mcluskymclusky Do Dallas

Steve Albini must be think he’s in hog heaven right now. Not only has he just put on the American ATP with Sonic Youth, he’s got the British version to look forward to later this month and as a result he’s going to be over here to witness his latest progeny be unleashed on a largely unsuspecting country.

Mclusky are more than just the most recent band to pass through Albini’s Electrical Audio studios, they’re practically the screaming resurrection of Albini’s old band, Rapeman. You may want to make a note of that. Rapeman, not raperock. There’s none of this wussy mid-life crisis posing as teen angst for the mclusky boys.

If anything, mclusky are the antithesis of such pompous whining. ‘Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues’ is a breakneck charge though cruel and nasty punk rock and ‘What We’ve Learned’ is a carbon copy headfuck stomp of Albini’s Big Black. They even manage to staple their hardcore sensibilities to a pop song on ‘To Hell With Good Intentions’, though I doubt I’ll ever forgive them for nicking the lyrics from dead comedy genius Bill Hicks.

Despite all this, there’s a lingering suspicion that ‘…Do Dallas’ isn’t the sound of mclusky at their best. ‘Our Pain & Sadness…’ was a statement of such brutal intent that it was always going to be hard to equal, let alone surpass. While they occasionally match the ferocity and intensity of their debut, ‘…Do Dallas’ falls just short of the mark. If they hadn’t already shown us that they can do better, maybe it would be different. For now, this may be enough for mclusky to do Dallas, but they’re gonna have to do better next time if they want to claim a Dynasty for their own as well.

And if, as the song puts it, Gareth Brown says that “all of your friends are cunts” maybe they also need to stop hanging around with Mohobishopi.

Royal TruxFleece & Firkin, Bristol

In the true tradition of rock’n’roll, the old legends are never lost, but continue to reverberate around us, tempting us with mythology, until they later re-emerge, embodied in deep within the genealogy of Royal Trux. From Stones swagger to Stooges nihilism, New York Dolls sleaze to Beefheart blues, it’s all there in the purest form possible in a band so true to the spirit that they sold their soul to the man, only to have it given back when the man found that he didn’t understand it.

It’s there in the way Jennifer hangs off the mike stand, equal parts Janis Joplin, Nico and Joey Ramone, scowling through her sunglasses, the music coursing through her, lost to the occasion as Neil slouches to one side, slung over his guitar, content to allow the spectacle to carry on around him. In the way that ‘Waterpark’ bristles with braggadocio, that ‘Run, Shaker Life’ sticks barbs into the recognised notions of Americana and ‘Blue Is The Frequency’ is intent on driving itself further onward, until only the moment is allowed to exist and everything else is eclipsed by the relentless driving hooks.

Every last low-down look, every scuzzed-out note may have been seen and heard before, but rarely to such devastating effect, and only Royal Trux are capable of sounding so potent and volatile that it is as if the past, present and future of rock’n’roll have merged together in a determined effort to put on the greatest show of all time.