If this was the worst record the world had yet to hear this year it would obviously still have half the globe’s pale-faced indie kids dribbling like limp geriatric canines in damp anticipation. Lounging in the deep-red leather producer’s chair is (*drum roll*) a man called Jack White, while tinkering with knobs and the like behind the glass, in his own studio with a touch more modesty, is songwriting bud Brendan Benson. And then on the one day Brendan couldn’t make it Dave Fridmann popped around to fill in. Can you believe the luck? That’s the kind of combination that could reverse a drought we think you’d agree. Perplexingly there’s no obvious link with their myriad of star associates as such, though the electrodes-on-the-nipples yelping style that takes the fancy of White from time to time does rear its tribute-paying head on ‘Black’ and ‘Pink’ particularly.
Ahh, and yes. It should also be noted that each track is labelled as a colour, hence the aforementioned titles. Naturally ‘Red’ and ‘White’ are also taken care of. Crud first caught wind of the ‘Heat second on the bill for the ‘Stripes UK tour in fact (either they negotiated a damn good all-inclusive deal or they really truly are rock ‘n’ roll buddies), where they were a 30 minute black-and-white spasm of cliché, on PCP, with phaser guns. They were every last tried and tested Detroit rock ‘n’ roll formula ever, a trio with elastic limbs, shredded through a Moog and stuffed into a rocket. While the dream-team at work here may not have got all that close to translating the experience onto tape, you get a good enough indication that could be the case.
It thrashes unapologetically from a-z, like a drunk brawling with himself in a city pub car park at midnight as traffic hurtles past in an unconcerned rattling blur, from Stooges fury to MC5 wrath and stinging Gang of Four precision. It’s a bit goofy and sharp like The Liars, it’s thick and fat and heavy enough to free memories of early Nirvana and Mudhoney, it’s manic and loud in just enough directions to keep your interest through what’s essentially one template rolled out 13 times. And you thought dropping the bass was the basis of cool this year. You’re wrong. They’re so shockingly fucking cool they’re dropped guitars entirely and set up with drums, bass and synthesiser. The guitar, lest we forget, is the sexy Eve to the rhythm section’s plodding Adam in every one of their influences. It might not make them pioneers, but it makes them the cocky tearaways that got away with it.