Benefits – ‘Constant Noise’ album review: a sanctuary of hope amid the contemporary rot
THE SKINNY: Much was made of Middlesborough noise punk duo Benefits‘ electronic cacophony on 2023’s debut LP Nails. Summoning blasts of brutal dissonance engulfing frontman Kingsley Chapman’s clipping vocals punctured by brittle breaks of terse unease, Benefits had scored, with stark accuracy, the contemporary malaise that hovered in the air toward the end of the Conservative Party’s ruinous tenure.
There wasn’t a hint of nihilism in Benefits’ blistering pummel. Weariness, fatigue, and pent-up rage exploded on Robbie Majors’ digital assault and Chapman’s lyrical reportage on smalltown neglect and shuttered-up alienation, but always underpinned with a vigorous validation to the collectively felt yet unspoken question: “Surely there has to be another way?”.
There’s a bolder confidence radiating from the pair before even hitting play on the sophomore album Constant Noise. Electric pink and blue dots win out over the debut cover’s desolate black slab. Chapman has donned dapper attire across the recent press shots. And the band’s logo embracing a neon B-movie scrawl in place of former utilitarian austerity all points to a band pursuing a new chapter in their journey with an unabashed hunger to redefine what Benefits mean, subverting any preconceptions.
This invigorated spirit courses throughout Constant Noise. Whereas Chapman used to deliver his lyrical admonishments with the impotent howl of a commuter wandering the nation’s grey delepidation to their bullshit job, we now see a fighting fist in their buoyant presentation. It imagines Chapman as a boxer in life’s ring, battered and bruised in the corner but punchdrunk and determined to get stuck back in and protect one’s moral compass amid the world’s ‘flooded zone’ of divisive noise.
There’s an immediate sonic expanse from their second effort’s first moments. As if consciously ensconcing themselves into the musical language to further the conceptual notions of rose-tinted nostalgia and faded inertia, the 1990s club sound is artfully conjured like a fractured memory for the country’s imagined heyday. Sermon organs, too, illustrate the thematic poignancy without ever lapsing into pompous punk proselytising. This new aural terrain is still corrupted by Majors’ deft ability to imbue deep disorientation amid the digital bellow.
Benefits remain an inescapably Northern English band, but Chapman takes lyrical aim at a broader, Western sickness that’s metastasised in the face of global military aggression and political cover for foreign genocidal outrages. Looking out the global window but still articulating the British experience of ‘new’ New Labour doldrums, Chapman can still capture exactly how you’re feeling: “It’s easier to tell the world to fuck off and die” he spits, succinctly encapsulating the weathered misanthropy brought by years of gnawing insignificance: ”but no one is asking why”.
Benefits have returned with an exceptional second effort that scores a new, bleak era of media bamboozle and buzzing narratives that only obstruct empathy and shared solidarity. If Nails dared to dream of a better world amid its discordant scrape, then Constant Noise is its empowered plan and vision, seeking to rebuild society’s fraying bonds and reminding us we all have far more in common than the constant noise will try to convince us.
For fans of: Anyone that says “they’re all the same” when discussing politics.
A concluding comment from GB News: “More woke, cultural Marxism in our charts!”
Constant Noise track by track:
Release: March 21st | Producer: James Adrian Brown and James Welsh | Label: Invada Records
‘Constant Noise’: Opening the album with a reflective soak in the album’s core thesis, Chapman leans into his role as poet with less reluctance than before. Haunting vocal choirs illustrate the existential musings with pitch-perfect solemnity, the sea of noise parted with quiet command. [4/5]
‘Land of the Tyrants’: Straight into a late-night cinematic skulk troubled with Chapman’s anguished inner barbs toward the elite and their divorce from everyone else. Spiked with banshee howls courtesy of Arch Femmesis’ Zera Tønin, ‘Land of the Tyrants’ plumbs deep depth of propulsive chill via Majors’ pulsing sequencers. [4/5]
‘The Victory Lap’: An ingenuous exorcism of big beat’s yesteryear to score “times gone by” with morose triumphalism. ‘The Victory Lap’ plays out with its muted HI-NRG-like projections of old street parties mapped onto the same houses abandoned, bricked up, and long forgotten. [4.5/5]
‘Lies and Fear’: A welcome blast of the old rage afforded greater disorientation with its effects-ridden vocal sediments buried in its din. A seething excoriation of heads turned and abandoned empathy as mass murder is scrolled by on our smartphones every day. [4/5]
‘Missiles’: A funereal lament continues the agonising moral weight of Western indifference in the face of humanitarian disaster. The air is thick with ambient crawl and panicked aural fog as the daily images of terror become too great to bear. [4.5/5]
‘Blame’: A deeper, harder thump belligerently struts nebulously behind a discordant glitchy scree. Familiar territory but no less immersive. [3.5/5]
‘Continual’: Masterfully sculpted synth whines and arid winds swirl around Chapman’s pained lyrical vacuum, facing crushing perennial certainty and cultural inertia that bludgeons people every day without escape. Soaring layers of bass rumbles and eerie keys are possessed with astral energy—the song’s protagonist watching themselves carry out their pre-work morning routine, silently screaming for change. [5/5]
‘Divide’: Middlesborough rapper Shakk lends a frenzied, animated presence to another harsh and palpitating submersion in private turmoil. Realises the confusion waded through when clamouring for a little bit of truth. [3.5/5]
‘Relentless’: Listless beats and bleached-out guitar chimes shiver together in a pensive fug like a blinking light in the dark, reminding us to cling to our best selves when sinking into the neoliberal swill. Pete Doherty’s final mutterings in a packed bar only furthering the song’s ubiquitous musings. [3.5/5]
‘Terror Forever’: An avant-garde interlude hammering the choking nativist machismo that fuels the reactionary political climate. Potent and to the point. [3.5/5]
‘Dancing on the Tables’: Compressed snares snap and hiss with eerie grooves like a rash on Chapman’s wryly sardonic rebuke against everyday ebbing empathy. Like Mr Oizo’s ‘Flat Eric’ dipped in radioactive waste. [3.5/5]
‘Everything Is Going To Be Alright’: Chapman delves into his indie heritage with the melodic jangle percolating amid the noise. Expert demonstration of his lyrical capture on the small ways people make themselves feel better—“might get a takeaway”—pushing conservative paranoia’s buttons on supposed working-class profligacies. [4/5]
‘The Brambles’: The choir is back on another sermon, spectral yet inviting sanctuary from the media noise howling outside. Creeping strings cut the air like razors to thrilling effect. [4/5]
‘Burnt Out Family Home’: Chapman reminds us of his baritone croon, and he’s able to flex should the time call for it. Understated and imperfect, but his voice and no one else’s fronting the stirring organ scoring a fitting coda to loss in all of its dimensions—personal and societal—while also embarking on a journey toward healing. [4.5/5]
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