Skiving - The Family Computer Review

Some albums feel like a gentle stroll; The Family Computer feels more like being shoved into a mosh pit whilst someone plays sci-fi synths and a saxophonist laments on their loneliness in the corner.

Clocking in at just over half an hour across seven tracks, The Family Computer still manages to feel like a comprehensive overview of the band’s chaotic, yet often panicked art-rock sensibilities despite its brevity. From the tongue-in-cheek opener ‘Ich Bin Ein Beginner’ to the reflective closer ‘Conversations With David Berman (Was That Civilised?)’, Skiving's debut refuses predictability, often leaving the listener unsure where each song will end up.

The album’s tonal trademark is immediately clear on ‘The National Lottery’. The repeated refrain “I can’t stop” feels panicked as it builds tension beneath its increasingly fast-paced instrumentation. It’s a clever musical trick in theory, but when continuously repeated over the course of an entire record, that nervous tension can occasionally feel overdone, with tracks shifting so abruptly and frequently that the listener is sometimes left feeling more exhausted than thrilled. Nevertheless, the band speaks with a voice that is unmistakably London at its core, and oftentimes comedically literal. ‘Things Made of Metal’ serves as a painfully accurate snapshot of the weekday commuter. It’s a spoken-word recounting of sitting on the commuter train from London Waterloo, watching dysfunctional families and children “glued to their iPads,” punctuated with the exasperated line “they’re only nine for f*ck’s sake.” By the end, the looping shrill guitar and breakdown collapse, poetically demonstrating the anxiety of modern urban life. It’s messy and panicked, occasionally tiring, a seemingly recurring experience throughout the record.

‘Last Man in Space’ features emotive saxophone whilst covering a world of “crippling depression and loneliness,” with cascading arpeggios and warmer-toned guitar pacing the melancholic narrative of the track. Meanwhile, ‘Disaster Films’ is the album at its most ambitious diversion, beginning slow and spacious before a sudden tonal shift introduces space-like synths reminiscent of sci-fi shows like Stranger Things and an expansive, apocalyptic guitar solo. The vocal part returns amongst the breakdown with the repeated refrain “dancing and dancing and dancing and…”. This track exemplifies Skiving’s skill at building tension, even if not every listener will find the structural unpredictability of their work entirely rewarding.

‘I’m Starting to Think This Isn’t a Benjamin Button Situation’ is more rhythmically anchored, with guitar and drums maintaining a pulse that builds nervous anticipation. Yet even here, nothing seems to resolve neatly, and the song’s journey feels unpredictable rather than intentionally clever. Across the record, this sense that songs aren’t entirely sure where they’re going seems to dominate. It certainly distinguishes Skiving from conventional art-rock peers, yet also contributes to the album’s sometimes therapy-session-in-a-studio energy, with frequent jolts and unestablished tonal shifts leaving the listener dizzy.

However, not everything is as fraught. The closer, ‘Conversations With David Berman (Was That Civilised?)’, starts off calmer, with smooth guitar and saxophone gradually building into decisive strumming. The lyric “was that civilised? No, clearly not. It was fun, yes, but in no way civilised” feels like a summary of the album itself, disorderly, messy, irreverent, but intermittently rewarding. This track, more than the rest of the record, demonstrates Skiving’s musical potential when they give thematic ideas their own space to develop properly. Beyond the songs themselves, the band’s aesthetic and DIY ethos reinforces the unique character of the album. Their use of novelty instruments, such as apple-shaped xylo-bells and long springs, give the record some intriguing textural quirks that make for a fun listening experience, even if the execution sometimes adds to the sense of chaos.

At only seven tracks, The Family Computer is brief and at times overwhelming. It is certainly impressive for a debut record, serving as a London-infused art-rock statement that feels experimental and humorous, yet the unpredictable pacing can risk turning the listening experience into one that is stressful rather than exhilarating, lessening replay value slightly as a result. Still, it remains an enjoyable record, and there are bursts of brilliance and cleverness that will hopefully be further explored, particularly in tracks like ‘Disaster Films’ and ‘Last Man in Space’. It’s a record that is occasionally inventive, but it doesn’t quite land as a truly memorable or standout debut. It’s an interesting example of contemporary art rock that feels in line with the sounds of London underground gigs at Brixton’s The Windmill and Stepney’s The George Tavern, but not quite mind-blowing, making The Family Computer a record that will still appeal to fans of jagged, experimental music that are willing to embrace its unpredictability.