Does John McKeown qualify as a cult icon? Better yet, is the title of his new trio 1990s an ode to his brief time in the UK indie spotlight? More specifically, is "Cult Status", from Cookies, his first effort with his new trio, as autobiographical as it is sarcastic? Those familiar with the past 15 or so years of Glaswegian indie pop no doubt remember McKeown as the frontman for the provincially popular and gleefully acerbic Yummy Fur, a group whose ranks once boasted two current members of Franz Ferdinand. After tiring of all things guitar, though, McKeown disbanded the Fur as the 90s wound down, tried some electronic side-projects for a bit, and as of 2005 was keeping a low profile by Glasgow party-hopping. All the while his cult status-- the sort created by the fervent fans who loved the band's early 7" singles and wonderful capstone Sexy World-- keeping him, or at least his minor legend, alive. Enough so that at an early gig, despite McKeown only wanting 1990s to serve as a fun diversion, the band was spotted, recruited, and signed by Rough Trade's Geoff Travis.
Fur-followers know McKeown's musical lineage: borderline genius/recluse Alex Chilton, sunny 60s American pop, and the cockiest stuff CBGB's had to offer. Suitably, then, 1990s bring hooks, sneers and, well, intoxicants to spare, with the punched-up sheen of a production budget to boot (helmed by ex-Suede guitarist Bernard Butler). Combine with the druggy glee of Supergrass' I Should Coco and the Streets' Original Pirate Material, bake thoroughly, and you have Cookies. The record is also the sound of a reveler reinvigorated, shoved into a decidedly larger public eye and loving every minute of it, in his own way. How else to explain the refrain from "Enjoying Myself": "I'm just enjoying myself/ And maybe, you can enjoy me too"? The irresistible T. Rex bubblegum of the Norman Blake-produced first single "You Made Me Like It", a genuinely grateful ode to music recommendations, is more evidence. Cookies' glittering apex, however, is the slyly passionate "Meet Me At the Lights", which stamps toward its wordless chorus with abandon ("Get out/ To a bar"), and still stops briefly, protracting the last word of the elaboration "Get out like a blonde gets out of a car."
Well, as might be expected with a record made by a relentless partier and non-stop sin-indulger, much of Cookies also contains a sort of confused bitterness. To the band's (and no doubt Butler's) credit, though, even the acrimonious anthem "You're Supposed to Be My Friend" inspires more foot stomping than frowning. The guitars are the key, quickly changing from an irritated scratch to, on the chorus, the rousing axe-uniformity of the Undertones' "Teenage Kicks". "Switch" also solicits an attitude change to cease a buzz-kill ("Is there a switch for that?/ Switch it back"), buffering it with the swagger of pompadoured Bowery dweller Mink DeVille.
And then the dope kicks in, leading to McKeown's probably unavoidable advice: "Why don't you start taking drugs again/ You were never funnier/ Than you were back then." It's the sort of occurrence that leads to an uncomfortable late-night pub silence, broken when he falls off his stool and is dragged to the car by his mates. The same effect happens when the brooding "Weed" begins Cookies' last quarter. With the non-sequitor flair of someone who's had too much, the always well-intentioned McKeown then segues into a bit of paranoid self-loathing: "I'm even scared of the telephone/ And I don't even got one." That's McKeown's central charm, and that of Cookies on the whole: even at his lowest moments, he's willing to crack a joke at his own expense. "Weed" is followed by the punchier "Thinking of Not Going", essentially two fondly remembered vignettes of getting high, and then "Situation", the closest the band comes to actually making drug music. 1990s' early existence involved playing as the backing band for a solo Damo Suzuki (!), and the five-minute closer is rife with gurgling bass and, in the middle, an extended krautrock-style jam. A strange change of pace? Sure. An appropriately outré finale for a record devoted to having fun at all costs? Definitely.
