This is probably the dumbest record of the last few years but, trust me readers, I mean this in the best possible way.Truly dumb pop revels in kicking down the barriers of perceived good taste and received wisdom, creating something of true value. Think early Ramones, the first Kills album, the Modern Lovers and you’re not far off with The Pocket Gods.
The vital ingredients of this album are paeans to the weekend, music as a vital source of living and failed attempts to get laid, sung by boys and girls over booming drums and the dirtiest of riffs. ‘Sussex’ and ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’ are mini-manifestoes driven along on primal playing while ‘Weekend Revulers’ (sic) is a quirky, keyboard driven song, awash with odd changes and lines such as ‘Don’t remember much about Friday night / Met some girl / She turned out the light / Woke up naked and bound’. Yep, we’ve all been there, sort of. The Pocket Gods make this all sound so tempting. ‘Jambal Party’ has a filthy Cramps style rockabilly riff and brutal drumming topped off by a female vocal that is part invitation, part threat. ‘Soldiers Of Love’ is my favourite. It begins with a deceptively sweet, gentle tune, reminiscent of the early Pastels, but, like those Glaswegian troubadours, it’s a candy coated front for some low grade filth (I mean, for goodness sake, did anyone who ever tagged The Pastels ‘twee’ ever listen to the lyrics? Pervs to the core, every last one of ‘em!) The Pocket Gods don’t bother beating around the (metaphorical) bush. A male voice declares ‘Lick my love pump baby’ to which the female responds ‘I’m licking your love pump baby’ and the powerplay is all in the boredom and ennui in her voice as she gradually subverts the male point of view ending in both protagonists confessing that ‘it’s all gone a bit floppy’ as the song climaxes with some filthy guitar and the worst simulated orgasm since the Vaselines assault on Divine’s ‘So You Think You’re A Man (But You’re Really A Boy’. The vocal interplay is absolutely fantastic, male arrogance taken down a peg or ten in such a subtle, hilarious way. And all in a three minute song that has the temerity to mention pearl necklaces…
‘Telstar Gurl’, ‘Shark’ and ‘VVBud’ are grubby, deranged garage punk rumbles, the first an ode to playing in a band as warped genius as The Pocket Gods with its cool couplet ‘living in a fucked up land / Playing in a fucked up band’ as neat a sumnation of the bands ethos as I can find. ‘Oily Smooth Penetration’ battles with a monster psychedelic punk rock riff and wins on points as does the oddly titled ‘Sandringtonsput’ with its soaring guitars and weird lyrics. ‘Ballad Of The Peshwari Nan’ is a breezy, fucked up song with mad guitars and rushes to its climax/collapse in a manner that reminds me of early Cornershop. And just when you think things just can’t get any dafter or more fun we get a very early (or late) festive song in ‘Jombal Bells’, including sleigh bells an infectious riff and the immortal line ‘It’s Christmas time and I’m pissed again’. The campaign to make this a festive number one begins here!
‘Devastation Duvet’ is an ode to sex lives that seem as messy and disordered as The Pocket Gods music, all filthy disorder and chaos as a sweet female vocal sings ‘It’s another morning in devastation duvet / And I can’t remember what happened last night’. ‘My Next High’ is sweet and hopeless, poignant in a way that only Royal Trux in ‘Junkie Nurse’, another tribute to getting wasted, managed. There’s no sense of self-pity, just a sense of hopelessness in being fucked up and a sense of hope that it will all happen again soon – ‘Another day I cross off my bedroom wall’. It’s a largely acoustic song, gorgeous and moving but just in case you’re starting to worry that The Pocket Gods are getting all serious on our asses the album ends with the 21 seconds of nonsense that is ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’.
I’ll end on another caveat. While wholly sticking to my assertion that this is a truly brilliant dumb album, it is a dumb record with a seriousness of intent and purpose. There’s a real sense of joy contained within the fifteen songs here, a love of music and life that fly in the face of po-faced bands full of ‘attitude’ and studied ‘coolness’ who, on analysis, have absolutely nothing to say. The Pocket Gods dissect rock ‘n’ roll in the way that the Jesus and Marychain did with their ‘I Love/Hate Rock ‘n’ Roll’ tracks on the immensely underrated Munki album and show us that, in the right hands it can be reanimated, alive, kicking and screaming and thumbing it’s nose at the arbiters of good taste. The Pocket Gods serious? As serious as your life. You Bet!