Mekons
The Quality of Mercy Is Not Strnen

 A curious title for the LP debut of one of the most bizarre bands spawned by the British new-wave of the late '70s: after all, people who, by mocking none other than the untouchable Clash, sang "Never Been In A Riot" (in an era when the streets of the United Kingdom were daily flooded with protesters of every hue), really had no use for slogans; and so a phrase like "The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strnen," pronounced by a group that certainly did not shy away from denouncing the imbalances generated by the socio-political mechanisms that direct people's lives, does not sound like a renunciation of activism and a consequent immersion in disengagement, but rather as a conscious choice to adopt a caustic and extravagant approach, aimed at sensitizing people's consciences without resorting to formulas so overused that they no longer have any effect.
 Six musicians expertly masking class, taste, and inventiveness beneath a precarious post-punk, drawing upon the essential minimalist lessons of Wire, the lurching dances of the Fall, and the fragmented funk-punk of Gang Of Four (from whom, for the occasion, they've pilfered the instruments). Two singers, not particularly gifted, but perfect in their roles (Andy Carrigan and Mark White), two guitarists perpetually out of sync (Kevin Lycett and Tom Greenhalgh), and a rhythm section proficient in crafting the most grotesque tempos (Ross Allen on bass and Jon Langford on drums, the generous and enterprising leader of this ramshackle "gang of six").
 The spirit of '77 survives in tracks like "What", a neo-mod number that, with handclapping, fervor, and snatched melodies, beats the Jam on their own turf; "What Are We Going To Do Tonight", with a call'n'response so uncoordinated it could almost belong on the first Circle Jerks record; and "Dan Dare", in the vein of the Clash, but with a more playful attitude. For the rest, we're in the territory of a genuine new-wave, exemplary in evoking with few and humble means the most disparate moods: the indolence of "Trevira Trousers", lively as the grayest of afternoons, with the clock hands seeming to move in slow motion; the exact opposite of "Join Us In The Countryside", an anxiety-provoking progression that crashes disastrously into a frayed ending. Then there's the disgust that miraculously becomes elegy in the chameleonic "Watch The Film", an admirable reportage of a boozy night at the pub, amidst outbursts and collective euphoria. The most tender moment of the record is "Rossane", with its fractured tempos, a voice not devoid of a certain slyness, and above all that impressive guitar work, appearing first imperceptible, then vehement, eventually launching into instinct-driven paths and melting into sweet detunings. Torn between gentle resignation and the impulse to survive, as heartfelt as it is rhythmic, is "After 6", another excellent ballad gathering the ambivalent moods of that and every other era, while "Lonely And Wet" attempts a card of fatalistic drama, but since Andy Carrigan is neither Patti Smith nor Tom Verlaine, one settles this time for the aurea mediocritas. No matter, because what gives the expressive stature of this small classic of underground British rock is "Beetroot", which is to say: Television kidnapped from their dusty New York abode and suddenly tossed into a backwoods dive. Poetry and epic of the everyday, with no shadow of the intellectualism often reproached of new-wave artists.