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The Royal Society

Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster, The Royal Society

This article is more than 19 years old
(No Death)

Grisly bluesabilly with a demonic twist has been a genre populated exclusively by people of Nick Cave's generation. The recentish emergence of Brighton's youthful Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster will safeguard its future for the next few decades. Singer Guy McKnight and cohorts sound as if they've been at it for about 100 years, which gives their second album its sludgy nastiness.

McKnight's baritone, which could earn him a packet doing horror movie voiceovers, injects melodrama into songs already drowning in it. In that respect you're spoiled for choice: a taste for Cramps-style swamp-pop is satisfied by Rise of the Eagles, there's lashings of sickly jollity on the upbeat I Could Be an Angel, and McKnight's silky tone on Puppy Dog Snails will give children nightmares. "What do we do with a boy like you? We put him in a pot and throw him on the fire!" he croons in the latter, revealing himself and his band as delightfully unpleasant pieces of work.

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