I feel like I’ve been waiting forever for the debut album from The Heat Inc., having reviewed their excellent self-titled EP back in 2021. Drawing on a mix of influences, ranging from Iggy Pop and John Spencer to Nick Cave and Chuck Berry, the band are electrifying, with a sound that’s all their own, and their debut long player makes good on all the immense promise of the EP. With ten brilliantly conceived tracks, Asleep In The Ejector Seat harks back to when rock stars were gods that walked the earth, and albums truly mattered, and you can sense, in every quivering note, that The Heat Inc. truly believe in a way that feels increasingly rare in this oh-so-cynical era. As such, the vinyl edition, pressed on gorgeous, smoke coloured wax, is surely the perfect way to experience the album and all you can do is sit back, pump up the volume, and let it set your senses racing.
It starts well.
No, let’s try that again.
It starts brilliantly, with Souvenir, a thunderous opener that pitches Jon Dodd’s Ian-Curtis-via-Josh-Homme vocals against Maurizio Vitale’s pummelling drums, Nico Rigot’s earthy bass and the blazing riffs of lead axeman Marco Simoncelli. This is absolutely everything I’d hoped The Heat Inc’s debut would be and, with one foot in the past (but also a healthy appreciation for the present), it flat out rocks, standing as a powerful contrast to the increasingly anodyne and autotuned sounds that seem to fill up the airwaves right now.
As a case in point, second track Draw Blood for Proof, taps into the feral energy brought to bear by The Hives, throwing in the gangland choruses of The Clash and the melodic nous of the late, lamented Longpigs. It’s a heady, psyche-rock brew and the band are clearly on a roll as, before you’ve had a moment to draw breath, the ferocious L.K.C. emerges in a dust cloud of super-charged riffs, all underpinned by Nico’s blistering bass lines. Played with genuine fire, it’s a punk rock whiteout that sets the first side ablaze. However, as fiery as The Heat Inc. frequently are, they keep things dynamic and, on 98, they calm things a tad, crafting an effortless hit that somehow combines the yearning of Pulp’s Disco 2000, the insistent rhythmic pulse of Arctic Monkeys, and the late 90s rock ‘n’ blues of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club into a near-perfect rock ‘n’ roll tune. In an ideal world (or, perhaps, in the titular era), this would have shot up the charts with a bullet. As it is, it’s a fantastic track, played with both heart and attitude. Finally, the band close the side with a darker, more experimental piece – This Thing Called Love. Digging into latter day Queens of the Stone Age territory with no small amount of success, its taut beat and spidery guitar wrongfoot the listener, and the track cockily explodes into distorted life as the side spins to a halt.
Opening the second side, an amp hums before Akaska Murder Squad bursts from the speakers, the band offering a dynamic, feedback-strewn backdrop for Jon’s increasingly excellent vocals. Darkly stylish, it’s a track where the verse manages to store up a near unbearable tension, which finally breaks over a tumultuous chorus that sets the heart rate soaring. Next up, the deeply melodic Get Wild unexpectedly draws on Manic Street Preachers, QOTSA and vintage U2 to deliver another deeply satisfying song which, were MTV to still air music, would surely swallow the channel whole. The band pick up the pace on the rambunctious Ms. Willie Mae, a gloriously distorted blast of alternative rock that might just be the best track on the album, although given the overall quality, it’s a tough call. Another track that piles on the tension, Samson is the perfect showcase for Jon Dodd’s perfect vocals, the stripped-back verse only serving to make the chorus all the more incendiary.
And then it’s over, the closing track, Ultraviolence, an acoustic coda that nods to Stanley Kubrick and the Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses, the band slinking back into the shadows of London’s seedier high-rise buildings, a shimmering haze of exhaust slowly obscuring them from view. After so exuberant an album, it’s a perfectly conceived finale that showcases a very different side to the band, leaving the listener desperate to hear where the band will turn next.
As a writer, I all too often see bands fold before they make good on their promise. The Heat Inc. absolutely stunned me with their self-titled EP, and I hoped beyond hope that they would not be one of those who simply disappeared, worn down by the cycle of hope and despair that seems to surround the music industry. However, not only have The Heat Inc. remained undaunted by the challenges they face as independent artists, but they have crafted something of immense worth. From the impressive musicianship to the memorable song writing, they evoke an era when rock truly mattered and there’s a quality to the ten songs that sees them work their way under the skin and remain there. Not a moment rings false and, as you listen, you find yourself daring to believe in the rock ‘n’ roll dream once again. Where The Heat Inc. go next is unwritten, but on the strength of Asleep In The Ejector Seat, they more than deserve every opportunity that fate casts their way. A true labour of love, Asleep In The Ejector Seat is something very special indeed. 9.5/10
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