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Sleaford Mods, A Bunch Of Kunst; plus Norway under disco lights, and more.
How Sleaford Mods won over Northern lads, old punks, uncomprehending Germans and even Iggy Pop. By Andrew Perry.
Sleaford Mods Bunch Of Kunst
MUNRO FILMS, DIR CHRISTINE FRANZ. C/DVD “HOW THE fuck has it got this far?” wonders an out-of-puff Jason Williamson backstage, fresh from wowing the John Peel tent at Glastonbury 2015, “we’re not even a decent fucking avantgarde band, are we?” This, actually, is exactly what Sleaford Mods are, among other things. Initial responses to 2013’s Austerity Dogs pegged the none-moreminimalist duo from Grantham as an unfiltered explosion of ‘working-class rage’ – which is certainly in there, amid the deceptively varied and colourful landscape of street grotesquerie, surrealism and self-questioning angst. That their first movie sets out to be a refusenik DIY anti-rock-doc, with all ‘glamour nonsense’ expunged, is clear from the off, as we see the band’s music brains, Andrew Fearn, warming his socked feet on a feeble heater at their Rubber Biscuit studio. We soon get a similarly opendoor glimpse of the ’Mods writing process, as the pair discuss beat structuring, and Williamson rants the line “brain in the hand of the public demand”, reading from his iPhone notes. Then we’re off in an aubergine VW Polo, joining the three-man Sleaford team – manager/ label boss/ex-bus driver Steve Underwood is the otherwise invisible, spiritually-grounding element – on an early-2015 tour that includes eye-level stage encounters in Blackpool, Wakefield and Scunthorpe. One fabulously sloshed lady in York recalls a comparable Sex Pistols gig in ’77; other punters repeatedly avow SM’s spokesmanship for disenfranchised Britain. On screen, Williamson radiates a contained ferocity, explaining how their success since he quit his job as a benefits adviser has brought welcome breathing space into his marriage. His wife Claire says how, before they were an item, she imagined she’d one day hear Jason had died (in a fight, maybe, or too many drugs). These days, he needs “decompression time” coming off the road: “‘cunt flu’, we call it,” she reveals, her love and understanding transparent, “where he’s just a shit for a week or two. After everybody being like that (awed expression) for weeks, it’s, ‘Now load the dishwasher!’” Williamson’s relationship with Fearn is more elusive. We never see the wonderfully mellow beatsmith actually composing or playing backing tracks, but his regard for Williamson’s side of the bargain is clearly high. “I get the same thing that everybody else gets from it,” he quietly enthuses. “Jason just makes me laugh, but then some lines are so thoughtful and moving.” Towards the end, we witness Sleaford scoffing champagne and pizza as they sign to Rough Trade, to widen their reach. Their potential is underlined in a closing five minutes of love from Iggy Pop, who creases up reading chunks of Williamson‘s lyrics from Grammar Wanker, and marvels side-of-stage in Helsinki. Part Two (AKA Same Old Bunch Of Kunst?) should be a ripping yarn, too.