In the murky world of pop, timing is everything. With The Killers blazing down the jerky synth-pop path cleared by Hot Hot Heat and stellastarr* and Razorlight and the Ordinary Boys currently bathing in the glow of Franz Ferdinand’s Year Zero, is it too late for Sunderland’s Futureheads to make a wave rather than a ripple?
If only this compact history was released six months ago, the cynics are already muttering, then The Futureheads could have positioned themselves as the untouchable daddies of retro-futurism. Instead, they risk being dismissed as young pretenders snapping at the heels of trend that’s becoming as predictable as the slew of dad rockers that cashed in on the success of Oasis.
Which would be to miss the point entirely, of course. When a band’s touchstone is a period (the early ‘80s) that bristled with both experimental vigour and pop vim, it’s unlikely they’ll be as creatively complacent as Coldplay and Keane. Most importantly, the second this remarkable LP has you within its clutches all preconceptions crumble into dust. Every one of these fourteen tracks flash and disappear like majestic shooting stars, only to leave you gasping in awe and nursing burnt eyes.
Opener “Le Garage” sparkles with tightly-sprung guile, Barry Hyde’s delightful Mackem accent yelping over a kaleidoscope of swaggering harmonies and skipping beats while the neurotic spin and razor-scraping guitars of “A To B” even recalls hardcore toughies Fugazi. Above the rhythmic whirr of new single “Decent Days and Nights” glistens a hook as sharp as Alex Kapranos’ cheekbones and though less oblique, on “Alms” and “Meantime” The Futureheads cut a skirl as jagged, fuzzy and sardonic as Mission of Burma.
Like Glasgow’s Dog’s Die In Hot Cars and the Scissor Sisters, The Futureheads have had enough of po-faced seriousness. “Robot”, a zigzagging, Slits-sing-the-Housemartins hoopla, may be a muse on creeping commodification, the brain-frazzling effect of lust or a simple homage to a child’s toy. Whatever it is, Barry Hyde isn’t caring, stuttering “I don’t mind!/I have no mind!”.
If Franz Ferdinand make music for girls to dance to, only David Byrne or Ian Curtis could wriggle and flail to the scuttling beats and trebly riffs of “He Knows” or “Stupid and Shallow” but The Futureheads’ acid wit, playful exuberance and eccentricity has crafted a debut every bit as distinctive as that of their Scottish contemporaries.
Even if The Libertines do manage to get their second LP out by the year’s end, they, like the Franz, should watch their backs for album of the year.
by Nadine McBay