Back in February 2018, The Weather Station played a rare and early show at Liverpool’s Central Library. It was an excellent performance of true grit and raw spirit from Tamara Lindeman and her band. (Which included the Constantines’ Will Kidman.) That’s not the only reason I remember the night. Just down the road at 81 Renshaw Street, Rongorongo were weaving some magic of their own. I was late to their headlining show, but upon entering, singer Mick Chrysalid was front and centre, at work on a new song about concrete laybys.
Underpinned by Our Keith’s hooping bass line, it was equal parts Roxy Music and J.G. Ballard. Its remnants, leaking into band’s quentessential closer, Black Rain; a song that still remains as one of the best from a Merseyside act over the last 15 years.
“That’s the Talking Heads one,” says Chrysalid of the song. The singer is sat with guitarist, Jonny Davis Le Brun, in a bar on Old Hall Street in Liverpool’s city centre at the beginning of July where we are talking about Rongorongo’s debut LP, The Shell of a Lullaby. (Incidentally, the song in question didn’t make the cut.) Drummer, Sam Gill, also drops by before the interview and, all told, it feels like old times. Pre-Covid times when such instances would have happened at least twice a month. Times have changed, though. What usually would have ended in the early hours in some other haunt on the other side of town, tonight last trains and buses are caught.
“It’s an odd song,” continues Chrysalid, who goes on to talk about Our Keith; the pair meeting at SAE audio engineering. Chrysalid had been in other bands prior to Rongorongo, which began as more of a solo endeavour before the fully-fledged concern it is today. Guitarist Phil Howells, with whom Chrysalid went to university, and Gill were all in previous bands together, before the singer met guitarist, Davis Le Brun, while writing for Liverpool’s Bido Lito.
“I already had Phil and Our Keith. And then I’d met Jonny, and I just thought, ‘He knows what he’s talking about’. Davis Le Brun, a deep thinker and like Chrysalid, shares a broad knowledge of the new music landscape. Alongside third guitarist, Alex Walker, the band took shape and has remained unchanged since. The ensuing years saw Rongorongo playing all across the city prior to the release of their long-awaited and much anticipated debut full-length release.
“There were far too many years, not wasted because we’d always play live, and I did find that this is what I really enjoyed. Making the songs, that’s great, but oplaying bats on it,” says Chrysalid, pivoting to talk about the lengthy writing and recording process. “I’ve got various recordings because I’ve got some decent equipment, but I couldn’t get it over the line,” he admits. “In the end it was depressing me that much. It starts eating it away at you. Our mental health’s not great because of the state of the fucking world. The last thing you need is your passion to start killing you as well. That’s what it felt like it was doing in the end.”
Speaking to bands over the years about writing and recording processes, and one artist in particular spoke about ulterior motives getting in the way. Almost to the point where you can never get anything done. I put this question to Chrysalid.
“I thought I could do it, but I think I can do most things,” he says, talking about the project’s earlier singles and EP releases. “They were quite cold, clinical, and that’s what we were chasing. It was more electronic drums and stuff like that. But when Rongorongo went live and we had this newer thing that started to happen, it was trying to capture that.”
The band turned to local producer, Stephen Cole, recording at his What Studio earlier this year. “The minute he pressed playback, it was already over the line because he’s a drummer himself. He’s a multi-musician, he’s our Cate Le Bon” says Chrysalid. “Straight away, he got the drum sound I could never quite get. Maybe it was the manoeuvring around,” he explains, having moved to three rehearsal rooms in as many years. “It’s a little bit like Giant Steps by Boo Radleys, where you can hear that it’s a bit everywhere”. The band’s initial space, located in the back of Walker’s second-hand record / vintage clothing shop on Duke Street pre-Covid, which is now an Italian Bakery. The band’s new home, across the water in Birkenhead. The minute they began working with Cole, everything clicked, to the point where Rongorongo are working with the producer on their second album.
