Every genre's got its purists. For example, there's the three-chord wheeling, leather-studded punk mavens still preaching musical recklessness and revolution; the mascara-caked new wave gatekeepers now grown-up and working in accounting, still convinced Robert Smith and Morrissey are speaking directly to them; and your techno buffs, who just want things to stay the way they were-- in the year 2412. All are somewhat misguided in their attempts at genre preservation, but none foul it up like the hardcore blues camp. Isn't real blues supposed to be about dungarees, crafting guitar slides from beer bottles, and literally selling your soul to the devil, not the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin?
I bring this up because Lincolnshire's 22-20s (named after a classic Skip James blues song) have accrued more blues cred than BRMC, the White Stripes, and the Kills with their self-titled debut, an offering that seemingly reaches back only to Britain's 1960s usurpation of American blues. However, to actually gauge the blues "purity" of any blues-rock artist today would be pointless. Time would be better spent trying to prove "1" is closer to infinity than "0" than comparing modern bands' faithfulness to Robert Johnson or Muddy Waters. And that's just fine, because blues would still be a derelict in contemporary music if not for some harmless blaspheming.
Not surprisingly, the 22-20s' potency is inversely proportional to their incorporation of traditional blues. Sure, Rolling Stones and CCR are jumping-off points, but the auxiliary genre hopping really makes these songs sizzle. "Shoot Your Gun" and "Such a Fool" sneak in (gasp!) Beatlesque melodies and catchy Cheap Trick cock-pop. Despite its sapless lyrics ("I'm getting bored/ Of putting on a smile"), "Baby Brings Bad News" channels smarmy Britpop, hitting up mid-90s Blur for a wispy, piano-driven chorus. Exempting these three tracks, however, the band shrinks back into its shell, relying on automated blues-rock.
Both "Why Don't You Do It for Me" and "I'm the One" are centered around a knee-slappin' blues lick, but botch opportunities to deliver an equally vibrant chorus and bridge, one of blues rock's most sacred cows. Then there's the rest, which is mostly rehashed Dylan and Fogerty, some innocuous Stevie Ray Vaughn knockoffs, and "The Things That Lovers Do," a laughable regurgitation of Pearl Jam's "Black." Yes, NME's simultaneously shitting and pissing themselves, but the 22-20s evade most of the typical British rock potholes (i.e. histrionics, pretentiousness, unapologetic 60s-aping, among others), and can actually be taken at face value. Now if we could just touch-up the blemishes on that face...
