In 1996 I walked into Woolworths (remember them?) and picked up a copy of an album that looked entirely too cool to be anything other than awesome. The album, a reissued and expanded version of Fishing For Luckies, had a lenticular cover and opened with Inglorious, still one of the best songs ever recorded by The Wildhearts (or anyone else for that matter). I was a convert for life. They had melodies, they had riffs, they had a sense of humour (see: Sick Of Drugs) and they looked like they’d destroy a venue as soon as play in it.
Unfortunately, my timing was poor. In 1997, the band released the awesome (and stupendously underrated) Endless Nameless, a record so mired in distortion it made the Iggy mix of Raw Power sound like a compilation of lullabies and then, just as they were about to tour, the buggers went on hiatus. But my love of the band never dwindled (indeed, my copy of Endless Nameless, signed by Danny, remains a most treasured possession), and when the band returned in 2003, I went to see them as many times as possible just in case it didn’t last which, of course, it didn’t. For sure, this febrile bunch have had their ups and downs, but one thing is undeniable: when they do get together, the racket they make is rock ‘n’ roll at its purest – the sound of four individuals making the most gleeful, unabashed noise they can – and, whether on record or on stage, they remain a class apart.
So, here we are. Flushed with the success of the absolutely blinding Renaissance Men (and its attendant EP, Diagnosis), the band are back with 21st Century Love Songs and not only is it every bit as good as you knew it would be… it’s better. It opens on a thunderous explosion of hard riffing and cacophonous drums before pulling one of Ginger’s patented switches, plunging into a melodic anthem caught somewhere between Sick Of Drugs and, in its overloaded joi-de-vivre, Anthem. It’s The Wildhearts in excelsis, full of piss ‘n’ vinegar yet possessed of a melody that will live under the skin for weeks. Fuck it, I may as well give the album a ten right now, because that’s entirely where this is headed.
…And sure enough, without even pausing for breath, Ginger leads the band headlong into Remember These Days, taking a nostalgic title and turning it into a rock monster, all flaming riffs and woah-oah backing harmonies, before a left-turn leads us into weird territory caught somewhere between The Beatles and the Beach Boys. The filtered intro of Splitter lets you know something huge is coming and, when Ginger’s riff train finally hurtles down the track, you’re fixed in its headlight and on course for a collision. And still the band aren’t done with you. Institutional Submission is pure adrenaline and one of the hardest things the band have done since Endless Nameless. It’s a demented, multi-coloured blast that frays the synapses and leaves you gasping on the floor. How can the band still rock this hard after thirty years? Fuck knows… most people would need stunt guitarist and oh, is that a multi-tracked lead guitar in the vein of Queen? Well, probably, but there’s too much blood and thunder to be sure. Never mind – it’ll become clear on the tenth listen no doubt. With the album approaching the half-way point, the band (sort of) allow a moment’s respite with Sleepaway. Still tungsten coated, but with a sugary pop core, it’s the sound of lost youth, complete with keening melodies and a refrain of “when I was young…”, although it still has more Riffs Per Minute than most bands manage across a whole album.
Emerging out of a rarely heard observation regarding the animal kingdom (don’t ask me, just listen to the damn thing), the band unleash You Do You, a splenetic blast of hefty guitars and multi-part vocals that makes you feel like you’ve been brained with a bag of candyfloss. Recently released single Sort Your Fucking Shit Out is perfectly placed, building from a single-note-riff to exactly the sort of explosive punky blast the title demands. Oh, but then there’s Directions, a primal blast of stabbing riffs nailed by Rich Battersby’s relentless percussive shockwaves. For any other band it’d probably be the best song on the album, but for the Wildhearts it’s just business as usual, somehow combining joy and rage, visceral punk rock and glorious pop nous into a compact missile aimed squarely at your cranium. The bluesy lead riff of A Physical Exorcism does little to dampen the band’s unstoppable delivery, not least when the piece devolves to a ferocious mess of harmonics and pummelling beats. And then we’re at the end, with Ginger declaring My Head Wants Me Dead to a gorgeous pop-rock melody that recalls nothing so much as The Presidents of the United States of America, despite the seriousness of the lyric. It’s a work of a subversive genius that reminds you (to paraphrase Therapy?) that it’s OK not to be OK – surely a common theme in Ginger’s work.
21St Century Love Songs is purely awesome. After three tracks, I ordered a copy and fuck it, I might order two in case the first one wears out. Good? No, you use words like ‘good’ to describe mortal bands. The Wildhearts are immortal gods that walk the earth and here, some thirty years after they formed, they sound as essential, as life-affirming and as thunderous as ever. Buy a copy. Berate your mates until they buy a copy – nothing else this year will come close. 10/10
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