“The great thing about doing it with someone like Ste’ is that you trust him. He gave it a bit of direction,” says Davis Le Brun. The guitarist goes on to explain explain how the band’s songwriting methods have slowly changed over time. “It’s weird talking about the way we write, because everyone just brings in a little thing, and then you just jam it out. It’s not like a singer-songwriter thing where someone brings in a whole song and we all add bits,” he says. “It very much always starts as just a tiny thing, a little riff or chord progression or something. And then we play for half-an-hour on the same thing before it turns into something.”
It’s this method that has been the catalyst in each band member finding their own voice within the band. “I think it takes that long to figure out,” admits Davis Le Brun. Chrysalid agrees. “It’s hilarious as well. If you’re a bit younger, and somebody else would have an opinion – don’t get me wrong, they’re still opinions, and we’ll thrash them out… but by and large, there’s that trust now where you’ll just let it go until people feel comfortable. Then they can start pushing themselves to not be comfortable and then start thinking about the next thing”, he explains. “It’s jamming, but it’s not like a jam band. We focus on the bits and get people comfortable. Once that’s done, we move on. It just seems to work. There are six people in the band, and everyone’s different, but that’s what I always wanted.”
Chrysalid begins talking about his favourite artists that have inspired him to record this way. “Your R.E.M.s to your Bowies and P.J. Harveys of the world, they’re all in a room playing, and they’ve got to get it right, and that’s what we did,” he says. “So some part of me would have loved to have got this out five six years ago, but could we have done it?”
It’s a valid point. While many of the songs on The Shell of a Lullaby have been around for years, being initially exposed to a band live is a perilous exchange. With a band like Rongorongo, their songs hook you in. But the real danger is that the magic can’t be replicated between the studio walls. In fairness it rarely is, which makes The Shell of a Lullaby all the more special. The final cut, exactly where Rongorongo thrive.
Simply put, the album wouldn’t have been anywhere near as powerful had it been released earlier. Each band member, having grown individually and musically over the years. Gill also plays in local psych unit Feral Wheel, while Davis Le Brun has released three albums so far in this decade under the Mitternacht moniker. Each of his releases, containing their own musical language. Howells has been in on the act, too, releasing his debut self-titled mini-LP under the Leaves of the Sibyl alias in 2024. The residue of all these projects, not only leaking into the Rongorongo DNA but galvanising it. The songs on The Shell of a Lullaby, meticulously crafted, chiselled into new shapes and handled with care during this time. The results, an active, close-listening guitar-based record that is one of the year’s finest.
Rongorongo - The Shell of a Lullaby“Somebody came up to me and went. ‘It’s like Echo & the Bunnymen updated for the apocalypse,” laughs Chrysalid. “I didn’t mind that because it’s not a million miles away. I suppose it’s just big tunes, isn’t it?”
One of the more understated moments on the album is the meandering Slow Chatter, where a brutal narrative emerges. As Chrysalid sings, “You say I crush all life inside a shell of a lullaby”, the foundation to the record is formed. “I wanted it to be something from the song,” offers the singer about the album title. “Because I’m starting to get into the second album, I’m starting to make out as if we’ve got some sort of mythology. We fucking haven’t, have we?” he laughs. “But in my own head, I’m just going to pretend we have, so I start to reintroduce things from the past. No one will spot it, but for me, I quite like that. I also like the idea of the shell of a lullaby because is it you as an empty shell, or are we the shell that’s protecting the lullaby?”
Chrysalid also says the title is nod to Sci-Fi Lullabies. Suede’s highwire drama is dotted throughout the album, too. Chrysalid recounts a story when he was 16 and saw the band at the Crazy House in Liverpool before their debut was released.
