Before hearing this, had someone asked me to name three interesting things about Surrey I would have been caught between a rock and a hard place. I couldn’t have come up with anything. Unfortunately, after hearing this EP, my thoughts are much the same. One of my avid readers (dad) asked me to try to say something nice, and I will do my very best, but hope does not spring eternal as you plod through the 25-odd minutes of indecipherable rambling.

Claiming a “rock – ambient – screamo” sound probably isn’t the best start for any newcomers: it plants you firmly in a genreless mélange populated by thousands of bands who never make any headway. To stand out you need to be something truly special, you need to have something which sets you apart from the heaving mass of teenage angst that befalls this genre. All Forgotten’s Transitions doesn’t manage this; although it does have some fun on the ride.

Thorne In My Side has a pleasing repeat, played off nicely against some technically proficient drum-work by Chris Velissarides (who incidentally looks uncannily like Daniel Hunter from Analog Rebellion), but the rest of the album falls disappointingly short – opening chintz from One Day We’ll Fly Again, and a tediously predictable closing from Love From A Mother. It’s skilled, but as we all know, skill doesn’t necessarily mean interest.

Another thing which you, as I, might notice is that it doesn’t engage you at all; there is no sense that this EP draws you in, or pushes you out. Halfway through my third listen I got distracted by the football; and I don’t even like football that much. I think the root cause is just that nothing helps this album stand out: within the genre it is fine and dandy, but not only will people never sort this out from the rest of the dirge, but they’ll probably be disappointed when or if they do, too.

It has the screaming for the self-pitying teenage angst-machines, it has the thrashing guitars for those of us with more hair than I, and it has some beautifully crafted percussion. But what it fails on is the binaries of these characters: there’s no clean-cut lyrics, no gently tinkling refrains, and no insightful bridges. This genre works on these opposites, and this just doesn’t have it.

The final problem here lies in the fact that just off the top of my head I can name three or four much more interesting bands who thrash this sort of thing annually. Broadway’s Kingdoms leaps to mind: it has everything this album has, and so much more.

I wish them success, for a change, because I love this genre of music; I’m a shouty-whore, but I can’t see them ever breaking: there’s just not enough there to throw your heart into. I’d love for them to prove me wrong, but I will be forced to eat my Mother’s love if ever such an occasion happens. It’s a shame their name had to be oh so fitting.

Picture by Isabel Bloedwater