OK! So [B]Di[/B]'s still dead and the drugs don't work and the evil [B]Boss[/B]-suited crypto-fascist corporate horror-pig death-machine is slowly but surely turning us all into paranoid androids...
OK! So Di‘s still dead and the drugs don’t work and the evil Boss-suited crypto-fascist corporate horror-pig death-machine is slowly but surely turning us all into paranoid androids but, hey, for fuck’s sake, might as well go out with gritted teeth, a hard-on and a smile, right!? So come on down, unreconstructed riff’n’roll velociraptors [a]3 Colours Red[/a]! Your planet needs you!
The promisingly titled ‘Revolt’ is the lads’ second album – the first having gone down like a cup of cold sick with desiccated dog-shit croutons amongst the rock critic intelligentsia. The problem being, of course, that the Red am what they am and what they am is three not-very-interlecktewall norfern rock blokes (who’d let Mick Shagger shag their bird if he asked politely) plus token swot guitarist Lah-di-da Ben Harding from the Senseless Things. And they make ROCK music that does [I]exactly[/I] what it says on the tin.
For instance: ‘Paralyse’ is Slade shagging Nirvana in The Monkees‘ gazebo on crack. ‘Pirouette’, meanwhile, is Motvrhead ambushing Crowded House with milk-bottle crates full of napalm Molotovs whilst ‘Beautiful Day’ is Yank-radio-friendly, orchestral-string riddled gurly-fuck ‘boo-hoo my bird’s left me’ ballad bollocks that makes the moping Manics sound like Kraftwerk on mind-blowing Nazi crank.
‘Cancel The Exhibition’ eviscerates The Beatles‘ ‘Taxman’ and the good bits of the aptly named ‘Intermission’ rock like all-out FUCK but the shit bits suck like a Dyson on 11. ‘Song On The Radio’ just sucks and the superb dustbin thumping cod-curry house jukebox rocker ‘Paranoid People’ explores an area already well mapped-out by Radiohead, Garbage, Ozzy and [I]The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy[/I], but does so with panache. Phew! Time for a quick breather… ready? OK, [I]LET’S GO![/I]
‘Back To The City’ is this-will-do sub-Wildhearts but ‘This Is My Time’ is – ugh – the utterly predictable and sickeningly lachrymose acoustic whine with bloated shouty bits tacked on that ALL proper RAWK bands HAVE to include on an album in order to crack the Celine Dion market.
‘I Wanna Be Myself’ has the sorta sub-Cobain ‘No, Mummy, I won’t tidy up my room!’ lyrics that pass for devastatingly insightful and intelligent political rhetoric amongst the lobotomised adolescent Yank punk rock community but ‘Calling From The Outside’ frobs, chunders, skids, speeds, stutters, stammers and RULES ([I]despite[/I] the inclusion of a bogawful but mercifully short honkie-reggae bit) and ‘Age Of Madness’ has the sort of lyrics you’d find in the notebook of a psychotic arsonist welded brutally to the music one might expect to be made by a million chimpanzees if you locked them in a giant cement mixer with a loop tape of jet engine noises and enough strychnine-adulterated smack butties to last a millennium.
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To conclude then: bits of ‘Revolt’ are so dumb they should be SHOT! Like a crazed DOG! And other bits are so dumb they’ll make anyone with a heart, a soul and a reptile brain stem scream like an epileptic howler monkey and thrash air-guitar till their fingers explode into a million tiny pieces like overcooked sausages.
[a]3 Colours Red[/a] aren’t the future of anything but ‘Revolt’ is 2,000cc of liquid Prozac mainlined straight into a tiny segment of the left-lobe of the cerebral cortex that early phrenologists prophetically labelled ‘ROCK’. And that’ll do.
So it’s an unbelievable