“It was called Sloane’s and was this little 160 capacity venue. I was seven-and-a-half stone, and there was it was a lot of people there. Brett Anderson seen that I was getting crushed, and he got me and a friend on the stage and got us to sit down, slightly out of the mayhem,” he says. “I suppose he was my Morrissey, my Bowie. You could say he was tapping into them, but Brett Anderson’s his own thing now, and he’s been his own thing for a long time. I genuinely think Suede are one of the best British bands. I still think Dog Man Star’s underrated. When you get lists of great albums, it’s never in the top 10 or top 20.”
Thematically, The Shell of a Lullaby is an allegory of these times. In all its raw darkness, it’s equally vague and beautifully fragile. “I wanted the album to be an anti-suicide album,” explains Chrysalid. “The best songs I’ve ever heard are about hanging in there. Like Bowie, where he’s reaching out to you; I don’t think he ever done anything as good as that. And the ones where he and Michael Stipe, even Morrissey – whatever he’s become – when they’re reaching out telling you to hang on… I’m asking people to hang on.”
It starts with No Sympathy. Coloured with Walker’s metallic, Television-inspired riffs, his work is a key feature of throughout the album. The excellent Push, also bound by the same ringing guitars that slice through Chrysalid’s overriding tones of darkness. In many ways, Walker is the secret weapon of the band. His melodies, colliding with Howells’ abrasive textures and Davis Le Brun’s languid, almost Tortoise-inspired meanderings. It’s a three-pronged attack that is quite uncommon in the stratum of guitar-based music. Each guitarist, so singular that their ideas form a unique, potent blend. It’s this sound that equally adds yet somehow offsets the chilling undercurrents that have always been Rongorongo’s hallmark.
“I never know where I quite come from because I just love things to remain a little bit vague,” says Chrysalid of No Sympathy. “It’s basically about a war on empathy. I think most people have empathy. They have sympathy and they will help other people out. But there’s certainly – especially from your tech bros and the way society’s going – like Elon Musk saying, ‘There’s something wrong in our code’. When he said there’s a bug in the human system, and it’s the empathy… have empathy but get rid of the bug. It’s like, ‘What?’ In other words, he’s just a fucking arsehole. I wanted to get that in. It’s heavy, but it’s the truth.”
It doesn’t get any lighter, either. Led by Davis Le Brun’s spidery arpeggios, You’re Priceless swerves with brutal twists and turns. It’s the sound of society edging closer to the apocalypse (“My brain is getting dumbed down / That’s the price you pay for being numb now”). Thoughts Thaw and The Exit are of the same ilk. Music on the fault-lines, and while both songs have been Rongorongo live staple for years, they sound every bit as vibrant from the studio vaults. As Chrysalid sings, “We’re not involved / Is this fear” on Thoughts Thaw, it underlines society’s bleak realities. And one where the singer is at the coal face of with his day job, working with the homeless.
Speaking of The Exit, Chrysalid says, “I’m panicking, looking for the exit. I know it’s really grim, but we’ve all known people who’ve committed suicide. I always think the most powerful songs are the anti-suicide songs, trying to help people. But that whole song was coloured a little bit by my job,” says Chrysalid, who sees the sheer neglect in the world every day. He talks about the state of the system and how these organisations make money while trying to help people. “When I talk about an exit, sometimes I’m talking about several different levels,” he offers. “Sometimes people just want to exit the world. Sometimes people want to exit the situation they’re in.”
Negative Vibes Only possesses similar thematical tones. Underpinned by an immediate riff, Gill’s galloping drums and Chrysalid’s sardonic verses (“Down with positivity / Negative vibes only / I’m holding on to your hand / Holding on”), it’s something that wouldn’t look out of place in Dan Bejar’s Destroyer canon. Elsewhere, and George Michael is an oldie that has been given a new lick of paint. As stories go, per its name, the band incorrectly received several royalty payments from the pop legend’s estate. “Jonny sent it back because he thought we were going to get sued,” laughs Chrysalid.
