ONE FODDER MONEY
NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
God Fodder (Furtive/CBS/All formats))
JUST WHEN you thought it was safe to go back into the Black Country,
the curse of Stourbridge has struck again. Like a microcosm of the Mersey
Boom, a tiny corner of the industrial West Midlands has thrown up another
manic pop thrill to grab the charts by the throat and our hearts by
all four chambers at once.
Pop Will Eat Itself were the first signs of the epidemic, although it
took them a few years to cut it with the Going Live!
brigade. The Wonder Stuff got there a lot quicker, their songs perhaps
being targeted at a more mainstream pop sensibility.
Now, along come Ned's Atomic Dustbin, upsetting the applecart of pop
protocol by charging into the Top 20, SAS-style, with their first major
label single, 'Happy'.
You've seen the gigs, bought the shirts, crimped your hair- now hear
the album! Mind you, regular Neds watchers will be more than familiar
with the bulk of 'God Fodder', containing as it does the aforementioned
'Happy', plus previous singles 'Until You Find Out', 'Kill Your Television'
and 'Grey Cell Green', not to mention stage favourites like 'What Gives
My Son?'
'God Fodder' is essentially the story so far from the Neds. An aural
autobiography from the fledgling fraggling days of bottom-of-the-bill
with The Stuffies, nights spent sleeping on dressing room floors to
save cash they never had in the first place, through grubby little headlining
jaunts in out-of-the-way hovels in blots on the landscape like King's
Lynn, to their current position of sold-out shows on the big boys' circuit
coupled with fawning major label attention. All this in less than 18
months.
Along the way they've built up an envious hardcore following of foolhardy
types taken to hitch-hiking the length and breadth of the land armed
only with scruffy sleeping bags and just enough spare change for a last
half of cider. Like Mega City Four or Carter USM devotees, Neds fans
appear to have spent any disposable income on the correct clothing for
their excursions. How many other bands can boast nearly a dozen different
T-shirt designs long before they've released a second single?
Those fans who have been around since the beginning may feel disappointed
with 'God Fodder', however. The opening 'Kill Your Television' seems
far too smooth when played back to back with the Chapter 22 original,
and the plethora of previously released songs could be regarded as poor
value, but it's the ideal purchase for latecomers.
Yet the subdued re-reading of 'Kill Your TV' (where is the resounding
"thud" of the original's bass solo?) is misleading, as the
following 12 tracks all bear the hallmarks of pure Nedsmania. One distinct
bonus is that Jonn's vocals are much more audible and display for perhaps
the first time the Neds' lyrical knack of taking banal cliches and turning
them into something special.
'Capital Letters' is a case in point, with Jonn grappling with the frustration
of a soulmate's superiority in affairs of the heart: "When
she looks at me in that tone of voice/She don't need to make a noise/I
can read her thoughts in capital letters."
Words fail in 'Throwing Things' ( "We've got verbal constipation"
sings Jonn) and the lovers resort to violence, neatly underpinned by
the Neds' unique two basses/one guitar sonic assault at its most aggressive.
Similarly, the closing 'What Gives My Son?' offers a turnaround on the
usual laments of teen rebellion with Jonn taking on the role of enraged
parent ("Far be it from me to say you 're brain-dead /
Might help if you get your ass out of bed") while his
blood pressure increases with every verse.
Anyone who's managed to avoid / escape / ignore the Neds over the last
year and a bit, perhaps believing them to be nothing more than ne'er-do-well
scumbuckets with the talent of a bathroom sponge, may be in for a bit
of a surprise with 'God Fodder'. It's an album which shows them off
to be quick-witted pop craftsmen with humour and insight, and an ability
to inject their music with urgency and fun.
Mat, Ratt, Dan, Jonn and Alex are The Beatles for the student bar generation,
a subsidised beerstain on rock's rich tapestry. Beyond the shambling
chic of frizzy fringes and top-notch T-shirts, 'God Fodder' finds the
Neds dressed, and blessed, to kill. (8)
Terry Staunton