The phrase “cut a rug” hearkens back to the late ’30s at the height of the swing and jazz era, where fiery-footed hoofers & shakers would dance so fervently that their movements looked as though they were cutting the very flooring beneath them. On sophomore single, “No Difference,” New York-based Scrapper revisit that storied dancefloor lineage through the lens of indie rock, romantic hardship, and reckless abandon. Whereas debut single, “Heat,” led with more of a simmering, alt-folk edge, “No Differnece” is an out-and-out, danceable, guitar-led tune. The band itself being a cross-pollination of The Firnats and Fox Hollow, the best of both former bands’ sensibilities are able to shine through from moment to moment.
So the story goes, the Mercury Prize-winning English sound engineer Animesh Raval met with Scrapper in his London studio for mixing treatment of the single, and through a series of communication hiccups regarding the DI tracking of the solo at the end of the song, Raval eventually found a workaround. It just so happens that the solution to this particular problem alongside the accomplished James Ford also helped the future mixing of tracks from Fontaines, D.C. and The Last Dinner Party. It’s heartening to hear how the process of getting a new, hungry act off the ground can have ripples that go on to reach some of the most prominent current names in the scene.
Clocking in at just over three minutes, “No Difference” boasts a snarling guitar lead by way of Mike Themistocleous, Davis Jordan‘s foundational percussion, and Joe Brennan‘s thrumming bassline. All drops out at a moment’s notice as lead singer Sean Flanagan regales the listener of the hot-blooded dancefloor drama: “Tell myself/We can be more than a moment in time/Waiting on the weekend/Wishing all our dead friends were alive.” The narrator muses on the fleeting nature of time itself, and how joy can often be difficult to maintain long-term. “It’s over,” he continues solemnly on the prechorus, looking the truth plainly in the eyes: “And I’ve sobered on the thought of having you/Jesse’s got a party/Put yourself out there, kid/The music’s waiting on you.” In the wake of a breakup, finding the energy and conviction to reenter the scene can be a daunting task. But when the music’s thumping just right, and you’re able to give yourself over to the dancefloor? Who knows if love awaits?
The rhythm section reaches a fever pitch, crescendoing into the chorus: “Say something I already know/You show off well but I’m going home/ It’s not the moves, it’s just the floor/
You said ‘oh this is just how I dance’.” What’s a guy to do when the very person haunting your heart makes an appearance by showing off in the middle of a dusty basement rave? Each dance move but a taunt directed your way. Some would easily pack it up for the evening. As the following verse would have it, our protagonist is prone to throwing a fit however he knows how: “Break a little/The static in the room feels louder tonight/
Talking to the walls again/ Wishing all my dead friends were alive.” Flanagan and Themistocleous double team the vocals as a united front, speaking power to the narrator’s belligerent behavior: “I’ve told you what you’ve heard so many times before/Jesse’s got a party/But you’re not invited anymore.” Sloppy, slovenly, reckless. And worse – threatened to make an exit.
The bridge abandons all sense of pretense, honing in on Sean’s most fiery delivery: “‘cause you wanted to fight,/so you got in a fight/
You wanted a drink,/So you got a drink./You wanted to shout,/Well, I love when you sing.” The tennis match of attention and affection breeds conflict, leading our protagonist to moonlight as a heartslob, spilling beers and throwing punches in the name of the person he can’t outdo on the dancefloor. Dueling guitars break away into one all-consuming solo that bleeds into a deafening outro. Start-to-finish, the single hearkens back to my earliest gigging years – the late nights spent at the ill-fated Shea Stadium BK, where I was always the youngest in the room. Thick, tar-tinged clouds swirled lazily overhead as late twentysomethings puffed their cigarettes directly into my face. I recall the nascent, all-American charm of bands like Static Jacks whose entire careers I witnessed unfold in hole-in-the-wall venues all across the city. The kind of evenings where emotions were heightened by those in attendance around you; one singular crush or forelorn ex could make you understandably act a fool. All the great revelling and buffoonery to be had therein is merely par for the course. The New York quartet have managed to distill such a refined sense of time and place into a nostalgic guitar tune. And if it means burning a hole in the carpet with your dance moves or being kicked squarely out the front door for being too quarrelsome? No difference.
Stream Scrapper’s latest single here:
