What do you do when you emerge as the battle-scarred survivors of corporal punishment, processed food, leaded petrol fumes, cycling without helmets, driving without seatbelts, socially obligatory smoking and imminent cold war annihilation? You count your blessings because you are clearly very lucky individuals. Then you form a band and share that experience.
Higgs and the Bosons is the sound of an angry generation tinged with relief that they made it this far. For eight years they have been pointing out how hard they had it to a younger generation who tolerate their bitter rants with great patience.
Shamelessly drawing their influence from 1970s punk and any other genre of angry music, ‘Thou shalt not ignore us,’ reads the first commandment of Higgs and the Bosons. They are not here to provide atmosphere. They do not make muzak to be prattled over as you whine about the inadequacies of your dull life.
Not for them, a minor-key reflection on the internalised insecurities of your existence cooked up on an acoustic guitar in a student bedsit. Or the mind-numbing banalities of existential unease as the world thunders past your window like a freight train plunging into the night. Their mission is to grab you by the throat and force you to listen until they stride off stage brandishing those precious minutes of your life they openly stole and you can never get back.
With hooks you cannot ignore and rhythms that get under your skin like pustulating sores, they snatch your attention and rattle that smug self confidence with unsettling visions of the person you might be, but failed to notice.
Higgs and the Bosons are that thing you ought to see the doctor about but you’ve been ignoring because it might be serious. ‘We challenge you to come and see us. We dare you to try avoid us.’