McLusky
McLusky Do Dallas

THE REVIEW

Yes, I know. My first review is a duplicate. The point is that to inaugurate my “active” presence on DeB, I practically felt compelled to give this disc another chance for those who haven't discovered it yet, NOT because I think my reviewing skills are better than those of the user who already talked about it some time ago, but rather because my impression is that it was dismissed as (HORROR!!!) a slightly more rock-ish version of yet another British indie band. Nothing could be further from the truth.

This "McLusky Do Dallas," ladies and gentlemen, is fucking brilliant. Rationally, I wouldn't even know what exactly drives me to love it so viscerally: there are times when you listen to a record and simply hear everything you love about music in it, everything you've always wanted to hear on an album; it's as if before recording it, they had turned to a fortune teller’s crystal ball and made a record just for me. Let's ignore unnecessary biographical information about the band easily found on Wikipedia and focus on the music: the first impression is of finding oneself in a Welsh dive, unhealthy and reeking of stale tobacco (when in the UK it was still possible to smoke indoors, alas), stoned from one damn Guinness too many (there is ALWAYS one beer too many, the one that in the end you could have done without), while a crude lout shouts incoherent phrases in our ears, ones scribbled the night before on a wet Rizla, and his two accomplices "pound" the rhythm section directly into our brain.

The musical proposition, for those in need of objective references, skillfully wanders between rough yet never predictable punk and a no-frills rock foundation that shines with the masterful Albinian production (a guarantee): it’s incredible how a 100% American producer has perfectly captured the atmosphere of such a European record: forget Oasis and the likes, those who live or, like me, have lived in London will recognize from the first two notes played by the McLusky the sounds of England. NOT the British sound, mind you, but precisely those sounds and those harsh cries heard at improbable morning hours during a quiet weekend of fear in SoHo.

One of the peculiarities of “McLusky Do Dallas” is, in my opinion, its ability to convey a sense of imminent danger without ever descending into a true sonic Apocalypse, creating a sense of anxiety mingled with a perverse fun, a bit like waiting at any moment to be charged by a herd of skinheads who until then appear suspiciously docile under the bleachers. And the best part is the disarming ease with which these three rascals from Cardiff manage to create all this almost playfully, with the air of those who aren’t even trying too hard and just want to have fun and entertain. Thus come rapid-fire, oblique references to the Star Wars saga interleaved with boisterous tales (“Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues,” a very nervous opening track), improbable portraits of picturesque characters from the band's circle of friends and drinking buddies (“Gareth Brown Says”: a band that yells at you “your mother is a ballpoint pen thief” CANNOT and MUST NOT be taken seriously) and half-serious revelations about the "amazing" habits of the three Welshmen (“we take more drugs than a funk band on tour,” from the hilarious “To Hell With Good Intentions”).

Yet there are more "serious" moments when they lash out against fake “posers” bands more concerned with look than sound (“Fuck This Band” and "Collagen Rock”) or comment with crystal-clear disillusionment on the conditions of an English society where for survival it has become necessary to strive not to think (“Dethink To Survive”) and the race towards the ephemeral represented by TV and reality show fever (“What We’ve Learned”).

For years now a personal sense of dissatisfaction with more or less all music has led me to behave less like a fan and more like a listener: I no longer have a favorite group (since sooner or later ALL legendary acts make a misstep and disappoint, and that says a lot about the status of music today), only many favorite albums regardless of genre or Author. The musical landscape is full of modest or even mediocre bands that, whether through luck, right timing, or simply because they do their job well without being geniuses, occasionally give birth to small gems destined perhaps to remain unmatched, for better or worse. And maybe that's fairer and more democratic.

In this context, what McLusky offers is an absolutely perfect album from an unlucky band that never benefited from the push of the almighty NME (which, someone pointed out to me, sadly sounds similar to "enemy" in English) and will very likely never make Music History. They quietly disbanded, and two-thirds of the band have already formed Future Of The Left and released a debut: fun, yes, interesting, sure, different, also, but it is NOT “McLusky Do Dallas.”

In short, if you want to know more, this is the album to start with. Indeed, forget about their other two albums entirely and listen only to this one, if only for the pleasure of then being able to tell someone who hurt you in the past “Your heart is the color of Coca-cola.”

LuCa.