...a band exuberantly shedding the chunky knit cardigan of post-NAM and clambering to the top of the eclecti-pop tree...
About forty five minutes into the 1,786th date on[a]Mull Historical Society[/a]’s never-ending Craggy Island Tour of the Outer Hebrides (next month Mull rock the Isle Of Egg! Tickets probably free if you own an atlas that includes it!), an alarm suddenly triggers in Colin McIntyre’s head: “AROOGA! AROOGA! YOU’VE HAD A TOP FORTY HIT! COMMENSE ROCK STAR MANOUVRES IMMEDIATELY!” His lip curls, his eyeballs blaze, he grabs the nearest feather boa-clad mike stand, stomps stoutly on the nearest monitor and he IS Freddie Mercury, Lemmy, Sammy Davis Jnr and Dame Edna Everage in one snarling, camp, crooning and quite demented bundle. Welcome, cardholders, to the inaugral meeting of the Mull Hysterical Society.
About bloody time. [a]Mull Historical Society[/a] may be carriers of the Super Furries‘
psychedelic pop flame on record – the children’s choirs! The crack-happy mariachi trumpeters! The battering of xylophones without due care and attention! – but for too long they’ve appeared onstage like Turin Brakes asking if they can come in and sing to us about The Lord. Admittedly we should’ve seen this onset of rabid rock nutterdom coming (the single that finally broke them, remember, concerned an old Olivia Newton-John movie and featured a dog in a wig on the sleeve) but the success of ‘Watching Xanadu’ has been the ECT blast to the temples that’s awoken Colin’s inner Liberace.
Like all the most inspirational bands, The [a][/a]
know that only the musically hobbled are ONLY serious (coo-eeStarsailor!), ONLY cool (grrrowl[a][/a]
!) or ONLY tediously populist (yawn-oTravis
!). So with a ringmaster’s panache Colin hawks us through a veritable carnival: the Pop Rollercoasters (‘…Xanadu’, the Adam Ant stomp of ‘This Is Not Who We Were’ and Jam-ish new single ‘Gravity’), the Soulful Xylophone Waltzers (‘I Tried’, ‘Strangeways Inside’ and ‘Paper Houses’) and the Just Plain Bastard Bezerk Funhouses (“(I)JOIN US! THE MULL HISTORICAL SOCIETY!(/I)” howl the kids off ‘The Omen’ hypnotically as Colin trashes a keyboard and star-jumps bollock-first onto a monitor). The result is a band exuberantly shedding the chunky knit cardigan of post-NAM and clambering to the top of the eclecti-pop tree. The Isle Of Egg won’t know what’s cracked it.