Band’s infectious message
Manchester bands all seem to have chips on their shoulders. The Stone Roses, Oasis, The Smiths. They all carried themselves with unshakeable swagger, defiant in their self-belief, and utterly certain of their greatness.
So it is for the newest band to catapult from the north, The 1975.
Such confidence has its own gravitational pull. Notes On A Conditional Form is a sprawling, genre-hopping collection that mirrors the band’s lofty ambitions, musical and philosophical.
From the outset, this band has been clear it wants to stand for something rather than exist merely as a commodity.
The 1975’s albums always start with a song called The 1975, it’s kind of their thing. This time it features climate activist Greta Thunberg delivering a rousing call to arms over a minimal orchestral background.
‘‘It is now time for civil disobedience. It is time to rebel.’’
From Thunberg’s clear, steady mission statement, we launch into power punk one-punch People, before jumping into Frail State of Mind, which has a two-step beat that wouldn’t feel out of place on an early 2000s’ Craig David album. It’s confusing, but it totally works.
Frontman Matt Healy has an insatiable appetite for construction, a creative drive that ensures this busy band keeps evolving, while staying relevant to its (mostly) young audience. Whether it’s sparse, shuffling folk songs, or glittering club pop, The 1975 gives everything to every song. It’s infectious and inspiring.
If you haven’t discovered Sleaford Mods yet, you’re in for a treat. All That Glue isa career-spanning anthology of the most powerful songs from a band that is truly like no other. Electronic punk would be one way to describe it. Or if pretend punk had a baby with hip-hop, but it was raised by its eccentric aunt. Falling between The Prodigy and The Streets, Sleaford Mods has the former’s energy and the latter’s poetic genius. Titles such as Jobseeker, Rich List, Fat Tax and Blog Maggot give a pretty clear picture of what makes Sleaford Mods’ blood boil.
Picture two white guys on stage, both about 50 and one presses play on his laptop then stands there not doing anything else, just nodding his head in support. Meanwhile, the other guy, a human ball of fury thrashes wildly, dancing as if possessed, unleashing embittered rants about working-class life in Britain. Speaking more than he sings, Jason Williamson is one of music’s most engaging performers. Whether sounding off about unemployment, the national health system, or institutionalised inequality, his profane pontifications are always sharp and confronting.