I’m a little scared of Super Luxury, I don’t mind admitting. Who, after all, except for the clinically insane, would write a song entitled ‘Ian Mackaye Made So Much Money Out Of Fugazi That He Lives In A Solid Gold House And Drives A Solid Gold Car And He Sits On His Driveway But He Can’t Go Anywhere Because The Wheels Are Made Of Solid Gold’? What’s more, in their sleeve notes, who do Super Luxury choose to thank? Why, Super Luxury, of course. Having recently pored over Jon Ronson‘s book ‘The Psychopath Test’ myself, I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable.
It all starts off harmlessly enough. ’25 Miles’, while undeniably loud and intense, is not THAT far removed from what Black Francis and his fellow Pixies were doing on, say, ‘Rock Music’, and the deliberately distant vocals here are reminiscent of those on ‘There Goes My Gun’. But it’s not that straightforward with Super Luxury, oh no, THEY have to make the vocals sound like a drowning man desperately calling to a passing – but ultimately apathetic – rescue boat.
Add to this the fact that by the time you’ve reached the closing ‘Crunchy Boy’ the band sound like they’ve dowsed themselves in petrol, consequently burning themselves alive, and it all becomes quite terrifying.
I have to come clean and admit I am no connoisseur when it comes to ‘noise rock’, as will become painfully evident to fans of the genre over the next few sentences, no doubt, but it put me in mind, at various stages, of Slayer, Motorhead, Metz, Anthrax, Black Sabbath, The Beastie Boys, AC/DC, Minutemen and Lionel Richie. Oh ok, I admit, that last one was a lie.
Let’s just say anyone who buys ‘Ten Solid Years Of Applause’ on the strength of the cover – which depicts two silver framed photographs of Daryl Hall and John Oates sat atop a Marshall guitar stack, either side of the kind of trophy handed out at a monthly pub quiz – well, they’re gonna be a little flummoxed, to say the least.
I used to have a cat that was petrified if I put anything by Edgar Broughton on. He’d go berserk like a moggy possessed, wildly running up and down the stairs at a speed that would have left Usain Bolt ashen-faced with shame. There’s a touch of Broughton here too, though I suspect if said feline was alive today, Super Luxury would have tipped him over the edge. This band flips the bird with an überfinger, and I’m not hanging around for the inevitable bar fight.
[Rating:3]
