The album slams wide open, no fuss; 6 straight seconds of ribcage-raking feedback, about the same of unblinking ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ drums and then a bass-line that drags you in by your hair and sullies you deliciously. It’s that irresistible moment the pub door swings open and you’re swallowed by a blast of hot air, that textured amalgamated mash of sound and smell, a first taste of everything that inevitably lies ahead; Friday night, Saturday evening, a lost Tuesday afternoon, whenever and wherever seems familiar to you. And it’s not these 15 seconds alone that validate that enduring recollection, it’s that it really does turn out to only be the beginning. You’re in the company of The Long Blondes tonight; things might seem familiar, but they will not be the same.
They’re sort of like your normal friends, only thrice as racy, more intelligent, better dressed and far prettier, from every angle. Yes, you could hate them for that, but you won’t. Believe us. Their experiences are exactly the same as yours you see, only with all the filler taken out, wearing better make-up, acting under artfully placed neon strips, shot like classic film noir. Like all great pop it entertains reality, but remains simultaneously out of its reach. Like life, only better framed. So welcome to Sheffield 2006, or at least welcome to an artful exaggeration of Sheffield 2006.
There seem too many things to love about The Long Blondes, not least the fact that they’ve shunned the shortcuts available in favour of doing things the ‘old fashioned’ way. Their rapidly gathering success is surely owed to the ‘Myspace effect’ as much as a thousand loudmouth actor’s daughters, but you won’t hear about that, because there’s already a story to be told here – no boardroom strategy meeting required. They’ve quietly and independently amassed possibly the sharpest, most exclamation-packed run of singles so far this century, only recently chucking in the day jobs having taken time off to fit in such quirks as collecting an NME Radar Award and flying to New York to play gigs. Whether it’s that, coordinating their nails with their outfits or ramming as much styled discord into a square 3 minutes, everything about them screams GRAFT!
Love them you must. This is 30 years of new-wave guitar pop; excited, refined and amplified. Take the sullen seductive glint of good Blondie wired up to the tight mechanics of Franz Ferdinand on the re-recorded disco magnificence of ‘Giddy Stratospheres’, the unpretentious retro discipline of Pulp and slouched delinquency of Elastica combined on fast forward on the tremendous ‘Swallow Tattoo’, and Siouxsie and the Banshees with underlying Human League shimmers at a 50s dance-off on smoldering centerpiece ‘You Could Have Both’. This is a band who seem to thrive endlessly on the static of their undimming, restless energy. There is no let up. There are always kinks, creases and surprises.
All of these are headed up, or rather led on a leash, by Kate Jackson who with a razor-like range fires out pointed monologues cultured with references you probably won’t get (“like CC Baxter in Wilder’s Apartment…”), references you will (“…sponsored by Desperate Housewives”), but always full of palpable drama, urgency and deadpan wit. Her way with words is elegant, debonair. Her messages can be barbed, but never vicious, always considered. She makes them feel exclusive, but almost accessible. Let’s not mistake them for one of us. They’re just a bit better than that. And let’s not mistake them for one of them either. They’re a clear cut above anything comparable released this year.