Jim Bob - Angelstrike!
Jared O'Mara 24/11/2004
There seems to be a paradigm in the music world of middle aged men producing works of brilliance. Lou Reed reached what was arguably his solo pinnacle as a fortysomething with his New York album, Primal Scream's garage rock, vowel free jizzfest XTRMNTR was made with their youth-hood firmly in their past and the likes of Ian Brown and Ian McCulloch are still going strong, the latter's most recent solo outing, Slideling, being as good as any of his much revered 80s albums with his band Echo and the Bunnymen. When adding the likes of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Nick Cave, Leonard Cohen and, of course, erstwhile Carter USM front man Jim Bob to that list, you can only be eternally grateful that music is subject to no retirement age. Musicians are like fine wines, they are at their finest when they reach a certain age.
If there was a vineyard in the New Cross area of London then their home-grown Jim Bob and his latest offering Angel Strike would certainly be on a par with the 1787 Chateau d'Yquem (sold at auction for $56,588). The only problem is that wine that old, like the hypothetical wine if there was a vineyard in the smog of New Cross, would taste like piss. So maybe not. You know what I mean though I'm sure, pop into your local Tescos with a tenner and they'll definitely be able to provide you with a wine as utterly succulent and entrancing as this album (fook, I sound like that batty cow Jilly Goolden- my dad fancy's her*! Erm, what the feck has that got to do with this album review? Erm.. Nothing er… *ahem*)
As I'm now in the third paragraph of this review, I feel it's only pertinent that I make some attempt to describe the music on the album, instead of making lame metaphors and generally being an unfunny twat, so erm, here goes: There are 17 tracks on the album and they're all really, really, really, er, good.
Fuck it, I'll hold my hands up and admit I'm having an off day. It ain't my fault, it's cos I'm a little hung over and a lot horny (oops, the words “too”, “much” and “information” spring immediately to mind there, soz). The best thing I can say to you is that, if you like catchy indie pop in the vein of a southern Pulp, witty lyrics in the vein of a southern Morrissey (“You've got less Soul than a Boyband” Fookin' Class!!!) and feral, yet lovelorn, irreverence in the vein of a southern Buzzcocks, then just buy the fuckin' album cos it's dead fuckin' good.
There you go, now I'm off back to bed and I'll be lulled by this album and probably have krazee dreams about cool as fuck cockney solo-artists (or maybe not, I'm more likely gonna dream about Girls Aloud and a tub of margarine- Fuck, yes, I know, I know, too much information again! Sorry!). Anyway, night night…
* I must point out that my dad doesn't actually fancy Jilly Goolden- not even he, the sire of a loon like me, is that bonkers.