The Kaisers’ sophomore album has us questioning our sanity somewhat, which is a reaction, but surely way down the list of preferable impressions. This is undeniably the Kaiser Chiefs, doing what the Kaiser Chiefs undeniably do. It “na na na”s and it “la la la”s and it almost inevitably “ooo-eee-ooo-oo”s. It has beats that could spur the most statuesque to pogo with unconscious glee. There are fun-size guitar riffs jostling playfully with one another. There are lyrics that require little processing, washed and conveniently pre-packed for a good ole sing song at very short notice. And there is more than enough to still keep interest high and the royalties trickling in for early Blur albums (they should probably be on commission). These are all the same reasons that we adored the gall of their cheeky debut, and superficially absolutely nothing has changed, so why is it that we feel little to no emotion for this follow up?
We even dug out ‘Employment’ and pored over it looking for clues, and in spite of it sounding a touch flimsy and not ageing as well as we thought it might (yes, we know it’s only been a couple of years) it’s not hard to see how it charmed us in the first place. The fizzing exhilaration, ravenous creativity and wide-eyed ambition that overrode all that they borrowed. The oft referenced “…woooooooooooooaaaah” build up from ‘Oh My God’ came to be more than just part of a song, it paraphrased all that was hair-raising about them. Logic should have perhaps followed that once the variables that they relied on changed there would be little chance of recreating the magic (and that is clearly what this album aims for, rather than a brave surge onwards). We’d wager that of late they’ve barely submerged themselves in British culture, from which the subject matter and successes of the debut were born, concerning themselves with creating it instead.
And herein lies the main problem; they have little idea of what they’re representing, where that seemed to naturally evolve for them on the debut. They’ve never exactly been high brow, but even so Ricky’s inane lego brick lyrics are embarrassingly uncommunicative, shallow, meaningless, illiterate almost. No effort is made to so much describe anything, to narrate, to guide the listener. It often just seems like punchline-free stand up, no more so than on the lamentable twee ballad ‘Boxing Champ’ sung meekly by drummer Nick Hodgson. Even when an attempt is made to broach actual subjects, with the (ironic?) terrace chant in ‘The Angry Mob’ rallying against follow-the-leader tabloid hysteria, we’re unsure exactly of the moral high ground they preach from, their actual position on the subject or whether its just an easy target they’re after. As far as the music’s concerned there’s nothing to object to, but nor is there much to shout about. Just over.
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