Let's hope there's intelligent life out there, 'cos there's fuck all here tonight...
The Boho Sub Band are an untidy-looking seven-piece with an even messier grasp on the idea of ‘groove’. The fashion victim skinhead singer who goes under the name of Sy has a megaphone, a tambourine and a thing that goes “BOING” occasionally. Add a birdcage and they could be Regular Fries. In their dreams.
There is such a tangible aura of desperation about The Boho Sub Band that it’s almost tragic. Signed to Mercury records, they epitomise the majors labels’ continuing obsession with bandwagon jumping – in this case that grimy brand of skunk-funk plied by the Fries and Campag Velocet that briefly seemed like the future for a couple of weeks in 1998. Shuffling Happy Mondays beat? Check. Band member who appears to have no purpose? Check. Possibility that the band have smoked the odd joint? Oh gosh, yes.
On and on they trawl for an achingly long 25 minutes. They make the great crossover from rock to funk and finally to blinding tedium before even [I]they[/I] realise they’ve run out of ideas and finish with ‘Same Old Shit’ (they’re nothing if not an easy target) which sounds like Manfred Mann playing the theme to [I]Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life[/I]. And to misquote that particular song, let’s hope there’s intelligent life out there, ‘cos there’s fuck all here tonight.