If I’d gone to journalism school rather than just gaining pre-employment experience arseing around the Michigan Daily offices reading copies of Melody Maker, I’d have learned that one rule in writing is that I should “know my audience.” And I’m pretty sure that, in this case, a large portion of my audience has already decided that they just might hate the Darkness. I hope not, because making snap judgments—especially ones based on anything except, y’know, what’s coming out of your speakers and whether or not it engages you—seems like a bit of a foolish thing to do. If you’re that convinced that the Darkness are a bad post-po-mo joke unfairly unleashed on the world, turn back now, listen to the new Books album, and feel safe in the knowledge that most of the Pitchfork staff probably thinks I’m nuts.
The Darkness are from England and they wear things like open-chested catsuits and tight trousers. Sometimes these outfits are made of leather; sometimes they have animal prints. The band members sport long hair and look like they stepped off the stage at Castle Donington circa 1980. To a lot of people, this means the Darkness couldn’t possibly be any good. I wrote a one-act, one-man play about this idea titled Proper Rock Fan: Pot Kettle Black. Take a look:
SCENE: Virgin Megastore, Chicago. A Proper Rock Fan scans the Top 40 albums wall.Proper Rock Fan: People are stupid for falling for music like the Darkness. It looks phony, manufactured, and seems to take its image more seriously than its songs. All music like that is shit.[curtain]
Too often, music fans fall for marketing without realizing it. For instance, by refusing to engage with a band like the Darkness on any level solely because of a preconceived notion of what they appear to be “about,” you’d actually be more swayed by marketing and image than the kids checking the disc out on the listening station. Besides, looking silly—or at least risking looking silly—can only be good for a band like the Darkness. Big Guitar Rock, after all, used to be silly. It used to be pretty good, too. AC/DC, Queen, Black Sabbath, Kiss, and Led Zeppelin (have you seen The Song Remains the Same?) were all absurd. Claiming any allegiance with the devil and buying Aleister Crowley’s house are ridiculous prospects. Smashing your instruments and lighting your guitar on fire are both pretty stupid-looking, too, when you get right down to it. But that’s the whole problem with rock right now: It doesn’t do those things anymore. There’s nothing heroic about it, nothing demonstrative, nothing to capture the imagination.
So, then, what do the Darkness sound like? Well, they’re a blend of ’70s pomp-rock, early ’80s metal, and bombastic, shiny arena rock. What they do well might be best exemplified by “I Believe in a Thing Called Love,” which most effectively pairs their sense of theatricality and grandiosity with their penchant for great pop hooks. Meanwhile, “Black Shuck” channels AC/DC (there really ought to be a lightning bolt key), “Growing on Me” throws back to David Lee Roth–era Van Halen, and “Love Is a Only a Feeling” invokes ’70s rock ballad extravagance. Elsewhere, “Stuck in a Rut,” “Get Your Hands Off of My Woman,” and “Holding My Own” demonstrate the range of singer Justin Hawkins’ voice as it flits between all the classic rock modes: flamboyant, delicate, gravely. They also have a delightful glam track called “Friday Night” that very nicely highlights his posh vowel sounds.
Granted, that’s a lot of “improper” touchstones on the face of it, but American rock in recent years has included a clutch of updates on classic and arena rock—from the White Stripes to Foo Fighters to Queens of the Stone Age to Smashing Pumpkins. And truth told, the Darkness aren’t even that different from these bands. The Stripes’ “Black Math” or “There’s No Home for You Here,” with their histrionic vocals and high-octane guitar solos, fit the Darkness’ aesthetic to a tee. (And “Ball and Biscuit” is winking conceit. Who’s supposed to be the novelty act again?) The difference is that the Darkness drop the tortured-artist shtick and write paeans to the unbridled joy of love where Jack White would be more inclined to grumble about the death of the sweetheart and chide a world that cares “about nothing that is long term” in the liner notes of a record he made with his ex-wife.
Tellingly, America’s No. 1 movie at the moment, School of Rock, is built on the premise that rock is a relic relegated to history books as something kids need to be taught (after all, they’re not learning about it in the streets). It lovingly regurgitates classic ’70s guitar-god clichés for examples. When it comes down to it, the best youth culture is dangerous and offbeat and audacious, and currently, rock is none of those things. It’s no wonder that this week, for the first time, the Top 10 singles on the Billboard charts are all hip-hop and R&B. By comparison, rock is middle-aged. It has lost its youthful swagger and instead acquired the sheepish vanity that comes with expanding waistlines and thinning hair. Perhaps it was inevitable, but if a mid-life crisis is in the cards, I can’t think of a more entertaining one than the Darkness.
