Scientists have recently proved that there is a recognisable strain of music that only sounds good when you're drunk. Play the likes of Chas And Dave, Status Quo, Denis Waterman and Slade when you're stone cold sober and they'll leave you baffled and slightly scared. But revisit those self-same tunes with a skinful inside you and suddenly they sound like works of genius. Some poor fools (guilty your honour!) have even based a club night on this very notion (www.clubbeer.co.uk).
That's fine for a jokey hobby, but not exactly what you want from Britain's leading political/romantic songwriter. Alas, this album sees Bragg hark back to the dark days between his expulsion from the army and deciding to become a solo artist, when he was the singer of a drab pub rock band called Riff Raff. Anyone who caught the few Riff Raff reformation shows in the late eighties will tell you how utterly disappointing and useless they were. The same goes for this album.
Which is a shame, because theoretically 'England, Half English' should be a fantastic record. To prove how Britain benefits from the influx of immigrant cultures, Bragg has put together a set of songs that are half English and half Armenian/Turkish/Pakistani etc. Sadly for the UK, the indigenous style Bragg favours is a lumpen pub rock that sounds like Ian Dury falling off his bar stool during 'Down At The Old Bull And Bush'. You almost wish there wasn't any English music present at all.
At times, this album sounds like a Hale And Pace parody of Billy Bragg rather than the genuine article. 'NPWA' (that's 'No Power Without Accountability' clever wording, cheers, blah, blah) dredges up cliched images of earnest Red Wedgers getting down to the gruntings of The Commitments. 'St Monday' is a pointless Chas And Slade knees-up about (fight the power!) not feeling like working on a Monday. The title track is a cod ska trundle through Dury's 'Billericay Dickie', while 'Take Down The Union Jack' climbs a tall ladder and pisses on the memory of 'Between The Wars' with some truly clumsy lyrics.0
It's not all bad. This is Billy Bragg, the man responsible for some of the most heartbreaking songs ever written, after all. Yep, there's one good song on here that manages to say something poignant about the notion of national identity. 'Distant Shores' is a restrained, almost folkish lament written from the view of a dispossessed asylum seeker that manages to hit home without resorting to blunt sloganeering. It's up there with 'Tender Comrade' (from 'Worker's Playtime', the Bragg album to own if you want him rocking out with a full band) and puts everything else on here to shame.
As a lifelong Bragg fan, it pains me to type these words, but this is a genuinely dreadful album. A clue to how the mighty could have fallen so far comes with 'The Tears Of My Tracks', where Bragg sings about selling his entire record collection. It would seem he simply stopped feeling passionate about music, certainly not passionate enough to need any vinyl in the baby room. And it's hard not to think of the year Bragg played Glastonbury and berated Bob Dylan for not caring about his lyrics and songs any more. Never thought it would come to pass, but pot meet kettle.
