Album review: THE MOBBS "Piffle!" [Cravat]

Fourth album in six years, chaps? You can't knock their effort. Especially, as this album attests, the accolade they usually receive amounts to "not a sausage". 

It this album doesn't give them the trio the kudos that's so far eluded them then it's not fault of their own: they still have the chops to make zesty, energetic, funny, socio-political songs utilising the noble weapons of guitar, bass and drums.

The production here is more polished/less tinny than on previous efforts and it certainly crystallises focus on their inherent qualities, of which there are many: the guitar solos, the witty one-liners, the simple-yet-complex song structures that keep the listener returning for more.

Like all great rebels that hum their own tune, not a lot changes in their world: the template is still Medway style garage-punk with some Buzzcocks-style new wave pop nous. Featuring their best collection of songs yet, the rhythmic bounce of the last album 'Garage Punk For Boys' is still present, and as live entertainers it arguably puts them in the same sort of league as King Salami & The Cumberland 3 (though no doubt losing on penalties - after all, who is better than the finalists of 'Britain's Best Part-Time Band'?)

You could psycho-analyse the words in here all day long. Let's have a closer look at those on the Kinksian rattler title track:

Rock'n'roll is dead/we've all lost our cred/you stand there all dead-eyed/while we scream out what's inside
We released another song to the dead-end local kind of pointless waster tosser wanking off their lives
This is useless/this is drivel/endless endless endless endless piffle
Dubstep is all you children taste/bling wigs flashing gold until you've sold out  
Punk rock means FA/it certainly does not pay/why don't we give it up/Needless hopeless empty words
This is useless/this is drivel/endless endless endless endless piffle

Self-hatred, frustrated artistic endeavour; impatient with small minds, and small town ennui: it's all there and more, pouring forth like soapbox bile from the sharply-dressed Joe B.Humbled. Yet, on the other hand, they make their own beer. So they are cultured pleasant chaps, it's just that they hate you.

'Mojo Degradation' kicks proceedings off in some style, The Bishop on bass working his best chops to smash it royally up in competition with his compadre Cheadle on drums. 'Taste The Truth' displays nimble movements between verse and chorus; funky and agitated in equal measure. 'No Sympathy' could be The Specials' if you squint hard enough. The furious rage of 'I'm Estranged' would get festival crowds going (well, perhaps not; see above lyrics). 'Matador' is the album's fabulous mid-point instrumental turn; a sea of churning riffs with the Flamenco flavour the title suggests. 'Little Miss Hard Of Hearing' has the Bo Diddley beat  down pat, but it seems strangely lightweight sat next to the other material. 'Not A Sausage' is the sort of grumpy old man complaint rock that Sir Billy Of Chatham would not doubt heartily approve of - it does raise a knowing smile as well as set a foot tapping.

It's all over rather quickly, just as all good rock'n'roll should be.

Stop reading, watch the video, go buy [for the title is ironic].

www.themobbs.co.uk
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