Some may think Leeds’ Pigeon Detectives are a poor man’s Cribs. Maybe so, but only in the same way that Arcade Fire are a poor man’s Radiohead – either way, you’re still on to a winner. Some people also reckon that The Pigeon Detectives’ music is dumb. Some people are idiots. If NME made the rules, then making all your songs three minutes long and throwing in a load of handclaps, shouty choruses and amazing melodies would automatically give you an IQ of at least 353.
Forget ‘dumb’ and try ‘simplistic’. Like the Ramones, The Pigeon Detectives aren’t ones to go messing with a winning formula. Musical ideas? Complex chord sequences? Their name’s not down and they’re not coming in. Frenzied, buzzsaw-riffing indie-pop to adrenalise your Friday night? Step right in, please, and sidestep the snakebite vomit on your way to the dancefloor.
All the songs sound pretty much the same, so there’s no point mentioning any individually. There’s no point reading into the lyrics, either. They’re obviously all about going out, getting completely hammered and lusting after the opposite sex. Walt Whitman it ain’t. But for sheer spirit, they’re the perfect antidote to so many bands’ misguided notions of what innovation actually entails.
Far from being dumb, The Pigeon Detectives are actually following one of pop’s wisest rules: if it ain’t broke, don’t add a bloody string quartet.