The View - Hats Off To The Buskers

Like a scavenging city fox, January’s radio play-list champion, The View’s ‘Same Jeans’ has thrilled the impressionable, and pissed off everyone else. Alongside The Fratellis, these Dundonian teens appear to be riding the third wave of modern mainstream ‘indie’ with greatest ease. Yet ‘Same Jeans’ has done for them what ‘Chelsea Dagger’ has done for their contemporaries; given an unjust impression of the residual LP.

‘Hats Off…’ captures a similarly unique spirit to the Stones’ ‘Exile’ and Aerosmith’s ’76 magnum opus ‘Rocks’. The images of the inner-sleeve aren’t far from either’s principle too; the principle that the most productive a rock band can be is in party-mode, as clearly snapped and pasted – although in the same excessive instinct as their predecessors, I doubt - into a collage reflecting their scruff-trendy ethos. It is particularly representative of mainstream pop-culture north of the border. The imagery of Scotland’s well-documented junkie-outcast culture in ‘Skag Trendy’ is perfected by Falconer’s rugged Dundonian tongue, “She didn’t acknowledge his cry for‘elp, she just choocked him oout”.

Although throwbacks to The Libertines and Oasis will always be predictable, echoings of less banal roots are heard in opener ‘Comin Down’, with prominent hints of Jane’s Addiction’s scrawnily energetic cock rock. There are perhaps less-surprising examples of The Clash’s punk-reggae merge in ‘The Don’ and the excellent previous single ‘Superstar Tradesman’.

Their very own status amongst hormonal youth positions them well to make shrewd oberservations of the sub-cultures surrounding them. Whether it’s indie kid annoyance with jocks' vain ignorance in ‘Same Jeans’ and ‘Wasted Little Djs,’ or the honest realisation of ‘Gran’s for Tea’ that sometimes teens would just rather opt for the civilised day out away from the pride-indulged mob. Their astute portrait of adolescence is impressive; if there is to be one modern record remembered as an integral account of British youth in the noughties, ‘Hats Off To The Buskers’ might well have a case. For those (understandably) suffering from the aching third wave of current British sheep-rock, save the bullet for, I don't know, Johnny Borrell.



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