Exit Music (For a World)
You only have to watch TV for ten minutes to realise that the purpose of life, for your average Jen or Eric, is to ‘shine’ – an abstract that neatly bypasses the ‘more rich and famous than anyone else’. It’s like, having sat and thought about it after nearly a decade of the whole Pop Idol thing, we’re all joining hands to become a race of shiny-skinned sales execs at Me Inc., unified in our ambition to slip into the well-greased machine. Meanwhile, the biggest-selling records and primetime ad space are hi-five-ing each other over a cultural apocalypse that’s shifted effortlessly into third gear, found its prescription-strength X-Factor in the glove box and driven off to the party shop for streamers.
If you subscribe to this kind of glass-half-endless void media take on the Mayan calendar and you’re expecting everything to go bang right in time for London 2012, then you should stop necking those tablets you found on the bus and return ‘The Bible Code’ to the library. But hey, we’re not your mum, and if the Everything Is Going To Shit Theory works for you then knock yourself out. We’d only recommend that while looking for something to drown-out the hum of colliding galaxies, super-volcanoes and alien invasion (seriously, it’s all on this website, man), you’d consider Factory Floor as the ideal soundtrack to The End. They’re a London three piece that deal in monolithic loops, acid-casualty vocals and motorik beats, usually turned up punishingly loud, and here’s why you should give a fuck.
“I’m sure before the Olympics they’ll splash a bit of paint on it,” says Dom Butler. Responsible on stage for keeping FF’s synths pounding, he’s lashing the ground with a piece of cable, underneath the railway arches of the new East London Overground line. A large-ish rock gets thrown at him by Gabe Gurnsey (drums), it misses breaking his foot by inches and is hurled back while guitarist and singer Nik Colt watches smiling. The photo shoot is over and they all look quite glad to be out of the lens. Above them the trains, tricked-out imaginatively in horizontal strips of orange and white, inspire a bitch about the missed chance to create a convincing kinetic spectacle. Scoring low on both form and function – roomy, air-conditioned and almost permanently empty – they’re diametrically opposed to this band.