scans.
OH, NO. IT'S DUSTY BIN!
IT'S OFFICIAL: grime doesn't pay. Or rather, it doesn't when that's
all you've got to offer.
For much of tonight, Ned's Atomic Dustbin (move over Dumpy's Rusty Nuts
— your undisputed reign at the worst-named band extant is over)
are a sloppy, stodgy mess. After a mere ten minutes, it's clear that
critics who've enthusiastically compared these gregarious grebos to
early Jesus And Mary Chain have yet to see them in the flesh. In fact,
for the first few numbers, the most fascinating aspect of the band's
grubby performance is singer John's tendency to gallantly swing from
one side of the mic to the other like a cheeky chimpanzee attempting
the pole vault.
In short, Ned's Atomic Dustbin suffer from that age-old disease: over-reliance
on energy. Instead of supplementing their enthusiasm with structure
and subtlety, Ned's Atomic Dustbin prefer to bob up and down furiously,
in the hope that no one will notice they're pretty short in the song
department. That's not to say they haven't got any, mind you. 'Grey
Cell Green' is agitated and angular, proving that where there's hysteria
there's hope, and 'Sentence', with its blubbering bass and brazen guitar,
momentarily keeps the spirits up. The bad news is 'Kill Your Television'
(ohhh, must I?) rides boldly into view on the back of a Lurkers hand-me-down
riff, thus blowing away even the slightest sign of credibility.
After Roy Wood, Edgar Broughton and Gaye Bykers On Acid come the Black
Country's latest gods. Oh Stourbridge, so much to answer for.
Paul Mardles.