If they are The Repeats, whom are they repeating? The cheeky answer, which happens to be about ninety five per cent accurate, is The Strokes.Yup, and if, like your reviewer, you harbour a passing nostalgia for the talented NY poseurs, then there’s plenty to enjoy in this demo. I like both Tom Northey’s boozy wail, lustily channelling Julian Casablancas (who himself made a career of aping Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde-era amphetamine angel) and Julian Bacharach’s inventive combination of ancient Hammond organs and big, stupid eighties-synth washes. On the other hand, the drumming and general time-keeping of the band is atrocious- we don’t want Phil Collins predictability in every band, but on a song like ‘Hot Shower, Cold Shower’ the train is teetering queasily on the rails and the emergency services are on red alert.
The songwriting is highly derivative of course, but it has a good-tempered goof-off easiness which neuters criticism. ‘Shiver’ is a cranky old grid, as Molesworth might say, but as late-night material for ecstatic, sozzled caterwauling it could scarcely be bettered, and the performance is shambolic but spirited. (As an aside, shouldn’t there be a law against kids so tender in years writing ‘When I was young…’ in their lyrics’?) The disco experiment of ‘Comfort Call’ is a qualified failure, as the big tunes which make ‘Hot Shower’ and ‘Shiver’ instantly memorable have been left behind in the cloakroom, although to be fair the rhythm section has created a decent, danceable groove.
So, The Repeats are swaggering, puppyish, ill-disciplined and personable. If you go and see them live (and do) don’t expect to stroke your chin at any point in the evening, but expect to serenade the moon and the neighbours with their warmly alcoholic anthems on your way home.