Rongorongo reach dystopian dread’s core on one of the finest closing tracks of 2026, It’s A Wonderful Lie. With a chiming Velvet Underground-like riff that’s so fragile that it almost collapses in on itself, it stops you completely in your tracks. The song, the best Rongorongo has written since Black Rain. “It’s that staring through the screen, and an absence of meaning,” says Chrysalid. “It’s that idea of coming around to someone’s house as well. When I was a bit younger, when you knew someone was really down to just get round, and we’ll stare through the screen together. It’s teenage-y, the record, in many ways,” he admits, again acknowledging Stipe and Bowie alongside Karen Dalton. Where the singing “cuts right through”.
The one misconception of Rongorongo is that they have always been a post-punk band. Hard to pin down, for sure, but Chrysalid draws a line to OUGHT’s Tim Darcy. “His own album has some belters, and he’s basically saying, ‘I can write these great songs as well’. I understand that it’s a deliberate choice not to write those songs, but we’ve chosen to. The more recent version of post-punk seemed to replace indie as a blanket term, but it now feels more like a strait jacket. This album has got more to do with R.E.M and maybe even The Water Boys where you’re trying to write big music.”
Their hard-to-pigeonhole status has left them as an outlier of sorts, particular in Liverpool amongst the broader scene of music in the city. “I occasionally get into the conversation… ‘Well, you’re not really a Liverpool band, are you?’ And it’s like, ‘You’re fucking joking?’ It’s a bit like to be cockney, you’ve got to be born within a distance between bells etc. You’ve got to sound like a scouser and be born here, and then you’ve also got to play rootsy music as if you completely misunderstand The La’s. What makes you scouse? To completely and utterly misunderstand one of the best bands of all time?” offers Chrysalid. “I don’t misunderstand The La’s, but there’s so many scouse bands that do. We’re seeing it every other month. As a contentious aside, I’d fundamentally say, put any Beatles album up against that album.”
Chrysalid is a student of Liverpool music. From the obvious releases of the past to grass roots, when Rongorongo plays a show, the singer always makes a point of turning up early to see the support bands. It epitomises the singer’s character. Always genuine. Always real.
“We’ve suffered with venues, but I think Liverpool will always throw out good stuff,” says Chrysalid of the city’s live music landscape. “I think it’s maybe even a bit better now because you are getting people hanging around from university and then end up in bands. So you are getting a bit of a cross-pollination of people from different places,” he says. “Comparing what’s happening now to maybe the last 15 years, it’s different. There’s not a great deal of money in it, but I think the young ones if you like guitar or synth music, you’ll put gigs on,” he offers, talking about local promotor, Michael Coats, and the venue QUARRY, which is where the band will play their album launch tonight.
“As soon as you enter the capitalist sphere of music, it’s so difficult. It’s risky, isn’t it?” says Davis Le Brun, which leads into what the future holds, both in terms of the world at large, and how Rongorongo play their part in it. “We’ve got two albums in us in within this mode. From then it has to go somewhere else,” admits Davis Le Brun.
Eight years is a long time in this attention economy. But in terms of making art, is it really? “I’ve had people say, ‘Oh, you still going?’ And it’s like, ‘We’ve never stopped’,” says Chrysalid. ‘We’ve constantly played, and I think we’ve got fundamentally better.”
Which is true. The vehicle of Bandcamp and online streaming, the catalyst for so much new music whereby the majority of it gets lost in the ever-widening sphere. It’s moments like The Shell of a Lullaby where band’s like Rongorongo have written the album’s album. In their case, something that both captures and crystallises these times.
We end by talking of hope and whether there’s any left in this world. Chrysalid offers that it’s about forcing through and trying to find it. “Since the disaster of 2008-09, we’ve been in a great depression, let’s face it. The horrors of ethno-nationalism are here. We’re in the middle of an all out war on empathy. It’s about holding on for dear fucking life.”
Rongorongo play QUARRY tonight w/ Beija Flo and Workstuff. Purchase tickets here.
The Shell of a Lullaby is out tomorrow. Purchase from Bandcamp.
