Frontman [B]Dylan Willie[/B], a deadringer for [B]Bez[/B] and a man whose diction suggests he's spent too many evenings listening to the [B]Loyd Grossman [/B]of hip-hop, radio's [B]Tim Westwood[/B]
Respect, then, to the Maida Vale massive. Snidey are in the house and, if the video screens behind them are anything to go by, they’re shouting out to their bros in the ‘hood. In, um, the crack-riddled streets of London’s leafy Warwick Avenue, that is. Not that there’s anything wrong with six polite young white guys telling it like it is. It’s just not terribly convincing.
To be fair, this is largely the fault of frontman Dylan Willie, a deadringer for Bez and a man whose diction suggests he’s spent too many evenings listening to the Loyd Grossman of hip-hop, radio’s Tim Westwood. And it isn’t as though Snidey‘s music warrants the kind of expletive-strewn rapping usually found on DMX records.
In fact, it’s the last thing the textbook jungle of opener ‘Wormhole’ requires, and the dinner-jazz interlude that is ‘Son Of Mr Mania’ demands a stern talking to from the Trade Descriptions people. Then, just as we’re about to write them off as nicely trainered beatniks, the violence they’ve threatened us with happens. Tracks like ‘Kennington’ and ‘Penny Pain’ smudge their hip-hop outlines with Theremin swirls and analogue indulgence, while a DJ scratches his signature into the mix.
By now, of course, Dylan‘s face is contorted by sheer emotion. He’s trying to remember if he asked his homies to record Match Of The Day.