The Dicks Of Hazard

The internet is well handy, eh? I mean we all know this, but I recall writing this review, about 5 years ago, and I wasn't online at home in those days I know I wanted to refer to Gwen Stefani, but I just simply could not recall her name. Mental block. Took me blooming hours of mental pummeling to get it; nowadays when that happens Google will solve the problem in seconds. Now I never remember anything. Why bother?

AT RISK - FAITH IN FAIRYTALES (Quickfix)

At Risk's press release claim they've been "cohesifying their sound". Alright, linguistic pedant I may be but this awkward and uncomfortable word says a lot about At Risk, who have the germ of being an enjoyably bouncy goth pop band, but scupper it all with an ungainly clumsiness. Take "As Lines Blur". Opening with some insistent drums it threatens to make an impact, but soon fails to get its sludgy two-chord arse into gear and ends up waddling to the finish line in a sort of post-prandial amble. A few uninspired vocal melodies aside it would work quite neatly if the edges were sharpened and the surfaces scuffed, but, like an overweight jogger, the song runs our of puff after the first few moments and ends up plodding along harmlessly. Similarly, closing tune "The Rundown" conjures an effective air of menace at the outset, with a nursery simple melody underpinned by taut snare rhythms, but all the effort of building an atmosphere proves too much, and it soon slips back into an unsubtle would-be anthemic chorus. A healthy dose of energy is all that's needed to make these songs listenable.

That's not to say that At Risk have absolutely nothing to offer. In Cat they have a wonderfully insouciant, ennui-soaked vocalist who drapes herself seductively just the right side of flat, and if she occasionally comes across like Gwen Stefani's lazy younger sister, this is probably because none of the vocal lines are that exciting. Standout track "Frostbite" indicates what they might be capable of, creating a pleasantly hazy Madder Rose feel that is augmented by some dramatic yet ungratuitous voilin phrases as the climax.

Sadly this release doesn't have any of the danger, ugliness and brooding menace we expect from a CD with a dead rose on the front, by a band with a professed love of melodic goth and "sexual deviancy". It all sounds a bit exhausted and resolutely unthreatnening. The fairytales in which At Risk place their faith are surely not the dark, twisted psychodramas of the Brothers Grimm; more likely a shiny knock off from The Works, full of bright, ugly illustrations and drab stories about anthropomorphic fishmonger pigs losing thier wallets.

Render Unto Cesar Romero...

The last BBC review I have in my annals. There may be more I've lost; if you find one that I haven't posted, blah blah, who the fuck am I kidding? Anyway, it's not that good, except for the line about Hannon, N. & Pop, I. that I shamelessly recycled for a recent Smilex review.

SMILEX/AT RISK, Cellar, 11/04

At Risk certainly took me back. The play just the sort of music that lttle local bands used to play when I first sneaked underage into gigs some years ago. Sadly, I thought that this harmless, ever-so-slightly gothic, indie rock was dull at the time, and the intervening years have done nothing to change my opinion. At Risk are just very dull, unfortunately. They're not terrible, and they're no worse than any number of bands, but there isn't much to say about them. I fear that the songs are non-starters, but it may help if they played a little less sloppily and if the singer didn't employ an odd strangulated tone (imagine Avril Lavigne having a crack at Mark & Lard's tight-throat style). I need something exciting after that...I wonder whether Smilex will do the trick...?

I heard the recording of Smilex' "Sex 4 Sale" and I confess it didn't grab me. People told me that when I saw the live show I'd understand, and the Lee was an astounding frontman. Again, I'll admit to having my doubts: taking your shirt off and jumping about have pretty low mileage with me.

Anyway, I'm proud to admit I was completely wrong. Lee's antics are original and, seemingly, spontaneous, as he throws himself around the room, drenching the audience with water, looking like a tiny, horrific cross between Neil Hannon and Iggy Pop. Still, these shenanigans are really only a mild distraction, when there's music of such sleazy quality.

The rhythm section grabs every track with the insane ferocity of Cujo in a butcher's warehouse, providing a tight springboard for the eyeball-popping vocal howls. The real star, however, is the guitarist, who throws out squalls of sound that seem uncontrolled, but weave beautifully into the rhythmic twists of the songs. It's a paradoxical effect, like watching tornado with right angles. The audience soon forget the liquid being sprayed over them by an over-zealous singer, and concentrates on the searing rock missives.

Let's be realistic, this band won't change your life, but for 45 minutes they will make it much, much more fun. And probably much more damp.