Sleaford Mods At Spanky Van Dykes, Nottingham

I don’t go to as many live music events as I once did, but occasionally, something comes along that seems too interesting to miss.  One such was a recent, performance by Sleaford Mods in their home base of Nottingham.  They’re an act on whom immense praise and journalistic attention has been heaped in the last year or two, and I’ve even succumbed to the odd tweet on the subject myself.  Their two most recent albums, ‘Austerity Dogs’ [1.] and ‘Divide And Exit’ [2.] have both intrigued and entertained me in recent months, but not without a vestigial fear that it all might just turn out to be an elaborate prank.  It many respects, they seemed too good to be true, - itself an indictment of our sad times.

Sleaford Mods: Andrew Fearn (Left), Jason Williamson (Right).  Nice Backdrop, By The Way.

For anyone still unaware, Jason Williamson and Andrew Fearn deliver a stripped down and highly distinctive variety of British ‘rapping’ (ranting might be a better term) with a distinctly, Punkish backing.  Over Fearn’s crunchy, rough-edged instrumental tracks, Williamson delivers streams of foul-mouthed and barbed satire, full of parochial East Midlands references, autobiographical dissatisfaction and seething anger at the state of British society; but plenty of humour also.

In the grand scheme, ‘next big thing’ might be an overstatement, but there’s no doubt that Sleaford Mods are a real tonic for those who pine for the D.I.Y. spirit of Punk, the raw, visceral thrill of an energetic, unmediated performance, righteous anger at society’s madness, or indeed, plain old-fashioned sincerity.  Phrases like “the best thing for ages” and “most important band currently working” have littered the online music press, so it seemed only polite to see them in action, if only to dispel any lingering suspicions of ‘Emperor’s new clothes’ that might remain [3.].

Any doubts over Sleaford Mods being the real deal, are dispelled as soon as you see the two distinctly dodgy-looking geezers involved.  Fearn’s gaunt, vaguely haunted features speak of a life somewhat too thoroughly lived, although there’s genuine warmth when he smiles, (which he does quite a lot).  Williamson cuts a stockier, more pugnacious figure; palpably pissed off in his manner, and definitely someone you’d avoid getting into an argument with.  If a 'crew'  they are, it’s of the kind that Shane Meadows might envisage.

Despite all the attention, their grass roots credentials and lack of starry affectation still appear to be perfectly intact.  Spanky Van Dyke’s is an appropriately intimate venue and minutes before their set, Fearn was standing at the upstairs bar chatting with the punters [4.].  The performance commenced once he simply moved onto the stage, pulled his laptop from a rucksack, booted up and pressed ‘play’ on the first backing track.  Simultaneously, Williamson stepped to the microphone, and launched straight into a fierce stream of deranged invective, without hesitation or anything as irrelevant as a greeting or introduction [5.].

Photo: Nottingham Evening Post

Such a direct approach demonstrates that, despite any superficial air of apparent dysfunction, these two are really all business, and that their recent, extensive touring has given them a very keen edge.  Williamson hit his stride immediately, delivering his words with machine-gun rapidity and unerring accuracy.  On slower pieces he twisted his enunciation into intriguingly surreal shapes, ad-libbing, circling the microphone and almost biting the head off it on occasion.  His gurning and compulsive head rubbing suggest that the torrent of swearing and outrage might result, in part, from an actual Tourette’s condition.  If so, he has it harnessed to excellent effect: if not, - I owe him an apology.  Either way, it’s a neat trick to embody such levels of seething dissatisfaction whilst retaining such tautness of delivery. I was particularly impressed by his unerringly ability to stop a piece dead on the last beat, again and again.

Fearn himself spent much of the gig observing both his colleague and the audience from his customary position at the back of the stage.  His own performance involved little more than periodically selecting the next sound file, pulling on a can of Red Stripe, and dancing in a self contained manner.  He is, however, a compelling visual presence, and his rapport with the audience was cemented when he pulled out his camera to grab a photo or two.  Mostly, he seems happy to just be there.

F,F, Full-On Fulmination

Some might be cynical about the lack of live musicianship involved but I like the honesty of his approach.  It’s an unashamedly contemporary mode of music delivery and feels far more honest than pretending to be somehow ‘playing’ the laptop.  It’s also the case that Fearn’s main contribution has already been made before the actual event, and I see no reason why he shouldn’t be physically present at its playback.  His tracks may betray a bare bones aesthetic, but they bustle along effectively and are not without their occasional subtleties.  He’s adept at punctuating his basic rhythms with textural accents and occasional, minimal stabs of fragmented melody [6.].

Of course, the success of any live act really depends on whether the experience on the night is sufficiently involving to render superfluous any commentary or analysis, (guilty).  Sleaford Mods certainly fitted that bill in Nottingham, and it was more than possible to enjoy the general sense of communal release they engendered.  Indeed, I suspect that might be how they would prefer to be assessed.  If their main function were only to act as a simple pressure valve in dark times, it would still be a job well done.

