Welsh trio Mclusky is compact, stocky, spastic, and duck's-ass tight. They're also giddy and utterly daft. But buzzing through two-minute power-punk tunes like teen boys who've found a landmine and can't wait to huck rocks at it, Mclusky are, more than anything, tremendous, stupid fun. And no question about it: they've got impact like knocking skulls in a bar fight.
Recorded in Chicago with Steve Albini, Mclusky's second album takes advantage of his knack for making bands sound viciously loud and tight beyond comprehension, thereby trumping their interesting but unfocused UK debut, 2000's My Pain and Sadness is More Sad and Painful Than Yours. "Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues" kicks it off, with Mat Harding's drums rolling like hubcaps down a hillside into the power-riff bash of Jon Chapple's bass and Andy Falkous's buzzsaw guitar; they're so on cue that the only random element is Falkous's vocals, as he sticks keening wails, frenzied gibbering, and diaphragm-tearing shouts into the comic crime story lyrics. In fact, due undoubtedly to Albini's production and the erratic vocals, Mclusky have recently been compared to the Pixies: they have the same knack for taking essentially straight-up songs and wracking them with nervous energy. Of course, unlike vintage Black Francis, Falkous's vocals don't sound maniacal or out of control; they're just deftly witty and humorously exaggerated.
Most of Mclusky Do Dallas holds this pace, but infectiously poppy songwriting always girds the extreme elements. This works to keep the mood varied, as the band stretches out barbed-wire guitar lines like the one on "Collagen Rock", or follows the easy stride and sudden fits of a song like "Alan is a Cowboy Killer". And frankly, American teen skater bands wish they could write a power-punk anthem as instantly unforgettable and insanely insidious as "Day of the Deadringers". Yet, Mclusky also admirably deliver on an entirely different level: check the stark contrast of "Fuck This Band", an extremely quiet track consisting of almost nothing but a bassline and Falkous's weary moans.
Despite the band's tightrope tension, however, their sense of humor may be their most successful element. These guys are plain obnoxious. It's not that they crack first-grade jokes about herpes and bloodfarts-- they just have a way of combining crass taunts with awesome non-sequiturs. One track opens, "All of your friends are cunts/ Your mother is a ballpoint pen thief." Or the line from their single "To Hell with Good Intentions": "My love is bigger than your love/ We take more drugs than a touring funk band, sing it!"
That's all good for a few chuckles, but the humor helps to lighten the harsh crunch of their mom-murdering instrumental beatdown-- their intensity is balanced by the fact that they're just damn entertaining. It gives them an outlet for the edginess and a way to take the piss out of themselves. And while it also makes them less revolutionary, it does make them more enjoyable. "So, they're original, but are they challenging and unusual?" Not so much. But don't you get enough of that? This is only one of the tightest, jumpiest, straight-up rock albums around.
