Good-looking Swedish Marxist punks play maximum rock'n'roll...
So the CIA admits it had enough evidence to capture two of the September 11 terrorists weeks before the attacks, George W Bush concedes he ignored warnings of the possibility of planes being used as weapons, and nuclear conflagration edges ever nearer over Kashmir. Now over to that traditionally insurrectionary sliver of society, the United Nations Of Rock…
“IT’S TIME TO PAR-TAY!” suggests Counsellor WK. “What song called ‘Bomb The Pentagon’?” shrugs Senator Gillespie. “It wouldn’t have been like this in 1932,” whinges Jack White MP, “you could leave your front door open and the postman knew your name…” As the civilised world dances blindly into the fire, rock cowers in the shadows.
Until Sweden spewed out The (International) Noise Conspiracy. They are the riotous effluent from proto-emo politipunkas Refused and they will not be contained by your oppressive totalitarian brackets! They will include lengthy diatribes on the poisonous culture of fear at the core of contemporary capitalism in their sleevenotes! They will sing about “free trade restructuring plans!” and how “we are all sluts, cheap products!” and credit feminist theorist Josephine Donovan, Chomsky, Orwell and Marx where Sting would usually credit his doudouk player! They are Alec Empire lobbing a burning Hives through a Starbucks window on May Day! Time, fellow Trotskyites, to rock the soapbox like we did last summer!
Trouble is, NC‘s second album ‘New Morning, Changing Weather’ is startling and curiously arousing but has nothing fundamentally new to add. The militant rhetoric that charges ‘New Empire Blues’ and the title track is straight out of Atari Teenage Riot’s Guide To Dense And Unreadable Leftiebabble while Dennis Lyxzen’s funky preacherman yowlps suggest that he was brought up in the forests of Wyoming by a pack of wild Ian Svenoniuses.
At their best – on ‘Capitalism Stole My Virginity’ (about being arse-raped by Ronald McDonald, possibly) and recent single ‘Up For Sale’ – NC scrabble tunefully at the coat-tails of (respectively) early Manics and, ahem, Thin Lizzy. And not for the last time – you can practically hear ‘Bigger Cages, Longer Chains’ pruning its rat-tail moustache before dying from smack. For the rest they rely on a chicer-than-thou, Trash-friendly, Dexys-being-eaten-by-mad-rabbits nu garage clatter to carry them through, performed with the kind of desperate, maniacal violence last seen in the Saudi Arabian dressing room at full time.
Yet another Socialist Worker you can’t quite dance to then, but in such braindead days that’s infinitely better than Eminem yacking uncontroversially on about how controversial he is. Again.