Nevertheless, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that, if this music is really about anything - it’s Williamson’s words.  The sound balance was quickly sorted, allowing his lyrics to remain audible within his barked delivery and the overall barrage of sound.  It was possible to remember that, alongside from the stream of expletives and a bemusingly high count of toilet gags, are numerous pithy one-liners, barbed observations and clever word-plays.  The standard comparisons are with John Cooper Clarke, or the early work of Mike Skinner as The Streets, and there is even a precedent for rapping in an East Mids. dialect, in the form of Coalville’s novelty rapper MC Pitman.  There’s also an analogy with Mark E. Smith’s work with The Fall too, I think.  Both Williamson and Smith share a defiant provincial identity and an ability to twist the vernacular into intriguing new forms whilst maintaining a sardonic and seemingly unassailable, ‘Fuck You’ attitude.  Mostly though, Sleaford Mods just sound like themselves.

Jason Williamson.  Photo: Nottingham Evening Post

As he admits, Williamson’s life hasn’t always been lived on the most stable terms, but his is, at least, a genuine voice from the streets.  The often chaotic events he describes, - the conflicts, patchy employment history and seedy descents into the low-grade weekend leisure economy, are probably little different from those experienced by millions of others for whom Capitalism now has seemingly little use.  His is (or has been), a world of uncomfortable public transport, cheap drink, adulterated drugs, food of little nutritional value, constant friction and endless boredom.  A borrowed fiver is the most useful unit of currency in this situation.  His perspective is that of so many for whom ‘working class dignity’ or meaningful employment are so seldom available today, and yet who are expected to consume the routine insults to person or intelligence that are doled out to them and be grateful.  These are the people who populate every town and city in vast numbers; who still have valid opinions and an often feral wit but, rarely a voice to represent them, (let alone one in their own dialect).

Seen from this perspective, and assuming this is the nearest thing to an accurate state of the nation address that’s available at the minute, Williamson’s poo-poo and wee-wee fixations may actually be an appropriate filter through which to view Thatcher’s/Cameron’s/Johnson’s Britain.  It may even hint at a secret wish many of us harbour in our darker moments that the whole lot be flushed away once and for all.   Certainly, it’s a delight to hear someone stand up and get all this stuff off their chest without compromise or respect for the sensibilities of the privileged or fashionably aspirant.

Pieces like ‘Jobseeker’, ‘The Wage Don’t Fit’ and ‘Fizzy’ all illuminate a world of zero prospects and exploitative employment, with the latter reserving particular ire for the middle manager with fitted shirt and a penchant for young girls.  When not critiquing such situations, Williamson often hands out a good telling to the scenesters and sell-outs of a contemporary music scene where the pursuit of career always trumps any kind of originality or artistic honesty.  ‘Showboat’ would be an obvious example of this with its refutation of the rule, “move to London”.  I suppose all this could be dismissed as industry envy or just plain bitchiness, but I prefer to see it as evidence that, he may be at heart a good old-fashioned romantic, simply yearning for an ounce of integrity in a disappointing, commodified world.

Having fulminated in such a manner just long enough in Nottingham to sate their audience’s appetite, Fearn and Williamson delivered one final encore, then got ‘aaht ov it’.  Beyond a simple thanks and a grudging housekeeping announcement, little else was said.  The music had already spoken for them more than adequately.  They may come on like a face full of fetid toilet gas, but the gig proved that they are really a much-needed breath of fresh air.

[1.]:  Sleaford Mods, 'Austerity Dogs', Harbinger Sound, 2013

[2.]:  Sleaford Mods, 'Divide And Exit', Harbinger Sound, 2014

[3.]:  I’ll confess, I’m also rather taken with the idea of something really significant originating from my home county of Lincolnshire as, (despite their status as a Nottingham band), Fearn and Williamson both originally do.  The last time this happened, it was Margaret Thatcher, - and look what a disaster that was.  Williamson himself hails from her home town of Grantham and, ironically, much of the white working class disenfranchisement and disillusionment he expresses, can be laid directly at her door.

[4.]:  Amusingly, the event ticket was designed to resemble a betting slip from Coral, the Bookmakers.

[5.]:  In many respects Sleaford Mods might be said to embody Robert Fripp’s old vision of ‘a small, mobile unit of intelligence’, although I’m sure they’d have little truck with his artistic affectations or cerebral demeanour.

[6.]:  It transpires that Andrew Fearn has amassed an impressive back catalogue of solo projects, much of it under the name of Extnddntwrk.  Exploring various modes of electronica and sound design, this is available on Bandcamp, (for free in several cases), and is well worth checking out.