A Quite Life – 20th Anniversary & Our First Cassette!

 

 

 

Our second EP, A Quiet Life, was released in June 2005 on Deltasonic Records. To mark the 20th anniversary, the EP is being made available on streaming in its original form for the first time, and the we are releasing our first ever cassette.

Available now on Bandcamp and limited to 100 copies, with A Quiet Life EP on side A, backed with the first EP Transition, and a reversible sleeve featuring artwork from the original vinyl releases. 

 

 

The EP still means the world to us, but what it means to everyone who’s listened to us over the years is equally as important. So we asked our friend Ollie Wright, a musician and writer who was a key part of the Manchester scene, to write about his experience of the time.

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“You may find yourself in a house of multiple (multiple) occupation on Argyle Avenue, Victoria Park. The front room is crammed with scores of people, who are facing three people, who are in danger of causing all of us a serious problem. 
 
The floor is shaking with the impact of bass, the drums, the ceaseless moshing. Maybe it could collapse. But that’s OK. It hasn’t yet, and this slinky Scottish dude is hollering “FACES AMONG THE FACELESS MEN’ (I think). All right, I don’t have a clue what he’s saying, it’s impossible to pick it out, but it hardly matters because I do know that tonight he is a shaman, and he’s leading all of us a long way astray. 
 
That was Stu Ogilvie, conducting the lightning, face half-hidden behind a mop of dark hair, calling out these dense, unintelligible, undeniable odes to… What exactly? Then he drifted away from us, disappearing behind the drum kit. Into the void where a frontman had stood, he summons and unleashes a mesmerising, apparently endless roll, before calmly floating back to the front of the stage as if he’d never been anywhere else. Two acts in one, both equally compelling. 
 
At his side, a genial Yorkshireman named Lee Gale. When he isn’t torturing his guitar with a drumstick, Lee is strutting forward, as far as he can get into our enraptured faces – a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his – banging out the chords he knows we want, because we are just so dirty. 
 
Did I mention that The Longcut were incredible live?

Somehow always seeming at a step’s remove from this tumult, despite being at its epicentre, was the bassman, Jon Fearon, a member of a creative Cumbrian tribe who had meandered down to Manchester in winding ways from the Lakes. What he brought to The Longcut was an intense seriousness and almost religious focus, but also a complete understanding of what the bass guitar is supposed to do. Listen to their debut single, Transition, which is something you should do whenever you need to reconnect with the essence of life. All I hear this time is Jon’s hook twisting with the cunning and charisma of a snake through Stu’s sprechgesang chorus, and then, throughout those brutally beaten-out instrumental passages, the monumental slab of Jon’s fuzz-drenched low-end that bludgeons past any resistance. That bastard knew what he was doing.
 
The crowd that gathered at Argyle had come from all over the UK to this city to create a moment that would endure, for us at least, indelibly ours. The Longcut were our house band – literally, on at least a couple of occasions. For a thrilling moment, they were the defining sound of our city, and they deserved much more attention from the world at large than they got.  
 
Transition was a first act to wake the dead. A Quiet Life, despite that deeply ironic title, was somehow an even bigger hit, to my mind anyway. It was effectively the same formula – the splash of electronic and organic cymbals, sadistically churning bass, staccato chug from Lee – only this time, it had been honed to a finer, more deadly point. Even Lee’s resonant, chiming, treble guitar hooks are essentially a rhythmic adornment, the whole thing is a fearsome ball of rhythm. And the thing was, you just had to turn it UP. There wasn’t volume enough for this motherfucker. Fragments of ideas floated up out of Stu’s Caledonian dreams.
 
Mostly I heard a command to ‘keep on dancing’ and, galvanised, I did. We all did.
 
The Longcut’s first album was named A Call and Response, but really, Stu’s voice and the band’s overwhelming sound was a call to action. Not that they ever told you straight what that action was supposed to be – that was up to you. Stu would never expressly order you to kick out the jams, or be so direct as to sing that he wanted to be your dog. But the power of the music made it crystal clear that it was time for you to do something. What were you going to do? Make of this city, this time, your moment, your energy, whatever you could.

20 years have passed since these records were born. What I get now when I hear this startlingly urgent music is exactly the same thrill, the sense that nothing else matters. But you didn’t have to be there. Once the party’s over, what remains is the music and the feelings you get when you hear the music. If you’re hearing these tunes for the first time in 2025, I envy you. I hope that you get the same ferocious kick out of The Longcut that I did back then, and always will.
 
The Argyle days are long gone, Manchester itself has changed out of sight, but the fearless attitude and precocious spirit of the times was captured for us in these songs, and can be summoned back into being whenever we need it, to remind us of what is possible. 
 
Music is everything, will always be essential. Never forget that.
 
A mind enlightened, body flowering. 
 
Now move.”