Not, perhaps, the sort of thing that I write about here very often, but The Rakes always sounded round these parts as one of the best bands to emerge from the whole post-Libertines/post-punk/Britpop Nouveau thing of a few years ago. They seemed to have a fair bit more wit and interesting angles than most of their contemporaries, and maybe a healthy affinity to Elastica.
That said, I can’t pretend to remember much about The Rakes’ second album, so the arrival of their third didn’t initially cause that much fuss. It’s really good, though: it’s called “Klang!”, possibly due to it being recorded in the band’s new hometown of Berlin. “Klang!”, however, is not much like Krautrock, being instead a lean and determined reiteration of the Rakes’ skills: choppy riffs; bug-eyed social observation; very short songs.
“Klang!” has ten songs, the longest of which comes in at less than three and a half minutes. The titles are pretty good value in themselves: “The Loneliness Of The Outdoor Smoker”, “Shackleton”, “Mullers Ratchet”, the last of which apparently refers to a genetic disorder which manifests itself in asexual populations and is not the sort of thing you get dealed with so catchily in, say, a song by The View.
And as something like “That’s The Reason” belts past, the infectious bristling economy comes across as a neat rejoinder to the new Franz Ferdinand album, where their schtick seems so tired and needy. The price of success, maybe: if “Tonight: Franz Ferdinand” finds a band so anxiously trying to cling on to fame and overcompensating as a result, “Klang!” showcases one unburdened by any such expectations.
Frankly, The Rakes’ time of hipness may have past, but the quality of these clipped dispatches – and the unglossy punch bestowed on them by Les Savy Fav producer Chris Zane – suggest a longevity uncommon in British bands of their generation. The best thing of many good things here is a song called “1989”, a roisteringly nostalgic knees-up which may have something to do with the fall of the Berlin Wall, which faintly resembles “Hong Kong Garden” with its gothic portent replaced by something at once blokey and somehow cerebral.
Everything flies past in a blur, but occasionally you catch Alan Donohue’s blurry narratives through those precisely ringing and strutting guitars, that mathematically chundering bassline. In “Shackleton”, he seems to be comparing himself to “Harry Hill on happy pills”, and though I’m fairly sure there’s more erudite references in here, that one sticks out this morning. Good record...www.uncut.co.uk
Bigger, brighter and more danceable than predecessor Alright, Still, this autobiographical album is chock-full of double standards, crashing generalisations, and taunts, giving a handy update on Lily's state of mind.
Opener Everyone's At It is a wonderful ball of contradiction. Pointing the finger at everyone, from those taking sleeping pills to those on crack, Lily admits that she's been there. Now, bored with all-nighters, it's those still awake that she's hectoring. Musically, it's a different story, with more celebratory old-skool ''voot-voots'' than you can shake an MDMA fuelled glow stick at.
Fear addresses London-Paper-Lily, who buys a beach in Jamaica, supports Kylie at a private party in Dubai, diets, and has a shoe closet the size of Brazil. Eminently danceable and slightly trancey, she apologises for her avarice, confidently blaming the system.
Musical rip-offs are still at large: Him sees Lily wondering about God (''His favourite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival''), to a backing track referencing Nico's These Days, while George Bush tribute, Fuck You, trips along to the Carpenters' Close To You piano.
The ugly side of the album comes out in Not Fair, a pseudo country track which could give Victoria Wood a run for her money in comedy bad sex songs. Likewise, accordion-fuelled Never Gonna Happen glorifies using someone who loves her for sex.
22 is a unkind ditty about pretty women who find that, nearing 30 and single, they are worthless to society, leaving you wondering if Lily Allen is an unreconstructed male in a young woman's body.
He Wasn't There is a track about her dad's lack of parental responsibility, while calling him her hero. And Chinese appears to address her mother, who's always there for her, yet, ''I know it doesn't seem so fair but I'll send you a postcard when I get there''.
And therein lies the difficulty: the album's a piece of exquisitely produced, loveable pop, perhaps down to co-writer and producer Greg Kurstin of addictively catchy duo, The Bird And The Bee. But it would be rather lovely to be able to listen without the clattering opinions of this complex character...www.bbc.co.uk
