There’s something gloriously scruffy about Bad Gag, the second EP from Hartlepool outfit Lurcher, and that rough-around-the-edges quality is exactly what gives it teeth. Formed in the kitchen of a pub and seemingly fuelled by cheap lager, long shifts, and collective irritation with modern culture, Lurcher make music that sounds like it was dragged through rainy backstreets and cigarette smoke before being thrown directly at the listener. Influences from The Fall, Gang of Four, Dry Cleaning, and Protomartyr loom large, but Bad Gag never feels like an imitation. It feels lived-in, grimy, and strangely sharp in its own oddball observations.
Recorded at Blank Studios with Chris McManus, the EP captures the band in a looser and more confident state than before. The angular guitars still slash through tracks like rusted blades, the rhythms still lock in tightly enough to rattle your chest, but there’s more purpose behind the chaos now. Lurcher sounds less like they’ve built their own crooked little universe within it.
Opening track “Punchline Blues” wastes no time setting the mood. Thumping drums and crashing cymbals stomp forward relentlessly while vocalist Spen White hollers into the distance with thick frustration and pent-up angst. The whole thing feels one step away from falling apart, but somehow that tension keeps it gripping.
Then “Blistered In Turkey” arrives with bustling percussion and chiming melodic guitars that briefly soften the mood without losing the band’s edge. Beneath the swagger and dry humour sits something unexpectedly vulnerable as the lyrics spiral through self-improvement, insecurity, and the exhausting pressure to become a “better” version of yourself. It’s moody, messy, and weirdly relatable.
By the time “Quad Biking” rolls around, Lurcher leans fully into absurdity. Catchy riffs and pounding beats bear Spen White’s smug, half-hollered declarations about quad biking being the “love of my life” with infectious confidence. The band thrives in the awkward details and everyday humiliations most people would rather ignore.
Across Bad Gag, Lurcher illustrates how observation can hit harder than grand statements. They don’t romanticize working-class gloom or posture as detached commentators. Instead, they throw listeners headfirst into strange snapshots of ordinary life and let the awkwardness speak for itself.
Review by: Naomi Joan