Review: Crows – Beware Believers


Crows Beware Believers




Crows keep in the dark on their new album.

Back in 2019, after their debut album Silver Tongues had received a warm response, with momentum behind them London rock outfit Crows immediately set to work on the follow-up.

You can assuredly guess the initial reason for the delay, but such is the way of the modern rock star that, without the capability to tour the record, there seemed little point in releasing a new album even as restrictions began to lift.

Now, with ‘normality’ returned (just ignore the spiralling COVID infections), and the light previously found at the end of the tunnel dazzling in its ubiquity, the time is nigh to unleash Beware Believers upon the world.

In our interview with the group last month, the band spoke of strings and tweaks, but fans can rest assured that no rough edges have been smoothed away.

Opening track Closer Still starts fuzzily before bludgeoning the listener as frontman James Cox’s voice rises from the depths like Lucifer to deliver a sweet chorus above the hurricane roaring beneath him.

His ire is justified, the song covering the fit-for-work scandals that kept occurring when the UK’s Department for Work and Pensions were deeming people fit for work when that wasn’t the case.

Their disgust continues on the rattling Garden Of England, although it’s directed at a broader, Brexity audience: ‘Give me walls, make me feel like it’s more like the old days’, Cox spits and snarls, with his anger prominent even through the echo-drenched vocals.

‘Don’t have to hide anymore, I can say what I please and be famous’ – the group clearly disheartened at the rise of the free-speech brigade on those fare shores.



Lead single Slowly Separate sustains the theme of disenchantment, a perspective on working to barely make ends meet (‘I keep counting down the days till I’m flush again’) while living in the capital city, where the group are based, with a snappy, gothic-rock bent and flapping bassline.

In contrast, Moderation is lighter in touch with a glam riff but still with a bile-filled delivery, while Cox’s drawn-out notes are set in contrast to the breakneck pace and chunky riff (one of many) on Only Time.

Yet it’s on the album’s centrepiece where things get really painful: written after reading Rupi Kaur’s Milk And Honey, and undergoing some intense personal issues of his own, Healing may find Cox covering obvious lyrical ground but the barely perceptible strings complement the atmosphere the track creates, nor is there anything wrong with channeling emotions that every human can relate to.

The motorik beat and overall brooding vibe work in tandem with Cox’s tender-then-defiant vocals to create a piece of righteous, yearning rock music which seems intent on battering the bruises away.

Several comparisons have been made between Crows and IDLES, largely because they both play loud, emotional rock music, but the contrast has always been clear.

However, it’s not a large stretch to imagine Joe Talbot singing Room 156, with an edgy, bolstering riff that the Bristolians would be proud of.

Whether they would tackle the same subject matter – that of transcripts of sermons for a 1900’s faith healer called Reverend Major Jealous Divine, along with tales of American serial killer H.H. Holmes (who used to murder patrons of his hotel) – is a different question though.

Unfortunately, Beware Believers does lose a bit of steam as it hurtles towards the end. The wholesome Meanwhile has a militant stomp which is sufficient, Wild Eyed & Lonesome (adopted from a poem by Cox’s father) contains a fire-alarm riff which proceeds to pound the listener into submission (again) during its crescendo, while the robotic The Servant sounds like an offcut from Ash’s 1977.

No bad thing, but by this point some light among the darkness would be welcome.

The album ends well though, with the slow burning closer Sad Lad, an ode to Daniel Johnston, which feels like it was recorded in a cavern complete with titanic outro that builds to a climactic finish suitable for both the song and the scale of the album.

Beware Believers clocks in at under 40 minutes, but it’s so gargantuan and layered that it feels like much more time has elapsed.

Authenticity can be a cross to bear, but Crows wear it proudly on their sleeves.


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