In severance packages they’ll favour your name,
employment savages in a capitalist game
The Thames Delta has long been both a monument to industry and a graveyard for those crushed beneath it. It was the lifeblood of England’s Industrial Revolution, its waters choked with coal barges, its banks lined with ironworks and mills, its docks feeding an empire that thrived on toil and suffering. William Blake’s Jerusalem dreamed of a new England, but the Thames bore witness to something else—smokestacks, soot, and shattered dreams. Two centuries later, the cycle repeats; the machines have changed, but the grind remains.
These days the air hums with fluorescent fatigue; the clock drags its feet while hands blister and backs bend. Smiles are stapled onto tired faces, each one a performance, each breath another tally in the ledger of exhaustion. They call it opportunity; they call it growth. They call it “green,” but the only thing green is the sickness spreading through factory floors and storefronts, through break rooms that reek of stale coffee and quiet rage. The promise was dignity; the reality is demand without return. The illusion cracks, and in its wake, anger rises—slow at first, then steady, then unstoppable.
Out of this landscape comes Teleforme, a quartet raised on the wreckage of a world built for profit, not people. Their music is the voice of those who clock in, clock out, and feel the weight of history pressing down, demanding to be answered.
Teleforme (Ryan Turner, Liam Dunne, Billy Aaron Phelps, Harry Clarke) tear into this bleak modern dystopia with Plaster Saint, a seething anthem for the overworked and underpaid. A live favorite, the song thrashes and howls, the fevered sound of wage laborers ground down by demeaning hierarchies, empty slogans, and the slow suffocation of false promises. Green-washing corporations sell virtue more than responsibility to the land; hands blister and backs bend…and the rage, long simmering, begins to boil.
Plaster Saint rattles with the fire of those who have had enough; moody, ringing guitars slice through the din, voices rise, a scream into the deaf ears of bureaucracy. This is the sound of resistance, a hard-bitten hymn for those living under the weight of an unjust machine. Echoes of Gang of Four sneer through its clenched teeth; the political bite of Fad Gadget, The Fall, and Killing Joke snarls beneath it; Fontaines D.C. lingers in its punch-drunk poetry. For those looking for strong statements, this is as powerful and raw as it gets.
Listen below:
Follow Teleforme:
Or via: