Ever since Hunter S Thompson got his arse handed to him by the Hell’s Angels and built a career on it, writers have got their kicks and their cred from cosying up to the rough boys. For rock journalists this has variously involved hanging out in Little Hulton with Happy Mondays, making excuses for misogynistic/homophobic rappers, or comparing Mike Skinner’s witless tales of fags and kebab shops to Dostoevsky – a quick bit of rough before going back to eulogising Radiohead or The National.
Latest beneficiaries of music journalism’s frequently misguided nostalgie de la boue are Nottingham’s ridiculous Sleaford Mods, a novelty act consisting of two stereotypical “geezers” seemingly dragged out of the nearest boozer, handed a cheap keyboard & a case of Stella, and instructed to see if that theory about monkeys, typewriters and Shakespeare also works with music. It doesn’t.
Jason Williamson’s Notts-accented stream-of-consciousness delivery (sample lyric: “I woke up with shit in me sock, outside the Polish off-licence”) has led to numerous comparisons to The Fall, John Cooper Clarke and the aforementioned Happy Mondays, all of whom should be suing for defamation; Williamson actually has more in common with hapless YouTube Brit-rappers such as Huddersfield’s DJ Smile or Northampton’s Dave Neurotic, who at least have the saving grace of charm and good humour. Musically, Andrew Fearns’ primitive keyboard preset tunes are reminiscent of legendary outsider artist Wesley Willis, who at least had the excuses of homelessness, drug addiction and schizophrenia to fall back on. Even more amusingly, the duo are frequently praised as some kind of authentic voice of working-class Britain – aye, when I were a lad it were all useless rapping & Bontempi organs round our way.
So what does Divide & Exit actually sound like? You know that bloke in your roughest local pub – terminally unemployed, always cadging a pint or a fag, usually has a holdall stuffed with knockoff designer gear, duty-free cigs or plumbing equipment, which he’ll try to sell to you and then get all lairy when you don’t want to buy, usually ends the night getting into a ruck. Thinks he’s a jack-the-lad, a comedian, a wheeler-dealer, when really he’s not. Well, he’s ranting at you, telling you hard-luck stories, moaning about his neighbours, his missus, the DSS, and all the others he believes are responsible for his shitty life, and he looks and sounds like he might give you a slap at the slightest provocation. The beer’s flat and the crisps are stale. The Tweenies’ Karaoke Collection is playing in the background. And there’s a bunch of hipsters in the corner “ironically” enjoying the traditional pub ambience, pretending it’s earthy and real and enjoyable.
When in reality, it’s fucking terrible.
[Rating:0]
