Caroline Sullivan of The Guardian commented that having Paul Weller as a patron was no guarantee of quality given that he backed London’s similarly non-specific Rifles with much the same passion. And she might also have added that those equally flattering sponsors, Oasis said exactly the same thing about Northern Uproar before they went to Spain and came back taxi-drivers. But we are not backing horses here. We could bang on all day about another punter’s form but if we did we’d also have to accept that both bands got just as wet over Death in Vegas, the Arctic Monkeys and Ocean Colour Scene (discuss). At the end of the day it all comes down to a little of what you fancy – and I’d rather have mi’ old Aunt Maud pissing herself at Harold Lloyd than see a roomful of snotty theatre-goers contrive to bust a gut over some clever punning in ‘As You Like It’. If your leg moves when you tap it with a hammer, it might be no indication of how clever you are, but it sure as hell shows you’re alive.
So anyway, who’s Twisted Wheel? Well here goes. Kids growing up in Oldham (town near Manchester famous for making cakes) absorb the sounds of their Mum and Dad’s record collection, dig The Beatle’s ‘blue’ album, form band with friends from college, get all luvved-up on British Mod-pop, sell-out 600 capacity venues, cause a bit of a ruckus with the local sorts who bomb the stage butt-naked, pass a demo on to Clint Boon of the Inspiral Carpets, who in turn passes it onto Weller, Weller invites them down to record at his studio in Surrey, the band support him at Manchester Academy, play Reading Leeds Festivals and then get enlisted as main support to Oasis in January 2009. And here’s the final draft: a gobby and vigorous debut that combines the shredding pop aesthetic of rocket bands like Stellastarr* and The Features plus the very British punchy belligerence of The Jam. Like the Rifles – only more weaponized.
‘Lucy The Castle’ kicks off with some stuttering, epileptic vocals, a square four-four beat, some muted riffing before exploding into some vaguely psychedelic freak-out. It doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t have to. It’s the band’s own ‘Wonderwall’ moment – only turned up to eleven. Heard it all before? Well who hasn’t? Does having sex once in your teens disqualify you from shagging for a lifetime? Does having a small bread snack at lunchtime exclude you from pigging out on Pizza for tea? Of course it doesn’t; some joys are just worthy of repeating. Supergrass proved that in ’95 and Twisted Wheel are doing their best to prove the same thing here. The record’s success is really rather simple: choruses erupt like molten rock from the band’s signature feral riffing and the general, boozy chaos of tales about having no butter for your toast, no washing powder for your clothes, fucking up the system, and generally pissing the best part of your weeks wages up the proverbial wall. It’s a beefy meat and two veg with all that customary punk oomph and an anger that’s difficult to source. It’s not original – far from it, especially when Jonny starts ‘painting pictures of life’ straight out of the Pete Doherty and Alex Turner handbook as he does on wriggly and excitable ‘Sheila’ and the thrashing surf convulsions of ‘One Night on the Street’. Bleak, domestic nightmares and hard life stories. Dodgy folk doing dodgy things at dodgy times of the day with plenty of dialect and an accent you could race pigeons on. ‘Bouncing Bombs’ reclaims Weller’s ‘That’s Entertainment’ with four pounds of chip pan grease and a good solid dose of George Formby – but the job’s a good ‘un.
The observational commentary isn’t as sharp as say Alex Turner and his prickly, acerbic Monkey men but even gassing about sun cream, painful blisters and school canteens raises the bar on the likes of Just Jack, even if it fails to make any kind of lasting impact.
A breath of fresh air, yes, but not life-support. And that’s okay
TWISTED WHEEL ~ ‘TWISTED WHEEL’ reviewed by Crud Magazine, released 13.04.09.