Bog people and talking dogs with dental problems, a wellness shaman and meth-smoking miscreants: Viagra Boys’ fourth LP might have a nightmare-fuel cast, but it also has eclectic, exciting art-punk hooks coming out of every orifice.
That single point of light and a knowing smile is a common thread with Viagra Boys, who, despite taking a more punk-based approach to their singular endeavour, sound pin-sharp and laser focused on their goal, whatever that happens to be. What they have to say may be veiled in allegory and buried beneath sarcasm and piss-taking, but it still isn’t that difficult to find. Unremarkable men in tracksuits they may be, but on this album, there’s more funk than a cowshed’s guttering and enough great titles alone to earn them kudos. After all, unless it’s related to the chorus, the thought a band puts into titling a song may tell you a lot.
This theory starts us off neatly at “Man Made Of Meat“, a dissection of masculinity and its various social standings, as singer Sebastian Murphy consistently puts himself in the first-person narrative, the firing line where no artist is allowed to be with irony. This sounds not dissimilar to that other well-known Swedish punk band, The Hives, though they are a more linear, obvious outfit. Spiked, aggressive riffs, short and staccato, characterise the beginning of this record, sonically bass heavy and occasionally reminiscent of LCD Soundsystem, it is a great opening track, surly, snarly and danceable, and an outstanding video, that via Tony Hancock’s The Rebel, layers another meaning on top, in case of dissemination.
“The Bog Body” may be a short essay on beauty standards, or it may be completely literal, but importantly, it does feature a full verse on the difference between a swamp and a bog, so it’s at least educational. Resolutely old school musically, it’s beautifully bass-heavy and from the Pistols/Dead Boys/Damned school of acceleration and also has a brilliant and pointed video worth watching for the genuine unsettling strangeness of the Bog Lady alone. “Uno II” is, for all intents and purposes, an ‘80s pop-rock chart hit, a la The Bangles or The Cars and sounds great for it, a tale of Xenophobia and self-obsession that will hopefully find its way to Classic Rock radio without notice.
Like the Amyl And The Sniffers album, there’s a lot going on here, under the surface, but you’re not obliged to take that dive, even if you should. Ultimately, the surface sounds great too, and all culture meant as art has other meanings. “Pyramid Of Health” has the arrangement of ‘90s pop-grunge classics, the Husker Du/Pixies motif and it is employed to excellent effect over lyrics reflecting the selling out of the hippie dream, or possibly a real-time witnessing of the Mescal worm. There are mentions of bodily health in this and “Uno II“, perhaps an underlying concern after so much touring.
“Dirty Boyz” is a discofied arse shaker with a Scissor Sisters swagger and enough sass to silence Tik-Tok, in a sane world it would be a huge hit song or become culturally significant after some obscure remix finds it used at every sports event, but that is for the future to decide, it will put a smile on your face regardless. “Medicine For Horses”, if you forget the deeply wonderful lyrics, sounds similar to early Go-Betweens, with that same world-weary longing and broken desire, but there doesn’t appear to be any songs written by McLennan or Forster about having the freedom to be kicked to death by horses. The whole lyric deserves to be singled out as immaculate poetry, but ..” I need your credit card; I need to pay a guy to get my pineal gland re-calcified..” is next-level brilliance.
There’s a level of uncapitalised genius at work, as the running means you don’t notice the cross-genre perfection at work. Same with the aesthetic, the exaggerated postmodernism, it all just works.
“Waterboy” is a great example of the band’s ability to inhabit the characters they sing about from that first-person perspective, while the mix of keyboard and guitar riff makes a sound like a beefed-up Elastica, and more health concerns played out as personality traits. “Store Policy“, meanwhile, is possibly about the gentrification of our neighbourhoods by pony-tailed men and their floral-dressed wives, buying up cheap housing stock for profit with a smile, but it is definitely a cracking, post-acid-house chemical boogie, another almost industrial swipe of excellence in a long line. “You N33d Me” is a dancefloor-packing monster about Toxic Masculinity, or loneliness, or both.
“Best In Show pt.IV” hinges on yet another monumental bass line, handclaps, but no actual drums, that still move majestically, while musing on the vagaries of organised religion. It moves almost unnoticed into a Stooges LA Blues type saxophone breakdown of unexpected but welcome magnificence, skronking all the way to church.
The final song “River King” appears to be a heartfelt love song, a piano-led thing about the ease of love and Chinese food, It is an interesting way to end the album. “Fully Robot Rock” compatible, an inspired collision of Mark E Smith, James Murphy and Jello Biafra, this collection of unreconstructed, deconstructed, and reconstructed punk-funk wonder is as good as modernism gets.
The Fat Angel Sings 