The Rakes - Klang
Oh such joy! Be still my beating heart, a British band to get excited about again! So many years had passed since Richey Edwards took his mystery taxi journey into oblivion I had almost given up hope of anyone coming along to do something interesting and demand my attention. Almost. After witnessing the entire nation fighting over who should triumph out of blur and Oasis, like umpiring a debate over whether drinking bleach is better than inhaling carbon monoxide, it seemed that any hope for the future was futile. Not so my friends, not so.
The Rakes, like so many before them, had to go to Berlin to find their muse and my how those cheap Easyjet flights have paid off. This album is the sound of dirty, pornographic sex in the gutter, a messy, sticky kiss on the lips from a teenage whore; sure you might baulk at the idea of it now but you won’t resist the temptation so easily when it is thrust into your face.
And how it thrusts; this is an album to shake your scrawny ass to on the dancefloor or in the bedroom. The Rakes, like louche vampires, have sucked the vitality, tunes and excitement out of the likes of the Libertines, Strokes and Franz Ferdinand and confidently spat them back into our tired, bored faces, keeping direct eye contact at all times. They even have the temerity to desecrate the souls of the Gang of Four by subverting their worthy, jagged, funk with the debauched, unworthy bitchin’ in the kitchen. Time to wake up from this slumber.
There’s nothing devilishly complicated at work here, they’ve written some essential tunes which are all performed in a delightfully unhinged fashion over jagged guitars, thumping bass and driving drums. Neither is it all filthy sex and hedonism, they even have time to spare in this brief (30 minutes) album for some politics as they deconstruct the fall of Communism in 1989.
I advise you to purchase this album without delay, invite the Rakes into your empty lives and let them fill your void; but don’t let them stay the night.