Never Mind The Trollops...

I am perhaps guilty here of having more fun with sententious statements than actually reviewing the song.  If so, I shall redress the balance by asking you to listen yourselves, which is all reviewing is for anyway, really: https://soundcloud.com/thedollymops (alright, admittedly it's not up as I type this, but I guess it will be soon).

THE DOLLYMOPS – LOVE GROWS PALE (FourTwenny Records)

Time defuses all offence.  Spend your Sunday re-enacting the Battle Of Naseby, nobody blinks; recreate Bloody Sunday and it’s considered bad taste, but for the people who died they were much the same.  Similar story with The Dollymops, named after a Victorian term for a part-time sex worker.  Seems as though if they were called The Sluts or The Amateur Slatterns, people would rightly call them out as chauvinists, but somehow the quirky Dickensian atmosphere softens the blow.  That’s the band all over, really, skirting lamebrain yob punk and pulling themselves back from the brink with a theatrical flourish and a cheeky vaudeville wink.  This track doesn’t have the spice and storm of their previous new wave kickabouts, but it rattles along in a quieter way, reminding us a little of The Police in their less reggaefied moments, with exercise book poetry which shoots for Elvis Costello but lands at early Brett Anderson.  It’s not their finest work, but raises a smile, rummaging through post-punk like it’s a kids’ dressing-up box (and remember, a pirate outfit is fine, but Boko Haram is best avoided).