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.
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.
