independent

Louder than an explosion in a fireworks factory, often within the space of a single number, accordion, flute, cornet, violin, theremin and a number of percussion instruments are banged, blown, squeezed and thrummed. It’s an uproariously joyful noise. - Artrocker

The critical convention of pasting ready-made pigeonholes on to passing bands rocking the same old sounds is shot to absolute shit by the six piece’s technicoloured tomfoolery. - Rock Sound

Frantic, retro space age, riotously cute disco-punk with the odd throwback to early B&S dropped in, all casual like, lollipop-innocent and coy glances like they hope you won't notice. - Loose Lips Sink Ships

Remember that kit kat advert with the rollerskating pandas? It made you smile didn't it? Despite the cheap stunts, there was something irresistably funny about a young man prancing around in a bear suit. Much like Bearsuit the band, then: cheap as chips, but bewilderingly amusing nonetheless. Firing out high-octane nonsense like John Peel-endorsed 'Chargr' and 'Fears of Moonpilot Ben', the mentalist six-pieces debut album proper is a colourful, wacky, amateurish pop hotchpotch - but all the more charming for it. Imagine Do Me Bad Things having a food fight with Belle and Sebastian at a fairground... on 'shrooms... in the dark. Yes, really. - NME