It’s an iron law of nature that no two species can occupy precisely the same niche. In practical terms, this means that if the red squirrel eats the same grub, lives in the same place and suffers from the same spectrum of diseases and parasites as it’s pesky grey competitor, then eventually one will render the other extinct. As the grey is bigger, randier and possesses that American can-do spirit it will eventually win.
You may be asking what this has to do with a more-than-decent Oxford rock band. Well, like The Scholars last month, The Elrics are a group which sound, at least on first listen, to be terribly derivative, with entire passages sounding as if they have been cribbed directly from the songbook of Oasis, Green Day or even The Beatles. However, when they get it right, they don’t quite occupy the same niche as these elder statesmen, and are therefore worth hearing, because a new generation of music lovers have probably never heard of, say, ‘Taxman’ and won’t spot the obvious similiarities to The Elrics ‘Sleeplessness Creeping In’. In other words, the Elrics may occupy the same space as their heroes, but not the same time.
Less complicatedly, the record rocks. ‘She Doesn’t Exist’ may have the same whiny singing as much of ‘American Idiot’, but it has a winning bounce and confidence that is pure Iggy Pop and should sound fantastic down the Cellar with Jimmy Evil opening up the throttle at the desk. I even like the minimalist guitar solo at the end, tossed off with quiet nonchalance. They know they have something good here, so no need to shred. Production, by The Candyskins’ John Halliday is big, beefy, unfussy and right.
Much less strong is the Oasis B-side wannabe that is ‘Nothing Truly’. Or at least we have the requisite lazy, mid-tempo strummed electric guitar and by-the-numbers guitar solo patented by those ubiquitous Britrock dinosaurs. The only things missing are a Manc sneer and the lyrics ‘say what you want to say’ to complete the dismal paradigm.
The band snap back into focus on ‘Sleeplessness Creeping In’. George Harrison isn’t around to complain about the liberties taken with his hymn to rock-star selfishness, but Halliday has taken advantage of the fact that the Elrics’ drummer isn’t Ringo, and given him a mighty sound which transmits to the whole thing enormous energy and groove. The lyrical theme borrows from earlier Green Day (think ‘Basket case’), with its apparent emphasis on mental derangement, but the whole sounds as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.
I think I like the Elrics best when they are brash, bold, long-haired and grooving. Hearing them isn’t a life-changing experience, but the unaffected youthfulness of their best songs, even when they are appealing to songs recorded in 1966, remind you of why you liked rock in the first place, rather than jazz, rhumba or Mongolian throat chant. Rock isn’t dead: like Judge Holden in ‘Blood Meridian’ it will never die.