Aurally roughshod but equally grand in scope, Vincent Over the Sink’s debut full-length album lingers precariously on the landing between threatening and jovial, avant and pop. A two-piece comprised of Christopher Schueler and Matthew Hopkins (the later of Naked on the Vague, Bad Tables and Lamp Puffer), the band have thus far released a very limited 7” debut, followed by a split CDR with Sydney noise/drone mainstays Holy Balm. Noting these formats, it’s clear why Vincent Over The Sink hasn’t attracted much love yet: they haven’t had the opportunity to spread their stylistically ambitious pop over a liberal 50 minutes, which mind you, is hardly enough time to contain the myriad colourful and startling directions explored throughout this record.

Despite the bills you may have seen this band share around Sydney and the nature of its constituents’ other projects, Vincent Over The Sink is essentially a grandiose pop band with the modus operandi - one might presume - that no genre or pop idiom is too silly or obscure to explore and subsequently warp to their own specifications. The rusty, four-track fidelity of their recordings obscures certain elements of their sound and – in a fashion similar to artists like Ariel Pink – imbue in these pop songs the uncanny qualities of late-night AM radio, or the mysterious aura of a cassette found half chewed but salvageable on a park bench.

'Rainblame' marries a slightly clipped, high-pitched organ melody to a rambling, mostly unintelligible lyrical turn to menacing effect. It’s the stuff of maudlin, saccharine dreams turned suddenly horrendously violent. Elsewhere 'Mektoub' locks into a dreamy groove that is genuinely pretty: soft half-whispered vocals and a rigid bass line are sprayed with ocean sounds and subtle electric guitar responses. Sonic Youth is drawn upon and sullied in the darkest way imaginable on 'Mice In The Ocean' (or is it mice in the oven?) while 'Chris Sailing a Boat' and 'Threads of Beginning' are whimsical but surprisingly affecting. Vincent Over The Sink apparently takes a ‘stab in the dark’ approach to songwriting: these songs are rich melodically but awkward structurally as they occasionally fall apart rather than end, or take sudden unexpected turns and then fade away.

At 23 tracks, it’d be difficult to convey the breadth of Vincent’s genre flings in a few words, just be sure that there are plenty of surprises here and many more ‘what-the-fuck’ moments. Massive sprawling pop-albums with the courage to attempt everything are few and far between but 22 Coloured Bull Terriers is easily one of the most spirited and engaging pop albums likely to arrive in Sydney this year.

by Shaun Prescott