For those of you that don't know, Gomez won the Mercury Music Prize way back in 1998 for their debut release, Bring It On, and they've been the darlings of the British hype machine ever since. Considering how well blues-inspired rock of the Gomez variety seems to fare overseas, that probably shouldn't be a surprise, either. Not that there's anything fundamentally wrong with blues-rock. Last I checked, the Rolling Stones are/were fairly well regarded, and I think a couple of people enjoy the White Stripes, among others. If only Gomez could pull it off, too.
Problem is, Gomez is to the blues as Blink-182 is to punk. The work of these blokes from Southshore, England is sometimes said to be reminiscent of Mississippi delta blues, and every time I hear that my heart breaks for John Lee Hooker. In fact, did you know that B.B. King decided to sell his soul and shill for Burger King as a direct result of listening to Gomez' second album, Liquid Skin? It's true, and the crimes against music don't end there. Gomez has seen fit to unleash a third installment in their war against discerning audiophiles everywhere, and they call it In Our Gun.
If anemic blues guitar riffs and half-assed attempts at white-boy soul were the only problems with In Our Gun, it might almost be passable. Instead, perhaps sensing their own shortcomings with the music's source material, Gomez searches far and wide for musical gimmicks to prop up their limp Britpop-meets-New Orleans aesthetic. What better way to bolster weak-kneed compositions than by making half-hearted stabs at a dozen other genres as well? Everything from jazz sax to watered-down electronica is crammed into thirteen tracks, and they feel even hollower for the addition of these excesses. The result is a Frankenstein's monster of an album-- overwrought and disjointed, executed with some technical precision, but completely devoid of any flow, feeling, or spontaneity.
It certainly doesn't help that these tracks, marginal compositions to begin with, seem to have been completely defanged by glossy production techniques. This album is cleaner than Howard Hughes' bedroom, and the songs might have benefitted from some roughness around the edges. The lone exception to most of these criticisms is the title track, which actually succeeds a little despite the album's missteps. "In Our Gun" is somber and tense, with a surprisingly soulful chorus and, not coincidentally, it's also the most tastefully spare song present. According to guitarist Ian Ball, the song was inspired by the 2000 U.S. election fiasco, which is evident in such typically incisive lyrics as, "It's been carefully planned by the ones you won't see/ Send out the monkeys, they come out of the bushes/ To piss in the punch and then smash up the decks." Scary thing is, that's the best of the bunch.
"Shot Shot," "Detroit Swing 66," and "Ruff Stuff" also seem to show promise, but fail to develop into anything worth listening to more than once. In Our Gun is at its best (and I use that word loosely) when it appears to actually construct something out of the formless soup of musical genres it flirts with. At its worst, it's the music playing nonstop in fraternity hell after all the noisy, drunken jocks have left the party to go screw passed-out cheerleaders and the only people left are the quiet, introspective drunken jocks-- move over, Dave Matthews!
In the end, though, all this ranting's just one man's opinion. If the British music press is to be believed, then rest assured that every single loyal Englishman thinks Gomez is the cat's pajamas. In fact, if you listen closely, you might just be able to hear an islandful of people simultaneously proclaim me a 'stupid git.' Er, bring it on!
