TRIBES - Wish To Scream

Those were the days when reward trips were handed out after a promotion, perhaps backed up by a few good grades. Nowadays a pat on the back, a caress, a hug is denied to no one, not even to the slackers of the situation, and indeed they're just the starting point for something more substantial. Backpack on, hurry home, don't get hurt, off you go on your adventure? Not a chance. A nice first-class ticket and off you fly, destination American dream.

A sudden move, too swift, maybe even unhealthy if you're not used to high altitude. Especially if the pilot gets it into his head to improvise some spectacular manoeuvre: a couple of loop-the-loops, and by the time you finally reach your destination, not even a sacrosanct bout of jet lag could justify the idea of feeling like the offspring of a culture that not only doesn't belong to you, but that deep down you don't actually know - except by hearsay.

Without necessarily having to dust off the classic, outdated blood-sweat-and-tears framework, succinctly known as paying your dues, there's no doubt that Johnny Lloyd and co. have skipped a few too many steps, from Camden to the cover of NME all the way to the recording studios of LA, all without so much as passing go - but causing plenty of damage along the way, such as giving the impression of having the stigmata needed to reinterpret a tradition having only ever looked at the photographs.

We're in the vicinity of a certain singer-songwriter pop-rock, artfully patched together, with folk influences certified by heavy use of acoustic guitar, a tendency towards arena-sized choruses (dreamed of and hoped for), not forgetting the seasoning of a Nicky Hopkins-style boogie piano, electric guitars that, as they say, eat up the miles on some highway, organ swells, and the duly trained rasp of the aforementioned Lloyd.

The result is as many as sixteen songs. An adolescent-style verbal diarrhoea, confirmed by the album's narrative structure, which seems to draw on a ship's log, an impression ratified by the song titles, so blatantly showy. The surprise element is wiped out on the harmonic-melodic front too. Johnny walking like an Englishman on the run down Sunset Boulevard, but he's forgotten to tie his shoelaces, trips, pretends nothing happened, closes his eyes and sings at the top of his lungs imagining a gospel choir answering back, not caring about manners or mocking looks.

Johnny the handsome one dreaming of ending up near a carpet, red perhaps, while a slide guitar "enriches" a dense conversation between Hammond organ and acoustic guitar - and why not throw in a mini sax solo as sunny as the sky over Hollywood? Ever heard of Graceland? Johnny the tousle-haired one certainly has, but he won't make you feel it. C'mon Susie, it's gonna be all right, so says Johnny the gallant, who then invites you for a cheek-to-cheek in some third-rate "Street Dancin'", but with a musical backing that sounds genuine, worthy of a good cover band. You want me to give you America?! Forgive me, Johnny, but I'd rather take another look at my Lonely Planet.

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29/05/2013