Folly Group - Human And Kind (EP) - 45RPM Crystal Clear Vinyl

Folly Group’s debut album Human and Kind lands like a lit fuse. The London quartet has been honing this sound for a few years across punchy singles and EPs, but the full-length, released in January 2024 on So Young Records, sharpens everything into a wiry, rhythm-first statement that feels both claustrophobic and cathartic. It is busy music, but not cluttered, the kind of tightrope walk where every drum hit, sample, and spoken aside seems to lock into place at the last possible moment.

The first thing that grabs you is the drumming. Folly Group’s twist is that the drummer handles lead vocals, and you can hear how the songs are built from the kit up. Beats lead the conversation, not just keeping time but shaping it, nudging guitars and bass into restless, angular patterns. When the band leans into their percussive instincts, you get that rare mix of post-punk and dance music where the groove feels industrial but human, a little scuffed around the edges. Think the austere jolt of Gang of Four meeting the elastic, sample-spiked playfulness of early LCD, filtered through East London bus routes, overheard arguments, and too many nights under bad fluorescent lighting.

“Strange Neighbour” is the entry point for a lot of fans, and it still slaps in album context. The bassline skulks, the guitars peck, and the vocal takes on a wary, wry tone that suits the song’s paranoia. “Big Ground” stretches wider, with a hook that sneaks in sideways. It never croons. It jabs. Across the record you hear that push and pull between abrasion and release, like the band keeps testing how far they can tighten a bolt before it snaps. When they ease the pressure, it is not with sentiment but with space, letting samples chatter in the gaps and using silence as punctuation.

What sells Human and Kind is the detail. Percussion that sounds like metal on metal. Little vocal barks and deadpan chants that turn into choruses almost by accident. Guitar lines that refuse to settle, always searching for the next corner. The lyrics match the music’s twitchy momentum, chewing on work, rent, surveillance, the small anxieties that stack into something heavier. The writing never feels preachy. It is more like field notes from a long day in the city, where even the bus stops feel like interrogations and the news ticker never blinks.

Production stays dry and close, which suits a band so alive to the physicality of sound. You can practically see the sweat hit the drum heads. So Young’s house style often lets bands sound like themselves, and that is the case here. Nothing’s slathered in gloss. The edges remain sharp, and the kick drum thumps with a clubby insistence that makes you want to see these songs in a small room. If you caught their earlier live sets round London, that point will ring true. These tracks sound built for movement, for bodies finding the pocket together.

There’s also a sly humor running through the album. Even at their most severe, Folly Group drop in lines that wink at the absurdity of trying to keep it all together. That tone keeps the record from drifting into grimness. It is music about pressure that understands release, music about control that invites you to let go for three minutes and thirty seconds at a time.

If you are crate-digging and see Human and Kind vinyl in the new arrivals, grab it. The low end is a treat on a good system, and the drum-forward mix really benefits from a proper spin. Folly Group vinyl feels like the right way to live with this band, to let the sub pull at the room while the hi-hats tick like a timer on the wall. If you prefer to buy Folly Group records online, you will find plenty of shops stocking it, and it sits nicely next to other modern UK post-punk on your shelf. I’ve even spotted copies tucked into the staff picks at a Melbourne record store, which makes sense, since this is exactly the kind of album that travels by word of mouth and late-night recommendation. File it under “Folly Group albums on vinyl” you actually play, not just collect.

Human and Kind doesn’t try to be definitive, and that is its strength. It sounds like a band trusting their instincts, letting rhythm lead, writing about what’s right in front of them. The result is a debut that feels lived-in and alert, tense and strangely generous. If you came here curious, this is where to start. If you were already on board, this is the deeper cut you were waiting for.