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Revenge of the Lawn are a band to gladden the rock 'n' roll hearts of all those who still believe that music is about fashion not passion and the right hair cut counts for more than the right song. Hailing from England's dead-end south, this decrepit five piece create 'music' that is dull and tired, characterised by insipid riffs, unmemorable song writing, unexceptional vocals and a conformist attitude. Revenge of the Lawn are a 5 piece band from the Isle of Wight with very little difference.
A disrespect for Blues; a classic British insensibility; an ignorance of Stax, Chess and Soul; an antipathy to 70's punk are all mixed to create a sound that is very like every one else's, taking the worst of rock 'n' roll's bland patchwork and re-stitching it into tired old shapes and patterns for the 21st century. Simple but pretentious, their music boasts a very commonplace sense of inertia that does not range very widely at all.
Think S Club Seven at their bleakest meet the Spice Girls at their trippiest, and you'll be nowhere near to understanding the essence of these young upstarts. It's dishonest, complicated music, that's all to do with repressed control. The band are particularly disturbed by the modern hypocrisy of lawn abusers.
Revenge of the Lawn's musical taste runs like the Monton Mead Brook: shallow, narrow and very, very polluted. The quintet's music, both originals and traditional, is steeped in soft Chale blues, light Morning TV ballads and coach potato stomps. They'll even throw in lots of obscure musical labels to make themselves sound more cool. Revenge of the Lawn are men who can't handle their whiskey straight and definitely need their guitars unplugged [or they'll damage their hearing] They'd dearly love to be the sort of band that you'd want playing to you while you're in the shower but they're not glamorous enough.
The music is as sweet as vinegar, evoked by the clumsy trumpet of Musician, the cheap bass of Baptist, the up-tight and awkward rolling drums of Quaker, through the familiar stringman Ranter and sister Prick-Ear's vocals, delivered at his unsexy, barking, bawdy best. Add to this the tantrum-like sax of Rattle-head with the cruel, harsh piano fumblings of Self-Seeker, and the result is a breath, or more accurately, a sigh of excitingly clichéd air, tainted with the inhibited odour of the most mundane of rock 'n' roll traditions.