ALBUM REVIEW: Half Man Half Biscuit – The Voltarol Years (R.M.Qualtrough)
Half Man Half Biscuit have been ploughing a very individual furrow since being formed in Birkenhead, Merseyside, in 1984.
Known for their satirical, sardonic and often laugh-out-loud indie post-punk, I’d even suggest that they’re improving with age.
This is their 15th studio album, coming four years after the last one, No-One Cares About Your Creative Hub So Get Your Fuckin’ Hedge Cut.
Lyrical genius
For me, that was one of their best records, and this one – self-released after the closure of their long-time label Probe Plus – is even better.
The largely unheralded lyrical genius at the centre of the band is Nigel Blackwell, who has the wonderful knack of picking apart life’s irritations, large and small.
Here, he and bandmates bassist and singer Neil Crossley, drummer Carl Henry, and guitarist Karl Benson have come up with one of their very best albums.
Over the course of 14 tracks they turn their attentions to such topics as testosterone-filled drivers in SUVs and singers who became social media sensations during lockdown.
Opener I’m Getting Buried In The Morning is a classic example of them a well-known tune and turning it inside out and upside down, while dissecting society’s funeral tropes.
Mismatched romance
Awkward Sean is about the mate we all had who dared to be different (“We had Slade, we had The Sweet/Sean had Chicory Tip”), while Tess Of The Dormobiles is a tale of a mismatched romance, summed up as only Blackwell can (“How we ever got together is anyone’s guess/I was Betamax/You were VHS”).
The aforementioned SUV driver is the subject of the scathing Big Man Up Front, while the monkey’s reply as to why he has a tin-opener with his banana almost made me spit beer all over myself.
There’s so many standout moments I can’t mention them all, but the pay-off line to the hymnal Midnight Mass Murder, “Take your chips and fuck off home”, is another piece of Blackwell genius.
Token Covid Song is the story of Lockdown Luke, the social media sensation who saved our souls by singing during the pandemic. Or, as HMHB would have it: “Do-re-mi, so far up your own arse.”
Splendidly obtuse
Two of the best songs are saved ’til last: Slipping The Escort, which is about sending a loved one into care (though its refrain “Thirty Airbus/Giving it the big ‘un in the Town End seats” is another example of HMHB’s splendidly obtuse nature).
Finally the closer, Oblong Of Dreams, is something of a departure for HMHB. Rather than sounding off about life’s irritations they’re celebrating the natural world which the sort of people they generally rail against are doing their level best to destroy. Very out of character, but a lovely song.
No less a judge than the late, great DJ John Peel called HMHB “a national treasure”. Who am I to argue? Long may they moan. 9/10.
