Review Summary: The perfect mix of punk angst and pop jubilation
With a knack for tuneful punk-rock and frank, intelligent lyrics, The King Blues have earned a fair wad of respect in just a handful of years. Sophomore record, [i]Save thee through some changes. Losing a founding member and watching England sink to its knees under the weight of a recession has tainted their sound, leaving something altogether darker in its place. Yes the hooks are still there, but this time they come wrapped around a white-knuckled fist.
Punk & Poetry is the bright, rowdy underbelly of UK culture. Contemporary English music just doesn’t get any better.
Beginning with chKanye West cares about himself, about money, about pussy, religion and black people. Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further fruch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ andom their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for s of wisdom such as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ and ‘All of the Lights’ is the stunted, rhythmless croaks of a buffoon. Some bands – hell, some genres – can sneak by with poor lyrics and poor vocal performance, but where they’re rammed to the forefront as they are here, you can’t ignore them and you can’t forgive them. Even the pleasant singing interludes suffer from a sense that they were ripped straight from a child’s first attempts at poetry. ‘Runaway as fast as you can…’ Aw, bless.
The tragedy of the record lies in its consistencies, or to be more exact, their war with one another. The consistent lack of quality in the lyrical department stamps heartily on the perfectly formed nutsack of the music, which never dips below average (althougucKanye West cares about himself, about money, about pussy, religion and black people. Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further fruch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ andom their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for s of wisdom such as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ and ‘All of the Lights’ is the stunted, rhythmless croaks of a buffoon. Some bands – hell, some genres – can sneak by with poor lyrics and poor vocal performance, but where they’re rammed to the forefront as they are here, you can’t ignore them and you can’t forgive them. Even the pleasant singing interludes suffer from a sense that they were ripped straight from a child’s first attempts at poetry. ‘Runaway as fast as you can…’ Aw, bless.
The tragedy of the record lies in its consistencies, or to be more exact, their war with one another. The consistent lack of quality in the lyrical department stamps heartily on the perfectly formed nutsack of the music, which never dips below average (althougucKanye West cares about himself, about money, about pussy, religion and black people. Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further fruch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ anduch as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ andom their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for s of wisdom such as ‘I treat the cash the way the government treats the AIDS, I won’t be satisfied ‘til all my niggas get it. Get it?’ Judging by the critical and commercial response, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Because it’s all self-consciously ironic, yeah. Like, the bit with the picture of his dick, yeah. That’s him making fun of himself, yeah. Yeah. Or, no. Or maybe it’s so obviously self-conscious that it is, in fact, gratuitous, infantile nonsense. And maybe his delivery on tracks like ‘Gorgeous’ and ‘All of the Lights’ is the stunted, rhythmless croaks of a buffoon. Some bands – hell, some genres – can sneak by with poor lyrics and poor vocal performance, but where they’re rammed to the forefront as they are here, you can’t ignore them and you can’t forgive them. Even the pleasant singing interludes suffer from a sense that they were ripped straight from a child’s first attempts at poetry. ‘Runaway as fast as you can…’ Aw, bless.
The tragedy of the record lies in its consistencies, or to be more exact, their war with one another. The consistent lack of quality in the lyrical department stamps heartily on the perfectly formed nutsack of the music, which never dips below average (althougucite’, you can’t help but realise that he’s one of those kids, and the vitriol beneath his words is just gnawing at the surface. This short spoken-word introduction to the album displays Fox’s talent for poetic style and, in one surprising moment, his unwillingness to pander to societal taste. Touching on a range of subjects, including sexist idiocy (‘Five Bottles of Shampoo’), and the far-right wing’s highjack of patriotism (‘Shooting Fascists’), the lyrical content of
Punk & Poetry remains witty and engaging throughout, placing the album shoulder to shoulder with the most socially-conscious music ever made.
Whereas their first two albums carried just a touch of filler, this new effort comes with none. Blending an eclectic mix of styles, from the raw, pounding ‘We Are F
ucking Angry’ to the poppy and anthemic ‘I Want You’, the album goes all out to keep the listener entertained. Boasting a spectrum of instrumentation that ranges from brass horns to d’n’b synths, the record could have been tangled and messy. Luckily, The King Blues know a thing or two about tying influences together, giving the whole thing a sense of real cohesion. Even transitions from the straight-up punk of ‘Set the World on Fire’ to the playful ‘Dancehall’ seem, well, seamless.
Save the World, Get the Girl was all about making the best of a very bad deal, about celebrating friendship amidst homelessness and sharing moments of romance next to puddles of sick.
Punk & Poetry is about getting p
issed off and doing what you can to stem the tide. For The King Blues, the best they can do is make classy punk-rock. Their real triumph, though, is the urge in the listener’s heart to do something just as worthwhile.
