Glasvegas - Glasvegas

Thu 11th Dec, 2008 in Music Reviews

Deriding NME these days is too easy. Flailing around in an era where the internet has eroded its readership, the one-time reigning monarch of the music press has been dethroned by technology’s immediacy and its own battle with the evil forces of broad appeal.

However, there are still the occasional signs that a spark of music (not market) obsession exists at NME. The winners of this year’s Phillip Hall Radar award (voted for by the magazine’s writers) were Scottish four-piece, Glasvegas. Despite the rather uninspiring name, their self-titled debut shows signs the band are worthy of the accolade that proved to be such a blessing for Franz Ferdinand and The Kaiser Chiefs.

Although the group has been around since 2003, it feels timely that they should only now be making their mark. The bountiful years that followed the turn of century ushered in a period of excess; a party spirit that everyone from The Klaxons to Kasabian could capitalise on. But, the economic skies have turned darker and some may feel in need of a band like Glasvegas to provide a soundtrack to their current state of sobriety.

Flowers & Football Tops opens with thick and muddy distorted guitars that give way to insistent drums and a mother’s fearful fret about the absence of a missing son. James Allen’s disconnected vocal channels The Ronettes as it echoes the spirit-breaking grief of a bereaved parent. It’s simple yet painfully raw: “Flowers and football tops don’t mean a thing/my baby is six feet under/just another number.”

Glasvegas refuse to give the listener an opt-out clause by veiling subject matter in nebulous phrasing. Geraldine might sound like a love song, but the woman in question is no romantic protagonist. The references to suicide attempts and prescription drugs emphasise the fact that Geraldine is a desperate social worker trying to keep those in her care from the “deep and darkest place around.”

It would be easy to let such weighty themes get caught in the under-current of a slow-paced dirge. However, Glasvegas utilise a towering sound swell reminiscent of Jesus and Mary Chain’s grubby interpretation of Phil Spector’s sonic multi-layering. An army of swirling guitars stalk the lonely corridors of S.A.D’s sunlight deprived interior, while the heartbreaking Daddy’s Gone shames errant fathers with a tambourine’s cool bristle.

For the most part, the album works beautifully, but it does have an Achilles’ heel. Stabbed pits James Allen’s Scottish brogue against Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The intention may be to emulate Clockwork Orange’s juxtaposition of classical music and street violence, but the effect is clunky and self-conscious.

Overall, Stabbed is a single faltering step on an album that seeks to tell the stories of the broken and the disenfranchised, the lonely and the isolated. The tales may have a heavy heart, but there are few people that won’t be able to relate to Glasvegas’ empathetic take on the human condition. The party may be over, but Glasvegas are here to make sure no-one has to endure the aftermath alone.

Glasvegas is out now through Sony BMG.