If, musically, 2002 is to be remembered for anything, it's bound
to be the continuation of the garage rock invasion. Now that the
Strokes are bona fide metars, the Hives are on the verge of
becoming multimillionaires, getting stripped down & back to
basics is de rigueur. Every Tom, Dick & Pelle wants a piece of
the action. That is unless you're The Music - four barely legal
young lads from Leeds with an affection for sprawling,
psychedelic wig-outs & a self-procled quest to bring 'the
groove' back to rock. This may sound a little y, but lest we
forget that the pre-'Urban Hymns' Verve were largely ridiculed
for similar reasons until, three albums in, everyone decided they
liked them all along. EMI. 2002.
.co.uk
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The Music, the much-touted quartet of schoolmates
from Kippax, Leeds, signal their self-titled debut album's
intentions straight from the off. Opener "The Dance", with its
psych-rock swirl intro, a Beatlesque "yeah yeah yeah", and then a
cing, impatient chaos of guitars, drums and dubby effects,
with Robert Harvey howling Robert -ishly about "angels", is
a ridiculous blast of unrestrained noise. The Music are not about
subtlety or coffee-table good taste.
The Music gives a sideways nod to baggy beats and the Stone
Roses' Second Coming ( /exec/obidos/ASIN/B000000OT7/%24%7B0%7D ),
but is mainly a wild, almost desperate mix of Led Zeppelin (
/exec/obidos/artist-search/Led%20Zeppelin/%24%7B0%7D )
blues-metal histrionics, and the stadium end of 1980s alt-rock,
particularly the Chameleons (
/exec/obidos/artist-search/Chameleons/%24%7B0%7D ), the Cult (
/exec/obidos/artist-search/Cult/%24%7B0%7D ) and U2 (
/exec/obidos/artist-search/U2/%24%7B0%7D ). The lyrics are little
more than excuses for Harvey to howl and wail, but the constant
twin-guitar invention of Harvey and Adam Nutter, taking in
everything from bluesy riffs through funky wah-wah to Edge-ish
atmospherics, keep you endlessly guessing and enthralled by their
sheer recklessness. Put simply, it's a breath of fresh air to
hear a British "indie" band who are so unafraid to rock, so
blatantly uninterested in choirboy self-pity, and so almost
comically in thrall to chest-beating Big Rawk. --Garry Mulholland
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BBC Review
----------
The Music are four lads with an average
age so low you have to duck. Amazingly, they have spliced
together a mature, yet energetic collection of songs that are so
slick they might be considered more indigenous to a fifth studio
album than to this, their debut.
First off, ten tracks on an album that spans over sixty minutes.
Do the maths. If you have to use your fingers prepare to save a
suitably low number to wave in the direction of three-minute
snappy pop.
The Music rock out, yet, despite the Led Zep riffing, most stark
on "The Truth Is No Words", and heavy guitar layering, they
resist the temptation to fully regress into "progressive".
This is due to their use of beats and song structuring that
borrows significantly from dance rather than classic rock. The
finished product does at times resemble one of those b-side
re-mixes of straightforward indie tracks by reputedly edgy but
essentially populist techno outfits.
However, it contains none of the embarrassing connotations. With
song titles that include "The Dance" and "Disco", it is far from
surprising that the dance influence is deep set. Indeed, it
appears natural and pivotal at the point of song incarnation much
as it was for The Stone Roses and Primal Scream.
The Music's mature sound can in part be attributed to the
production of Jim Abiss. He has constructed similarly polished
efforts for DJ Shadow and Bjork. It is this smoothness that
perhaps supplies the album's only major downside.
In touring with the likes of Oasis and The Charlatans, The Music
have rapidly acquired a fierce live reputation. The studio
stifling of their live energy and raw edge seems a senseless
waste.
Guitarist Adam Nutter deserves respect both for his endurance of
the inevitable crank "are you A. Nutter?" phone calls, and for
developing a classic rock guitar sound that still sounds fresh
and vital in the 21st century.
The band boasts a rhythm section that punches and lifts Robert
Harvey's vocals in their vibrant, shrieking celebration of joyous
exuberance. The cry rings out "hey little lady, see what you're
missing..." Well, woman, man and beast - if you miss out you have
only yourselves to blame.
Rock music you want to leap about and dance to minus any cynical
crossover contrivance. But what about our shoes? Who will gaze at
them now? --Daniel Pike
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