As debut efforts go, it seems to be every rookie band raises the bar a notch, whether it be hype or quality. Fortunately, Kasabian has the kudos to go with the accolades and numerous comparisons. If Bobby Gillespie had spread his seed, his bastard children would probably end up being something like Kasabian. They create songs that are straight talking, dirty electronica, lyrically scything and directly venomous. Even if they aren’t political on their own admission, they’re already shrugging of comparisons to more bands than Michael Jackson has court cases. From the Primals to the Mondays it’s all incorporated, chewed over and delivered with unbridled passion and persuasion, and whatever is recognised in style is not true to substance. Tom Meighans taught ranting delivery has all the blind belief and self assurance of a street preacher, but then that’s exactly what he’s doing.
With lines such as ‘the troops are on fire’ and references to propaganda and war, when they say they aren’t political they’re a) either lying or b)their prowess for metaphors is damn impressive. Opener ‘Clubfoot’ holds the unlocked energy ‘Get Free’ had on first listen, from the opening pounding keyboard chords, to Meighans vigilant claims of a’dirty trick’ there is a distant rumble of climax from the outset. Sure there are album fillers, but the three pronged assault of ‘L.S.F’, ‘Reason Is Treason’ and standout track ‘Clubfoot’ more than merit parting with your cash. ‘Butcher Blues’ is an Air-esque tribute to getting mullered, ‘L.S.F’ sees them at their most Primal, whilst ‘Reason Is Treason’ fuses electronica and guitars to brutal effect (watch and learn Chikinki). Yet, alas, it’s the quality that almost proves its undoing. Album closer ‘U-boat’ is a mediocre offering allowing Meighan to stretch his vocal chords, perhaps his only moment of front man self-indulgence, yet after promising so much promising so much, it’s somewhat of an anti-climax. Instead it’s wistful and drawn out and just for a second belies all the balls and bravado that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in the first place.
It may be more pills than politics, but it would still make Grandaddy Gillespie proud. If they’re the saviours of ‘British music’ miracles have been worked already. A Casio has never sounded so empowering.