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Blackwell is a modest, unassuming Wirral man of
upper-working-class origin, a Thomas Hardy fan with
an outsized bullshit detector, and a turn of phrase few
could dream of.
In the new album, as per often, he blasts targets near
and far, high and low, not just the obvious pop idle of
celebrity culture, but also his more close-to-home contemporaries.
Always in ‘indie’ but not ‘of’ it; in the past
the alternative music scene has been the chief target of
his ire, (see the immortal ‘Look Dad No Tunes’) but
not so much on this album. As he gets older it seems
to be the general populace around him, ossifying into
idiocy and dullness in middle-age that horrifies him. He
has a pathological hatred of those who’ve got the whole
world in their house to see the new conservatory. This
time he kicks against the pricks “with your Del-boy
impressions and your CORGI-registered friends”.
It’s a mark of Blackwell’s deftness of touch, that he
can describe a professional couple in the Cotswolds
playing pooh-sticks, sharing a tub of gelatine ice-cream,
before skipping gaily off to watch Marianne Faithful at
the Warwick Arts Centre, and, without any abuse, you
know exactly why he hates them so much. It’s like Alan
Bennett possessed by the spirit of Johnny Rotten.
Other topics the album addresses include the sinister
nature of signs advertising vegetable sales on remote
rural roads in ‘Asparagus Next Left’ (“’Oooh rhubarb
– let’s go!!’ / She’s still not been accounted for”) and
an attack on The Libertines for their sloppy quoting of
Scripture in ‘Shit Arm, Bad Tattoo’: (“If you’re going
to quote from the Book of Revelation /Don’t go calling
it the ‘Book of Revelations’ / there’s no ‘s’”).
Musically, the album goes for the mid-paced folkier
edge in general rather than their more rock-out numbers.
As ever, the music is secondary to the words, but
also, as ever, it fits and complements the lyrics perfectly
in that its ramshackle exterior nature belies an expertly
designed structure underneath.
More than in any previous album, the prevailing
themes are cynical disdain for modern societal trends
combined with an apparently genuine affection for the
ambience of small-town England, as in ‘We Built This
Village On A Trad Arr. Tune’ and ‘For What is Chatteris?
(if you’re not there)’:
Car crime’s low
Gun crime’s lower
The town hall band’s CD – It’s a grower
You never hear of folk getting knocked on
the bonce
Although there was a drive-by shouting once
Yet that song also approaches the album’s other
theme, often present but here more than ever; allusions
to intense loss and depression. I do hope it’s not too
autobiographical. The CD’s best track to my mind is
BUY Half Man Half Biscuit music online from and
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