In this present age, wherein man is beset on all sides by the twin oppressors of hypocrisy and politesse, there sometimes arises a voice most monstrous in its candour, raw, unfiltered, and foaming with the froth of indignation. Such a voice is that of the ANTI-NOWHERE LEAGUE, whose debut long-player, "We Are… The League", now re-issued in a most handsomely appointed gatefold edition, does return to us like an unruly bastard child, grinning through broken teeth and clutching a gin bottle laced with vitriol.
It is a record not intended for polite drawing rooms nor the parlours of maiden aunts. No, dear reader, this is the noise of the back-alley, the howl of the guttersnipe, the inchoate scream of the misruled and misunderstood. When first it emerged, in that curious spring of 1982, it made not only a stir but a veritable ruckus, climbing to the No.2 rung of the Independent Chart ladder and even breaking into the loftier reaches of the UK National Chart at No.24. A feat not dissimilar to a mud-caked urchin sneaking into the Queen’s own banquet.
The songs, if one may employ so gentle a term, are as follows: "I Hate People" is a sentiment delivered with such glee as to make Mr. Scrooge himself blush—and a mangled, sneering interpretation of "Streets Of London" that turns sentimentality inside out and displays its entrails upon a spike. Each track is a lampoon of society’s hypocrisies, shrieked with all the subtlety of a town crier on laudanum.
In this edition, two additional abominations have been affixed: chief among them, the infamous "So What", is a ballad of depravity so unrepentant it would cause the Reverend Chadband to faint dead away. It is no wonder METALLICA, those brawny colonial bards, did later lift it for their own devices.
The gatefold itself is a most sumptuous relic, resplendent with relics of the time, news clippings, handbills, adverts for gigs held in beer-soaked hellholes and municipal rooms alike. One may, with a glass of sherry and a magnifying lens, observe the rise of this gang of malcontents in the very ink of history.
"We Are… The League" is not so much an album as a broadside. A furious missive from the mob. To listen is to be pelted with metaphorical cabbages by a mob of sneering Cockneys, yet there lies in its rancour a peculiar charm. A document of revolt, painted in bile and wrapped in a jacket of cardboard splendour. I do not recommend it to the faint of heart, the weak of will, or those who prefer Handel to hooliganism. But for the rest. The rebels, the outcasts, the chimney-sweep souls choking on the soot of modernity, it may prove a kind of salvation. Or, at the very least, a fine excuse to shout obscenities at the wall.
Score: 9/10 – A wretched triumph, and all the better for it. Words: Matt Denny.
It is a record not intended for polite drawing rooms nor the parlours of maiden aunts. No, dear reader, this is the noise of the back-alley, the howl of the guttersnipe, the inchoate scream of the misruled and misunderstood. When first it emerged, in that curious spring of 1982, it made not only a stir but a veritable ruckus, climbing to the No.2 rung of the Independent Chart ladder and even breaking into the loftier reaches of the UK National Chart at No.24. A feat not dissimilar to a mud-caked urchin sneaking into the Queen’s own banquet.
The songs, if one may employ so gentle a term, are as follows: "I Hate People" is a sentiment delivered with such glee as to make Mr. Scrooge himself blush—and a mangled, sneering interpretation of "Streets Of London" that turns sentimentality inside out and displays its entrails upon a spike. Each track is a lampoon of society’s hypocrisies, shrieked with all the subtlety of a town crier on laudanum.
In this edition, two additional abominations have been affixed: chief among them, the infamous "So What", is a ballad of depravity so unrepentant it would cause the Reverend Chadband to faint dead away. It is no wonder METALLICA, those brawny colonial bards, did later lift it for their own devices.
The gatefold itself is a most sumptuous relic, resplendent with relics of the time, news clippings, handbills, adverts for gigs held in beer-soaked hellholes and municipal rooms alike. One may, with a glass of sherry and a magnifying lens, observe the rise of this gang of malcontents in the very ink of history.
"We Are… The League" is not so much an album as a broadside. A furious missive from the mob. To listen is to be pelted with metaphorical cabbages by a mob of sneering Cockneys, yet there lies in its rancour a peculiar charm. A document of revolt, painted in bile and wrapped in a jacket of cardboard splendour. I do not recommend it to the faint of heart, the weak of will, or those who prefer Handel to hooliganism. But for the rest. The rebels, the outcasts, the chimney-sweep souls choking on the soot of modernity, it may prove a kind of salvation. Or, at the very least, a fine excuse to shout obscenities at the wall.
Score: 9/10 – A wretched triumph, and all the better for it. Words: Matt Denny.
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