You have to feel sorry for Eighties Matchbox. Really, you do. It’s got to be lonely up there at the summit of that jagged rock formation they fester atop; an unprecedented geological phenomenon in noisyfuckingmusic terms. Look around, see any peers? Anyone else erupting irritably from the earth’s core with a comparable command of the Richter scale? Their debut ‘Horse Of The Dog’, foamed over by just about anyone who had the stomach for it, was a blitz of the senses in itself, a mini manifesto half the length of your average long player but at least twice as frenzied, every point punctuated with a death rattle that might startle a small child into paralysis. Even by those standards this sequel, an amendment to that constitution, offers multiple further, even more convincing, reasons why there can probably never be an equal, or nemesis, found for these certifiable renegades.
This is so wide in scope, so out there, that it could effectively be labelled scuzz punk’s ‘Kid A’. So they’ve got the usual angles covered, picking up from where their debut left off – the instantly recognisable spasming of ‘Mr Mental’ for instance, and the double headed beast of The Cramps and The Birthday party cloned in many corners of the record, not least the stunningly fragmented, throbbing beat-led ‘Rise Of The Eagles’. But from that base they take a chance, and one which could have easily backfired considering it’s the antithesis of much the first record stood for – they have lurched in the direction of coherence. You can hear them coming and to an extent you can see where they’re going. But with that coherence comes a sharper desire to explore, don’t think they’ll be sticking to the itinerary now. Buckle up.
‘Drunk On The Blood’ goes as far as descending into an intoxicating brass jazzy meltdown ferchristsake, and that’s after 4 minutes of Johnny Cash marching on the gates of Hades in full body armour. ‘I Rejection’ has all the desperate anger of Henry Rollins on hunger strike, ‘When I Hear You Call My Name’ is so hypnotisingly uppity like Siouxsie and the Banshees sparring with PiL, the incredible ‘I Could Be An Angle’ is The Doors on a wind-up Magic Roundabout and ‘The Dancing Girls’ fiddles with some voodoo polka rhythms before going all psychedelic Queens Of The Stone Age. Of course some of it is plain ridiculous, ‘Puppy Dog Snails’ is like Nick Cave directing the witches scene in Macbeth, only dafter, but listening to almost any 80s Matchbox requires a certain suspension of disbelief. What’s reality got going for it anyway? Don’t know about you, but we can’t even make out a pack following them.