The Twang - Love It When I Feel Like This

It’s ironic that just as Tony Blair shuffles out of Downing Street, eulogy and insult ringing equally in his ears, the Twang’s debut album hits the shelves. Blair swept into power in 1997, riding a well-manipulated wave of ‘Cool Britannia’, Noel Gallagher and a subsequently quite miffed Damon Albarn dragged along for the photo-shoots and the step into a brave new era.

A decade on, false dawns and broken promises have led to Jarvis Cocker lamenting that ‘cunts are still running the world’, no self-respecting rock star would be seen dead hugging Call Me Dave Cameron, and the Twang are finally sounding the death knell for Britpop.

It was hard to see how much further the ‘indie revival’ could stumble, but when the Twang are seen as The Next Big Thing, we should all surely know its time to pack up and move on. The world does not need another Ocean Colour Scene.

Even the title, though, does not bode well for the Twang’s ladrock credentials, Love It When I Feel I Like This suggesting a Ronan Keating b-side more than a swaggering, posturing nod to the days when we all wanted to live like common people.

Opener Ice Cream Sundae rhymes ‘sundae’ with ‘fun day’ (seriously) before diving into a typically Be Here Now-era Oasis ditty about having it my own way or some such. Vocals sound like a bad Brummie impression of Ian Brown. With a sore throat.

Wide Awake keeps you anything but, except for the unstoppable guffaws upon hearing them sing about ‘milfs’ who are ‘filth.’ The mainly soliloquy The Neighbour is an awful deluge of blandness, except when they swear a bit cos they’re all hard ‘n’ that. Its often the case throughout the LP that the only thing setting the Twang out from Magic favourites like the Feeling is their contrived foul mouths. Their lyrics consistant in their awfulness, ‘cat sat mat’ rhyming structures not even worthy of the ‘sixth form poetry’ insult. ‘Funny’ with ‘money’, ‘home’ with ‘alone’, it goes on and on, and there’s no saving grave musically, as it remains insipid and tiresome; say what you will about Oasis, and I usually do, but their early 90s catalogue at least includes some memorable tunes. Twang efforts like Push Away the Ghosts achieve no such thing, which is nigh-on impossible when you’re stealing half of the bassline from Gary Numan’s infectious Cars. Loosely Dancing continues the 90s feel, but only in reminding you of Five.

If the album starts bad, by the time you reach closers like Two Lovers and Got Me Sussed, time appears to have stopped. Reap What You Sow is about a party or something. I think. Moving your body and all that. Not that you would move anything to any of this. If you want to party like its 1996, this may be your bag, but that’s only if all of the parties you attended in 1996 were mind-numbing affairs filled with over-reaching Brummies.