Klepto & Son

A recent Oxfordbands review. It seems like an age since I wrote a good review for them. Not my fault everyons is shit, is it?

THE DACOITS – THE DACOITS



“God only knows what I’m talking about,” sings Carrie Rossiter on “Keep On Moving”, and the answer seems to be Nothing Much. Lyrically this a poor album, nothing but hackneyed goth-lite imagery of blasted trees and crawling spiders mixed with meaningless crumbs swiped from fairytales, palmistry and other simple mythologies. In fact, the ill thought out jumble of emotive tropes looks more like a checklist of rough ideas for an over-funded music video from 1994 as the record progresses, which tells you all you need to know about the record: it’s large, it’s well made, and it’s oh so hollow inside.

Despite the promise of the ghostly reverb and hyperventilating guitar gasps of opener “Black Dog”, we’re dumped in the sonic realm of clean MTV gothery: Garbage looms large over the LP, but we also get hints of Hole in “Turn You On”, and even Heart, in the blustery conclusion of ”Holy Man”; “Raze It To The Ground” tells of a small white pill, which may or may not be jagged, and “Home By Twelve” tips the hat to some of P J Harvey’s lesser lyrical efforts. “Threaten to take you under the water/ I’ll be your lover, I’ll be your daughter” opines Rossiter, meaningless lyrics laden down by shiny pseudo-sexuality – thin doggerel meets Kim Cattrall.

So, we have some meaningless ditties in an infuriating mid-nineties style, where Smashing Pumpkins are a watchword for exciting leftfield rock music, and yet there is definitely something to be excited by nevertheless. Keyboard player Peter George Rowe’s production is outstanding. Seriously we can’t think of a self-funded record that’s come our way in recent years that sounds so impressive as this; you’d be forgiven for thinking that a floundering major label had thrown several SUVs full of cash at this thing, it feels so impeccably put together. Furthermore, some of the arrangements and extra-musical guitar noise touches are gorgeous, from the bouncy Stranglers bass weaving a perfect hammock for breathy vocals on “Driving In Your Car” to the eerie underwater kick-drum intro to “Woman On The Wheel”. Whilst we don’t really care whether we ever hear any more form The Dacoits, we would bow down in thanks if Rowe got behind the desk for every demo recording that comes our way.

Ultimately this is a record for people who want to feel they’re listening to something edgy and alternative, but don’t want to be troubled by rock energy or songs that actually mean anything. The album would doubtless go down a treat with the vapid yet frighteningly pally financial advisors who are all over bank adverts nowadays, as they relax their empty High Street souls after a hard day’s simpering. It’s like a horrible scene from the opening of a British rom com, four hapless yet well-groomed young chaps turning up at a campsite laden down with fantastic gadgets and expensive outdoors accoutrements but no essentials (“Hang on, I thought you were bringing the tent”); The Dacoits have made an astonishing album, but nobody’s remembered to bring any bloody songs along. Might have left them in the “house made from glass”, behind the “burnt out shadows”, just next to the “mirrored cross”, eh.