Dedicated followers of fashion? Leaders of the pack? Some unconfirmed point between the two down to any idea or cultural phenomena suffering an unspecified delay before it can register in Bobby Gillespie’s drug-addled, formaldehyde-sealed medical case study of a mind? Whatever the answer you’ve got to at least give them props for turning a stumbling, mumbling, arm wavering, intoxicated, idealistically clichéd rock and roll fantasy into a reality. This is what many aspire to be; politically motivated, justifiably obnoxious, swinging from the zeitgeist’s chandelier, ever shifting, apparently mould breaking and blessed with longevity. And if the devil has all the best tunes they must have struck a mean deal with the steaming red bastard by getting Mani and Kevin Sheilds – representatives from 2 of the most inspirational and influential UK albums of the past 20 years – thrown into the bargain too. And looking back at that roll call of rock and roll bling, ‘Riot City Blues’ really can’t help but be a bit of a disappointment straight off.
For one it’s brought the idea that they’re renegades without a cause, or a reverse gear, crashing down by reverting most categorically to the most commercially, but least creatively, rewarding portion of their history; the ‘Stones-referencing party blues of ‘Give Out But Don’t Give Up’. This needn’t be a bad move, and though there’s no mistaking the spirit they crave it’s no exact carbon copy. It doesn’t suffer either from being headed up by ‘Country Girl’, their most liberated and hedonistic 4 and a half minutes for many a year, and the closest equivalent to ‘Rocks’ if you want to do a blow for blow quality comparison, mandolin solo and all. But at this point in their history, following the teetering, paranoid, aggressive futurerock of ‘Xtrmntr’ and ‘Evil Heat’, much on here feels a little too feeble, a little too unquestioning, a little too off-the-rack.
The riffs in songs like ‘Dolls (Sweet Rock ‘N’ Roll)’, ‘Nitty Gritty’ and ‘Suicide Sally & Johnny Guitar’ (barely veiled subjects: the Moss & Doherty tabloid double act) are leaden ‘Exile On Main Street’ audition pieces, perfectly fine in isolation, but given the wider context incredibly unadventurous. What Bobby hopes to achieve by tacking on some truly sappy hackneyed lyrics too is a mystery, it’s like they’ve given up seeking definition for themselves with every new step an effort to conform to a blueprint. Only very occasionally does a lyric shot through with venom creep out. Take “she got wasted givin’ head to a priest, the fucker choked on his rosary beads”. Stupid certainly, but more like the Bobby Gillespie we expect.
It’s not all so very conservative. ‘When The Bomb Drops’ sucks up some poison and paranoia and sounds like a more psychedelic The Cult, ‘Little Death’ is close, dark and overbearing, pitching between The Doors and 13th Floor Elevators under a toxic sky and gentle gospel-infused closer has the flavour of Spiritualized resurrecting ‘Screamadelica’s blissful ‘Damaged’. The problem is not their spirit, their spirit will undoubtedly live on undiminished, but a spirit without direction is just a lost ghost. And that’s what this album feels like.