It’s been all go for the boys recently, as they’ve
just released their new album M.O.R. (One Little
Indian), and undertake an Irish tour in support of it
in October (Savoy, Cork, 10th; Tripod, Dublin, 11th;
Forum, Waterford, 12th; Mandela Hall, Belfast, 14th;
Dolan’s Warehouse, Limerick, 15th; Radisson, Sligo,
26th). When I caught up with them before their fabulous
live show at The Tripod last July they were in typically
talkative mood, with pre-prepared spiels at the ready
to field in the face of over obvious questions posed
by those they anticipate might be idiot, ill-informed
journalists. Questions like: aren’t those fake
American personae and accents just another kind of imperialist
wank, even more current than post-? I didn’t have
to ask this, as motormouth Jake beats me to the punch:
“It’s not an American accent, it’s
a Rock’n’Roll accent. What does it mean
to say ‘it’s not authentic’ anyway?
Nothing’s authentic anymore, everybody borrows
from everywhere,” he proselytises in the band’s
defence, with apparent postmodern glee. The funny thing
is, given the joyous inventiveness of their output,
this special pleading isn’t really necessary.
Nevertheless, he continues:
“Writers get us. Irvine Welsh gets us. Will
Self gets us,” and I wonder if that’s partly
a consequence of the band’s penchant for parodies
of classic rock titles, like that of their first album,
or ‘Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlife’. Discussing
the genesis of their unique sound, Jake, who does most
of the talking, is equally forthright:
“There isn’t that much difference between
acid house and country, really. They’re both about
gathering around a fire in a field, getting loaded,
and singing about missing a girl or trying to meet a
girl.” Maybe, but it was also probably just a
simple desire to meld the new stuff they were listening
to in the present with the classic roots they loved
from the past. Dancing in the front room at the party,
then sitting around the kitchen table with a guitar
later.
Talk turns to the new album. Why the unrepresentative
title?
“Because it fits with the trajectory of Alabama
3 throughout the years,” offers Rob, for a change.
“We started out as white honkies trying to do
blues and country music, so it's almost inevitable that
we end up like all the other acts who attempted similar
– The Eagles, Led Zeppelin – as washed-up
cokeheads in their 40s, full of a slimy, mid-70s decadence.
That's us, pretty much: living on the edge in the
middle-of-the-road,” as a line from the title
track has it.
Well, they have put their own spin on The Eagles’
‘Hotel California’, on 2000’s Le
Peste. But how far are the tongues in the cheeks
this time? They remain politically engage,
with lead single ‘Lockdown and Loaded’ concerning
the UK’s hapless prison system, a result of the
band’s ongoing work with the Miscarriages of Justice
Organisation (MOJO to you).
All in all, this son of a Scottish Stalinist union
organiser and this son of Welsh Jehovah’s Witnesses
haven’t done too badly for themselves, while remaining
true to their roots – even if the inclusion
of ‘Woke Up this Morning’ on The Sopranos’
soundtrack hasn’t spelt the instant riches everyone
suspects, but only enabled them to “pay a few
debts”. As Rob puts it, depreciating himself behind
a smokescreen of druggy insouciance:
“Look, I come from a two-bedroom council house
in south Wales; I've come a long way. My job means that
I can get up with a hangover every morning, lie on the
sofa with a big spliff, then wander over to the studio
and mumble into a microphone for half an hour before
disappearing off down the pub. What's not to love?”
Which attitude probably informs another standout track
from the album, ‘Monday Don’t Mean Anything
(To Me)’ (and yes, that can be shortened to yet
another sly acronym, MDMA).
Based on this encounter, these are top blokes. They’ve
a fine body of work behind them, and a great new album
to promote, so don’t miss them on this tour.
First published in Magill, October/November
2007