Crud got married last year. No, not to another website, they’re all sworn enemies of ours of course – though we have been making eyes at The Hype Machine quite a lot of late. This writer, specifically, got wed (gifts still gratefully received by the way – safe passage through the Glasto application process on April 1st, anyone?). And knocking together the ents for our evening bash we came to discover that while you might not always get what you want, unless you are either (a) stupid or (b) having the whole thing pay-rolled by OK Magazine, there is no shortage of second best that can be dressed up. Can’t afford the full 4 Beatle tribute band line up? No problem, just take John & Paul for a reduced rate (Ringo by himself did not have an advertised price, sadly). You want The Kinks on a budget? What about a lone man in a suit pretending to be Ray Davies? That sort of thing. And it’s tempting to view band side-projects in much the same light – not exactly the same, but available, there if you want them and probably much cheaper.
Grinderman, however, are no ordinary side-project. Quite the inverse they are. They’re Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds reduced, or receding, which is probably more to the point. They’re lesser in number at least. But dear lord, for a quad of weathered middle aged blokes they sure know how to achieve instant KO, again and again, no sweat. They’re the mafia bosses of garage rock – a little less cocky and reckless than the early years, but certainly not about to go soft and more than familiar with the moves needed to make an impact, blow a hole in your front door and make crude suggestions about your mama (which, given their age they’re probably more likely to follow through on now). This is no indulgence, or rather it is but it doesn’t require any leniency on your part. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds need no modification, but it sure sounds like Cave and cohorts Martyn Casey, Warren Ellis and Jim Sclavunos needed this outing.
It’s surplus fury moulded by the mature gravitas that has become their stock in trade. It’s fitting that this sees light of day at the same time as The Stooges’ utterly pointless recorded return. ‘Grinderman’, conversely, throbs with experience, assured kudos and inevitability, in that it has purpose and nothing in the way of doubt, rather than knowing exactly where each foot will fall with every passing step. There are no shortage of similar, snappy, burgeoning art-punk bands out there (Modey Lemon, Future of the Left and Whirlwind Heat, f’rinstance), but Grinderman are simply firmer, faster, tighter and more intelligently tanked up than the lot. Crucially they also have the poet-laureate of darkness barking out inspired, occasionally hilarious and endlessly unique stanzas and verses like he drank a bottle of absinthe and ran headlong into the Oxford English Book of Insults. How could they compete? Nick Cave is on absolutely devastating form here, even by his standards, and that’s your quality stamp right there.