A rumble on the horizon. Gritted teeth, nuclear fizz and fissured rock. A dab of pill dust from a linty pocket before it hits: the atom split, pool table overturned, pint glass smashed - valley fever breaking with the clouds as the inertia of small town life is well and truly disrupted. Here to bust out of Doledrum, clad in a t-shirt that screams Socialism and armed with drum machine, synth, pedal and icy stare are Working Men's Club, and their self-titled debut album.

Their eponymous collection of songs is equal parts Calder Valley restlessness and raw Sheffield steel, as it was across the Pennines that Working Men's Club's hard edged electronic sound was forged under the watchful ear of producer Ross Orton (The Fall, M.I.A., Arctic Monkeys).

Guitars locking horns with floor-filling beats, synths masquerading as drums and Minsky-Sargeant's scratchy, electrifying bedroom demos brought to their full potential by Orton's blade-sharp yet sensitive production.