Fat Dog

Fat Dog’s particular brand of chaos seems a fine antidote to the remains of pent-up lockdown frustration. The collective scream has found a mouth; the potential energy has been activated. Joe’s singing, his words slurred and distorted in the time-honoured tradition of delta bluesmen, melds to Jazz’s wordless vocals, high and keening like some punk banshee princess, equal parts Grace Slick and Yoko Ono.

“I think they just feel ecstasy beyond all bounds when they’re playing live,” Will says. “I always turn…and see them, and they’re going absolutely ham. I think they get a sort of quasi-religious experience out of it.” The audience does, too. The band never fails to churn the crowd into a roiling mass, and record labels are taking interest—how could they not? It’s Fat Dog mania. You must go and see them, live, in person and as soon as possible. Remember always, the urgency of fun.

FORM & Bad Vibrations Present.