A strong tidal-wave of the newness roars towards my beach of overused cynicism, and I’m running, desperate not to be drowned by mediocrity once more. Ah yes, it’s easier to recoil in the past, no need for change, sir! But then out of nowhere, like that old phoenix rising triumphantly, roaring up through the ashes, comes an electric current of optimism, and finally we have some hope running through our old withered veins. And for this writer, that sense of renewed hope came in the form of a set of three brothers from Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Thrown under the oft scorned at “British Indie act,” it would, of course, have been easy to fling The Cribs aside with all the others, safe-guard our ears from the merciless horror with pressed thumbs and reside in our own habitual heap of music that has come, gone and stayed for a reason, but when something stirs before you, it would be rude not to further prod and poke. And so I did, and, quite surprisingly enough, I found myself slowly waltzing into the future. To the sounds of pristine frenetic indie-pop with an edge, I was becoming someone totally different, and I liked it.
In the modern musical landscape, more often not, we’re showered with one-trick-ponies, deploying their talent in one burst of hits, only to fizzle out into a mass of infinite blandness. No such worries here, though, refreshingly enough. Like its predecessors opening track “Hey Scenesters”, “Men’s needs, women’s needs, whatever,” (produced by Franz Ferdinand supreme, Alex Kapranos) starts off with a lashing of satire with “Our Bovine Public,” a quirky, fast-paced slice of indie-rock coupled with a rip-roaring tirade against “To those who'd never exist without being generic”. The quirks and delicious helpings of jarring guitar lines continue in the same vein with “Girls Like Mystery,“ a tenacious elegy of frustrating love- (leave me alone/ I’m just your enemy/ I’ve seen it all/ I’ve seen your jealousy) and “Men’s Needs, the album’s first single. Where your Kaiser Chiefs and Bloc Parties saunter off into a tiresome and predictable abyss, The Cribs retain their profuse energy throughout, a trait that sets them apart from the boredom thrown upon us incessantly with newer acts.
“I’m A Realist” sees the group at their strongest. It’s different, yet catchy. Clean, yet edgy. “I’m a realist/ I’m a romantic/I’m an indecisive piece of shit,” admits lead singer, Ryan Jarman, and one can only be thankful that he’s “up to his old tricks,“ which such a delicately cut slice of gleaming indie-pop. Flung in towards the depths of the album is a quite brilliant surprise, a guest vocal appearance by Sonic Youth guitar maestro, Lee Ranaldo. Ghostly poetic as always, his spoken-word images of “Beer drinkers” and “rain of the windshield” paint pictures of desolate desperation, fuelled by a fusion of noise that the art-rocker would have been profoundly proud of himself. It’s a perfect marriage and an impressive addition to an already well-solid album.
Of course they’ll most probably go out and disappoint with their next album. Such is modern music, it’s hard to get excited about pretty much anything, and when you do, it’s hard not to be cynical about what is going to come next. But lets soak in the future for a bit, lets leave the past forgotten for the time being, and the future a distant worry. The Cribs have raised a bar for themselves, one which the majority of modern bands haven’t even come close to picking up. This is an album of indie-pop precision, not utterly flawless, but consistent in it’s sound, offering something rather than throwing it in our faces, and, whether we like it or not, has our foot tapping and wanting to go for walk in the future. Remove your fingers from your ears for the time being, get up off your lazy arse and be sure not to forget your coat.
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