on life, music etc beyond mainstream

2015 1 Aug

Sleaford Mods shout a song and attack their instruments

von: Manafonistas Filed under: Blog | TB | 3 Comments

Free money, mate. just fill in the form and if you can’t I can help you
Put yourself in the queue and I’ll come out to you
Job rocker, no sweat, passport, national insurance document
Is it right to analyze in a general sense the capital machine
Its workings and what they mean
Passive articles on political debate
Its implications are fucking meaningless, mate
Really we get a hole, fill it up, make it bigger
After about a fucking year throw you back in
This is the nature of everything alive
Kill yourself trying to crawl out of the dive
Everyone spits at you, even your wife
No skunk, I need to be pissed up to smoke that shit
You cunt


New build, new bricks
New methods, old tricks
Enchantment on the high seas
Nick Clegg wants another chance, really?
This daylight robbery is now so fucking hateful
It’s accepted by the vast majority
In chains years from now
Who’s that tit?
Don’t matter who that tit is
He’s still with us
In our arses, in our food, in our brains and in our death
In our failure to grab hold of what fucking little we have left
We have lost the sight and in the loss of sight
We have lost our fucking minds, alright


Dead in the air, choking on work air
It’s now accepted to fill your role with illness
It’s accepted, no vetting
No roles overlooked in times of outside circumstances
The ventilation is laced with hopeful sycophants
On a cash promise dicing with the death of a dead promise
Boris on a bike, quick knock the cunt over
The man of the people is now a man with no temples
Blood falls out of his head like policy
In the fucking U-turn department
The ark carries the rich each room reserved for the niblet
Lords of the acre, owners and fucking piss-takers


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  1. Michael Engelbrecht:

    Face To Faces is from their new album KEY MARKETS.

  2. Michael Engelbrecht:

    A resounding, bitter corrective to the pleasureland fantasies of modern R&B pop and the empty braggadocio of hip-hop clichés, Key Markets may be one of the year’s emblematic albums.

    I’m reminded of Thatcher’s Loadsamoney Eighties, when new romantic foppery disguised the harshness of dead-end, dole-queue Britain – a parallel that Sleaford Mods’ Jason Williamson and Andrew Fearn won’t allow to resurface without due protest. The latter’s backing tracks are minimal and unornamented, little more than a pounding bassline lashed to a pulsing beat, lending a propulsive momentum to Williamson’s verbals that drives home the tidal wave of disgust.

    Williamson is a ranter driven by sheer splenetic rage, filtered through a sensibility that cuts the contempt with a hard, merciless humour. The results are scalding excoriations of modern life and its iconic figures, from Boris Johnson wielding a brick at a Tory conference, to “fine cheese made by that tool from Blur”.

  3. Michael Engelbrecht:

    Cover for Sleaford Mods‘ Key Markets He can be laugh-out-loud funny, as when razoring a Nottingham rock’n’roller’s rebel pretentions – “You live in Carlton, you twat/ You’re not Snake fucking Plissken!” – and he can be more subtly humorous, too. “Alienation? No one’s bothered!” he blurts at one point, a rather witty joke.

    But the humour is simply a sweet veneer to enable his harsher truths to hit home, whether it’s his denigration of the bourgeoisie in “Bronx in a Six” (“All you chinny wine-tasters die in boxes like the rest of us wasters”) or the nihilist extremity with which he parses Marx in “Face to Faces”: “This is the nature of everything alive/ Kill yourself trying to crawl out your dive/ Everyone spits at you, even your wife”.

    “Giddy on the Ciggies”, whose scuttling metallic groove carries perhaps the album’s most depressing sermon: “I know people care/ We all fucking care/ But care don’t dare, it don’t even scratch the surface”. Care? Not in this community.

    Andy Gill, review in two parts, The Independant

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