Well, it’s not down there with Shitmat or Cradle of Filth, but as a band name, Mundane Sands, evocative only of a condom-strewn beach at the unfashionable end of Margate is pretty dire. Why do musicians, as part of an ever more fragmented smorgasbord of twenty-first century pop music and presumably desperate for a bit of attention, deliberately give themselves a moniker that invites ridicule or indifference?
In any event, this debut album has a few decent moments, the group majoring in accordion-heavy folk pop in the vein of The Band or perhaps even our own Les Clochards, though the idiom is more Anglo-American than Gallic. The songwriting is solid, unshowy, occasionally moving and unapologetically old fashioned.
The album starts strongly with ‘Wishing Well’, a sepulchral, twilit ballad which recalls the purposeful, deliberate groove of Robin Trower’s excellent ‘Bridge of Sighs’. Alan Foulkes’ singing is drowsy and engaging, a less soporific Chris Rea, perhaps. Following that, ‘Blow Me Home’ is an amiable sea shanty, less compelling than, for example, We Aeronauts’ ‘Boatswain’s Cry’ but infinitely preferable to the ersatz romanticism of the likes of The Coral.
The first half of ‘Setting Sun’ is a standout, Manchester Baggy played by Morris men, with some attractive cooing from Rachel Hughes on backing vocals, though the coda, an orgy of self indulgent soloing, sounds like ‘Free Bird’ for poor people. Purist folkies will prefer ‘Rathmullan Bay’ which benefits from the bittersweet vocals of Georgie Stickells and some plangent fiddling, though Foulkes’ lack of discipline allows the song to meander on to excessive length. It’s bad news when the band seems to be having more fun than the audience.
A lot of people will admire the elegantly wasted country rock elegy ‘Goodbye Mrs Robinson’, but as a fanatical lover of The Band, I reckon it’s too strongly derivative of ‘The Weight’ to qualify as a classic. Still, Foulkes’ bruised baritone, worldly-wise and regretful, conjures a universe of disillusion.
Though as mentioned, there are some pleasant, evocative folk songs on this record, the performances really could be a lot tighter. In particular, many of them are extended beyond their natural lives by guitar solos which seem to go on forever, and none of which are unduly brilliant, often coming over as passable imitations of Mark Knopfler’s more somnambulistic efforts. Indeed, sometimes it sounds like the song has only stopped because the guitarist, momentarily looking up from his exertions, has noticed that the bar has got Ringwood’s Old Thumper back on. In summary: more, please, but less.