Domestic badasses are usually pretty one-dimensional. From the musclebound Joe Weider plank snapper to the wizened loose-cannon drunk or the ...
Domestic badasses are usually pretty one-dimensional. From the musclebound Joe Weider plank snapper to the wizened loose-cannon drunk or the free-swinging pro athlete, they're just different versions of the same uninteresting dolt. That's why English louts often seen more interesting to us Americans than our homegrown ones. Buoyed by football, illicit drugs, and lager-- or the remnants of mid-90s lad culture in general-- these types often take an elemental approach to bad behavior. They integrate torrents of entertaining drunk speak into fistfights both won and lost; they're boastful, prideful, or just plain full. They're going to live fast and die young, but not until after the kebab shops close.
Kasabian is the latest UK outfit to tap into this bravado conduit, and as they've shown over singles ranging back to the beginning of 2004 (all of which appear on this self-titled debut LP), the Leicester combo likes their hedonism a la carte. "Processed Beats" apes shamelessly the shambolic beat and double-tracked lead vocals of vintage Stone Roses, "L.S.F. [Lost Souls Forever]" is a sly and seamy ride through the hybridist sonic absurdism of Lo Fidelity Allstars, and "Butcher Blues" is another version of Swinging London revisionism with its hazy dissolves, tube station announcement vocals, and head-nodding electronic percussion. Each of these songs possess that certain kinetic fizz that makes a great single. The strutting Mani-istic bass of "Processed", "L.S.F."'s handclaps, hip-hop breaks, and soaring chorus ("Come on! We got our backs to the wall!")-- in its best moments, Kasabian is the soundtrack to the slow-motion Guy Ritchie movie inside every lad's head.
That quality makes "Club Foot"'s tensely barbed guitar perfect for punching faces to. And yet, its initial rush dissipates. Like the harsh house lights of the pub at closing time, the groove can't go on forever-- especially when it eventually starts to morph into every Primal Scream song you've ever heard. That's where Kasabian begins to waver. It's a catchy and energizing Friday evening record that draws from its sources well, but seems to have had some staying power sapped by the spliffs. It drags in places and sags in others. "U Boat" tries for layered organic and electronic bliss but drifts distractedly into a wispy Beta Band mess. "I.D." doesn't go anywhere we haven't been before, either. Once its thumping beat and lilting synthesizer surge has transported us back to the Hacienda, Kasabian fades in favor of some old Happy Mondays records.
Kasabian is brash, loutish, and seems liable at times to cut you; the consistent kick drum beat throughout it is like a great party's heartbeat. But like the roustabout in the corner, drinking all the lager and scratching up your old records, it can be more loudmouthed than substantial.