No, they're not a PC reincarnation of the Dead Kennedys-- try instead the Clash chewed up and spit out by an Orwellian FCC. While the members of Liverpool upstarts the Dead 60s clearly sleep with a copy of London Calling under their pillows, their music propagates the libertine Franz Ferdinandian mantra "we just wanna make girls dance." Not to say that a dearth of politics in music is necessarily damning, but without that sneer directed towards the powers-that-be, the Dead 60s take on reactionary bands like the Clash and Gang of Four mires in half-baked ska and paradoxically insouciant punk rock. In short, the Dead 60s may be as ill-equipped for the punk revival pantheon as they are for a spot on CNN's "Crossfire".
Case in point, these guys are already rubbing elbows on tour with new wave charlatans the Killers and the Bravery. I won't arraign by association though, especially since first Dead 60s single, "Riot Radio", does itself in, reeking of stale minor chord progressions and the same hi-hat happy drumming that's sanctified dancing for klutzy white dudes since "Somebody Told Me". Yes, this song and others on the album have "movement" and "energy" and any other shibboleth your local DJ will spout out, but there's a troubling fear to deviate too far from the standardized "punk" sound.
Perhaps as a reaction to their self-imposed musical limitations, the Dead 60s rebel by championing drinking, womanizing and nearly any other possible form of debauchery. Single "Loaded Gun" lusts for a femme fatal who's "got a loaded gun pointed at me," but, while its art-funk virility shines as the album's standout, frontman Matt McManamon's uninspired lounge vocals fail to effectively play off the song's martini-cool 007 guitar riffs. Alcohol anthem "Horizontal" laments modern day vicissitudes with radio-friendly nihilism, climaxing with the drab line "I wanna be horizontal." McManamon's sour countenance gets downright comical on closer "You're Not The Law", where McManamon's petulant reggae wail flawlessly mimics Sublime's Brad Nowell.
Despite the pea-brained lyrics and predictable songwriting, the Dead 60s at least sincerely appreciate their influences, as opposed to most revivalist poseurs who often appear to hate the bands they imitate. After all, the first thirty seconds of the album clearly establish the band's purpose-- to have a good time playacting as their rock idols. Even their name suggests an immutable focus on the past, and this self-titled debut certainly isn't bequeathing anything new to posterity. Hey, at least they're honest.
