The House of Britpop is probably more incestuous than most royal families. After a burst of bands like Blur, Pulp, Oasis, Suede, Supergrass, holding the patriarchical line (with Elastica and Sleeper shrugging off their motherly duties after a year or two) ?We had all these bizarre black sheeps, deformities and strange cousins: The Music, Super Furry Animals, Libertines, Lily Allen, Starsailor, Travis, Muse,? Gay Dad (still births count, too.) And if you were going throw in the great uncles still doing hard drugs (Spiritualized) and the quiet cousin everyone suspects might be gay (Belle and Sebastian is only the most obvious choice.), it’s very obvious that someone was drinking during the pregnancy.
In the case of Leicester-based Kasabian, that heavy drinker must have been one of the Gallagher brothers. For a band whose eponymous debut was described by some publications as what The Stone Roses should have done after their debut, the bar was raised high. And then people started comparing them to Oasis. Which is funny, considering Liam Gallagher is basically just a carbon copy of Ian Brown anyway.
But there is definitely dispute as to who they really call Mum and Dad. The singer sounds like Noel Gallagher from Oasis, the performance style mimics The Stone Roses, but their musical style sounds like half-baked Primal Scream.
And they’re not sure themselves. Their first album was laden with fuzz-box beats and poorly thought out lyrics. The music occasionally reached a certain electro-trip-hop high, but mostly hulked over the production with a rhythmic attack that made the lyrics seem more subversive and dark than they were. It was edging into pop territory in it’s accessibility, but always pulled back at the last minute with an interlude or unconventional song structure.
But the shadow got to them. After being compared to every Arthurian-savior-that-wasn’t the British music press could find, they tried to rise to the challenge with Empire. It wasn’t a bad idea. Some of their ancestors and legendary influences dabbled in epic soundscapes. But when you follow up an over-the-top romanticized march dressed in English regalia with a piss poor imitation of Primal Scream (“Shoot the Runner,” being one of the most cringe inducing songs on the album), you might want to scale back.
And so, Kasabian seems to have finally accepted they’re nothing more than a bunch of louts with some good dance beats on their third album, West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum. ?Well. Almost.
They’re well aware of how their Britpop elders will feel and do a good job of pretending they don’t care. On the opening track, “Underdog,” lead singer Tom Meighan takes shots at their critics for the build up to their supposed coronation. “Well I’ve been pounding at the pavement/ ‘Til there’s nothing at all/ I got my cloak and dagger/ In a bar room brawl/ See the local loves a fighter/ Loves a winner to fall.” Of course, the lyrics aren’t what is exciting about the track. It’s the updated Madchester beats, mixed with a bit of a resurgent lyrical pop. It’s straddling the line between epic and frivolous: Enough vitriol to match their debut, but enough drive to surpass their talents on Empire.
And really, that’s what Kasabian do best: They groove on a beat, but make it seem more important and urgent than it really is. And considering how stupid some of these lyrics are, that’s an impressive feat. “Where Did all the Love Go?” uses clich?s of blood flowing in the street without ever making you think that they probably could be referring to any period of conflict in the last 60 years. Because you’re too busy dancing.
And for awhile, this skilled subterfuge continues; “Fast Fuse” melds the fuzz-box bass with mutating clappable rhythm that is danceable and fairly interesting in it’s own right; “Take Aim” operates under similar guile, but with a more stripped down dance beat; “Vlad the Impaler” on the other hand sounds like someone had Bez in the studio blowing a whistle while the rest of the band has a rave.
But the difference here is that they still tread back into self-discovery, thinking they may be able to live up to the hype with something different.
They can’t. “Thick as Thieves” is a yo-ho-ho joke that suggests Kasabian only plays acoustic when they’re stoned, “West Rider Silver Bullet” goes in search of new meaning with a two-note alternating bassline backed by vaguely Eastern sounding canned oohs and ahhs but ends up pounding away at drums when they get stuck in the desert and “Roll the Dice” is a downtempo Hard-Fi rip off without the soul.
They almost get back their energy with “Fire,” but fade out with the light cymbal crashes and choir “ooh-ahhs” of “Happiness.”
And it’s a shame they had to turn out this way. Because as much as they strut with this sort of bravado that even their forerunners never approached, they still feel beholden to their legacies. They want to be smart, they want to innovative: They want to be what Oasis and Stone Roses never were able to pull off.
Instead, they should have considered their gene pool, turned on the drum machine and cut their losses.
Two and a half stars out of five.
