English Tapas

It might not be as much fun as some of Sleaford Mods' earlier albums, but that's the point.

With echoes of the Fall and Throbbing Gristle, the stark tracks fittingly recall an era that demanded engaged art.

There are glimmers of musical progression on Sleaford Mods’ ninth album: Jason Williamson sings the odd line, and there are even occasional choruses. But, pleasingly, for the most part it’s business as usual.

It returns to the sly humor, the hypnotic barking aggression, the occasional whiffs of wistful tune-ish-ness slipped in between robotic beats of Divide and Exit and maybe does it one better.

A covert moral conscience underpins Williamson’s lyrics, in among the barbed and barbarous wit, the austere reportage, the vitriolic calumny and the pop-culture detritus: and, almost despite itself, the scattergun English Tapas can’t help but represent a telling state-of-the-nation address.

What English Tapas never sounds like is a band running out of steam. Quite the opposite.

There are no illusions in this music. If you don’t get it or you don’t have any stake in it, there’s the door. So what if it’s not perfect, so what if it’s not full of polyrhythms and tonal shifts. This music isn’t about that, it’s about being sucked in to a dense vortex of grimy drum ‘n’ bass and pissed off ranting and bobbing your head and being pissed off right along with it.

Williamson has never been mournful in quite the same way that he is here, nor so disappointed in what he sees around him, whether it’s politicians, musicians or just ordinary people. This comes through not only in the lyrics but in their delivery.

Sleaford Mods are already one of the oddest British bands in this fraught political era. With English Tapas, they continue to push the case that they’re also the most necessary.

A brilliant piece of art. [Mar 2017, p.91]

This record's packed with singalong moments. [Apr 2017, p.108]

Stream-of-consciousness ranting has helped Sleaford Mods develop songwriting which is doubtful, while retaining its intensity. [Apr 2017, p.31]

These dozen visceral tableaux of modern life are shot through with flashes of gallows humour and offhand absurdity that tempers the overall vision of a "newborn hell" peopled by "dumb Brits."

If English Tapas at times veers towards formula, it’s at least Sleaford Mods’ own formula, and one that continues to serve them well.

This could be considered their mature album, but the Mods don’t sound the least bit worn out. Less sweary, maybe, though no less profane.

With the absence of anything quite as moreish as say “Tweet Tweet Tweet” or “No One’s Bothered” it may go for less instant satisfaction but it’s undoubtedly still worth tucking into as part of the steady Sleaford Mods diet.

The lyrics across the course of the record feel less politicised, the characters less personal, resulting in a record that feels both wholly more developed, and ultimately more accessible than the EP it follows.

Their stark sound might not be for everyone, but Williamson’s sideways swipes at pop culture and his own big nights out are as hypnotic as Fearn’s punked-up electronica which, despite its simplicity, is nigh impossible not to move to.