The Wildhearts are so much an inherent part of the British rock scene that it’s easy to overlook their prolonged absence from the fray. Nevertheless, it has been ten long years since Chutzpah! (not that the band ceased activity on the live scene for any great length of time) and there’s no doubt that anticipation has been high for Renaissance Men, the band’s ninth studio album and the first to feature the low-slung bass talents of Danny McCormack since the much-underrated Endless Nameless. The resulting ten-track album is best described as Wildhearts-in-exclesis, with all the energy, aggression and melodic nous that made listeners fall in love with the band’s raucous debut album very much to the fore, aided by a ferociously crisp production courtesy of Jim Pinder.
Things get off to a flying start with the rampant dislocated throwing a humungous riff at the listener before spinning out, via multiple time and mood changes, into classic Wildhearts’ territory, with a soaring chorus pinning the track into the memory even as the band grab their listeners firmly by their throats and scream “we’re here” into their amazed faces. There’s so much energy on display that it’s hard to believe the band aren’t playing live in your living room and, before you know it, nearly six-minutes have hurtled past and you’re already plunging headlong into the punk-rock whiteout of let ‘em go. Reminiscent of such classic tracks as red light, green light, let ‘em go is one of those moments where the band wrongfoot the listener by hitting them square in the temple with a chorus of epic proportions before tearing into a verse that seethes with barely-controlled rage. Perhaps not the sort of track you’ll hear anytime soon on the radio (why not, dammit?!), let ‘em go is, nonetheless, an anthem of foundation-shaking proportions with the only surprise being that the quality is so high across the board that it isn’t a standout track. Rather more whimsical is the mid-paced title track, which throws rippling piano (Rob Bannister), gang chants and a gargantuan chorus (“we’ll make you sing if anyone can”) into the mix over the course of just three short minutes. We’re straight back into punk territory on the chugging the age of deception, a rampant blast with a twinkle in its eye and a spring in its step. The first half of the album concludes with hook-filled diagnosis, a five-minute belter that takes its time to reach lift-off but, when it finally does, launches the listener firmly into the stratosphere. Stealing a dynamic from AC/DC and filling it to the brim with nitro-glycerin is the Wildhearts all over and, when those harmonies kick in, it all becomes irresistible.
Blistering rock ‘n’ roll is the name of the game on My kinda movie, an unstoppable rhythmic blast fuelled by Ritch Batterby’s explosive drums and spit-spraying vocals. In contrast, the honeyed melodies of Honeycrack are resurrected on Little flower (written by CJ), the pairing of heavy rock and glorious harmonies as incongruously wonderful now as they were when the Wildhearts first crashed onto a wholly unprepared scene back in 1993 with Earth Vs. The band incredibly up the ante on the whiplash rock of Emergency (Fentanyl Babylon) whilst the atonal riffing of My side of the bed briefly recalls the delirious noise of Endless nameless before the brand pull back from the brink to plunge into the sort of chorus that had PUSA’s lump notching up huge sales the world over. The album crashes to a conclusion, barely forty minutes after it thrust itself into your consciousness, with Pilo Erection, a condition from which many Wildhearts listeners will suffer from time to time (the first time you hear Inglorious for example). A final assault on the senses, it sees guitars squealing harmonics before Ritch nails it all firmly to the floor for one last Beatles-gone-mental blast of punk-pop fury.
The Wildhearts have always stood apart and here, on their ninth album, their spirit and energy remains undimmed. For the long-time fan, one of the many factors that stands in this album’s favour is the return of Danny McCormack, the band’s former hellraiser-in-chief. There’s a chemistry between these particular four Wildhearts that can’t be denied and surely accounts for the remarkable vitality on display. Whatever the reason, Renaissance Men feels like a glorious celebration of all things Wildhearts and it stands as one of the year’s most joyous releases. 9.5
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