Peabody - The NewViolence

Thu 26th May, 2005 in Music Reviews

This time round, Peabody haven’t exactly traded in the skinny ties, Rickenbackers and Townsend-esque jumps for something new. Having said that, you’d be hard pressed to identify Song For Val as being the same band that recorded Professional Againster.

For those too stupid to care, Professional Againster was one of 2002’s most essential listens and for that reason alone, Peabody have now got their sharp suited backs to the wall. What do those Americans call it: sophomore slump?

The New Violence is a more low key effort, without sacrificing any of the power of previous recordings. The band have, dare I say, all the mod cons in their artillery: an inventive drummer – Graeme Trewin, Ben Chamie, the bass player who is capable of making the most of some generic chorus lines and a front man, Bruno Brayovic, who few can match. Truly mesmerising on stage, and equally compelling on these recordings, the man is always On. You can’t imagine him sitting still in the vocal booth for more than a verse at a time.

It is this restlessness and wiry presence that elevates Peabody above your average pub band. I have no fucking idea how they haven’t conquered the gap in the market that has been left in the wake of The Living End and Jebediah et al. Yet, The New Violence is a more sombre affair than their debut album – it carries little of the celebratory hedonism of previous work – and that is possibly because of the mood of the times.

Got You On My Radar is the first single off the album and a tasty, giddy pop number, no doubt. It’s pure Peabody (if you know what that means). Nonetheless, it won’t set the world alight: it is almost too much like Peabody-by-numbers. It lacks some of the desperation of their best work, if you were to compare it to something like Stupid Boy – whose intensity melted my el cheapo Discman after countless listens (fact).

Most impressive of the batch of new tracks is the ominous, vitriolic title track. On the page, as writ here, that’s just a couple of fancy adjectives; on tape it is a gut-wrenching guitar swoop aimed at the power of the new right in Australia (how does he manage to scream the words “He’s on a mission from God!” ad nauseum and not make you cringe? Perhaps that’s the benchmark of real talent.) It’s not hard to shut your eyes and see Bruno’s head shake as he screams the chorus again and again. It’s awesome. It gives you tourettes.

I Find The Words, with its howl and frustration, comes close to capturing the rush of the title track. If you were want to describe Paul Westerberg (especially in the guise of The Replacements) as the great laureate of losers worldwide – and that being a compliment – you need a chew on this song. Imagine someone peeling the labels from their six-pack, stewing on the shittiness of life, and the rage that comes from not being able to express yourself properly. To put it a field closer to Peabody’s aural experiences, you might wanna see it as their “pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete” (That’s Entertainment).

Continual references to the mod fetish of their earlier days is no longer really relevant on this release. Consider opening track Synaesthesia, with its guitar sound reminiscent of the work on Sonic Youth rockers like Youth Against Fascism. Either producer Jamie Hutchings (he also fiddled knobs on the debut) has learned a few new techniques or Bruno has grabbed a bunch of new pedals on their last year or so on the road. The overall feel is an album of widescreen moods, rather than the somewhat constricting indie pop of their Rock Girls and Computers EP of a few years ago. It screams ambition as much as the addition of retro keyboards and Sarah Blasko huskily counting in French manages to save a basic rocker, The Weight Just Right, and turn it into a real highlight of the first half of the album.

As the album plays itself toward track eleven, there is a growing mood of anger and rage. The dark red and black of the artwork may seem just a fraction too in keeping with the current hardcore/emo trend for bleak packaging, but it does pinpoint the different between the albums. Gone is the bright pop packaging (actually, it’s not too dissimilar to what you’d expect from the early days of Bluebottle Kiss).

And thus, with a slight disappointment, Got Your Hooks in ends the album. And Jesus H., great as it is – Velouria meets Gouge Away (yes, I’m talking Pixies) – it is also somewhat of an anomaly. I appreciate as much as the next nerd hearing anything by the Boston quartet, but if I’m listening to a Peabody album I’d rather hear something by them. I dunno, I tend to get it wrong, but to me this track sounds like some wise arse indie kids proving they can do it all. No one wants a smart arse hanging round the house.

That said, it seems to be the only hiccup on yet another tasty serving from Peabody. Come see me in a few months as to whether it stands up against the rawer howl of Professional Againster. In the meantime I am gonna enjoy some of that existential angst that comes from the front bar, and not from the tute room. God bless it.