With the earth on its way out, it seems the perfect time to capitalise on the worrisome mood the world over. Sleaford Mods manage this with The Demise of Planet X, their latest studio album which pulls from contemporary culture and uses the likes of Mad Men’s Don Draper and Bad Santa as a mirror to the crumbling social etiquette in the UK. They did as much on UK Grim, an album that utilised Cold War Steve’s artwork. Given the softer touch of Sleaford Mods’ commentaries, their very own maraca-less Bez kicking around on stage as obvious details of cultural decline are put to clinical beats, it’s hard to see what the group could do next. A collaboration post with Led By Donkeys? James Felton as a featured artist? Sleaford Mods were part of a brand that means well but has no meaningful action, and that subsides a little on The Demise of Planet X, an album that, when it roars to life, is great fun. Big Special collaborating is certainly a vote of confidence for the future, but those thrills are brief.
Sleaford Mods’ spoken-word stand-off with the nastiness they see in the world remains clunky. It’s filled with sincerity and the very soul of the work at hand is agreeable, but they’ve not yet managed to find that finer blend of style and substance. They observe and indicate but offer no solution. Who can, to be fair? The Demise of Planet X is more a chance to agree there are problems, to revel in the misery of having to live in the UK. Kicking around in misery has been done better elsewhere, with Yard Act, Lambrini Girls, and Benefits shining a light on the grim state of the world just as well, if not better than, Sleaford Mods. The Good Life relies all too much on the inevitable bad parts of life, Jasper Carrott’s fashion choice and all. Gwendoline Christie gives a fantastic, brief performance, while Big Special pop up occasionally to correct course and offer that inevitable jab at whatever a good life can now be considered.
Almost inevitably, Sleaford Mods find their worldview suckered into niche moments of little interest. Wikipedia entries are a cause of contention on the thumpingly plain Double Diamond. Instrumentally, the duo is capable of crafting some excellent intensity and spirit, but hardly back it up with lyrically entertaining or interesting work. An intense anger blisters through The Demise of Planet X, but it feels aimless, without a target. Unforgivable given how many worthy targets of rage there now are in the world around us. Megaton is catchy but has the same struggle as what precedes and follows, kneejerk social commentaries that rely on cliche and caricatures. No Touch sounds as though a vague adaptation of the Donkey Kong Rap has been made, but Sue Tompkins is on hand to salvage the track, however briefly.
If it weren’t for the solid instrumental work found on The Demise of Planet X, much of the album could be written off entirely. Bad Santa has some incredibly moving work behind the tiresome, listicle-like writing brought through by Jason Williamson. His vocal work is solid, another strong layer the duo has to play around with, but when the writing is a pendulum of on the nose and all too vague, it’s hard to know where Sleaford Mods stand, other than in opposition. “I don’t fucking know,” is what they offer on Bad Santa. But you can’t not know what you think and be certain of where you stand. Flood the Zone is as close as they get to a considered commentary, as is the sole purpose of their work by the sounds of it. Even then, they still sit on the fence, nasty splinters as they prod at punk rooted works.
The Demise of Planet X never sheds itself of that problem. A bassline on the title track sounds a bit like the noise a Magic Roundabout ride used to make as it sprung to life in the Brewers Fayre, Brewster slumped against the wall, the weight of the world on their shoulders. Once you’ve heard one track from The Demise of Planet X, be it the complaints of everything that is shit on the title track or the inconclusive moaning of album closer The Unwrap, you are up to speed with everything the duo said before this release. Anyone can rage at the shortcomings of the world, the so-called planet shit as the duo dubs the world here. Hardly Proustian, but there are the fundamentals of working-class life dragged over coals here too. Sleaford Mods, in their blinkered vision of what makes the world so wrong, fancy themselves as an extension of John Cooper Clarke on Gina Was. They lack the heart and decisiveness needed to get to that level.
