Chief Pinkton Demo CD - by Rich Partington
I first encountered Chief Pinkton last September, at the UoG band night. Despite being first on they stole the show, with a fresh, energetic set, decades ahead of Ben Lee Tyler’s hulking, polished MOR Americana, and the Kasabienne Britpopisms of Century Man.
Their genius is in taking the tired, decaying indie-rock format and jump-starting its fading heart with an array of musical defibrillators rarely considered in commercial guitar music – frantic semi-acoustic and mandolin, channelled at unexpected intervals towards pulsating latino, ska, and reggae rhythms.
Opener So Alive is the best example of this, an instantly memorable four-chord riff and an urgent rockstar yelp introducing a tale of lust and sexual mindgames. It sounds much like a prodigiously talented Cuban bar band serenading the streets of Havana, punctured by John Frusciante-esque stadium soloing over trippy slow bits. Matt Roberts’ quivering, Damien-Rice-if-he-wasn’t-so-bloody-miserable croon completes the sonic representation of a thoroughly unlikely fantasy supergroup, and it’s the best example of what Chief Pinkton are truly capable of, with the song’s brevity leaving not one note wasted.
Price Of Fame is, unsurprisingly, a reflection on the nature of celebrity, depicting a state of isolation as well as affluence and decadence. An understated intro reminiscent of Feeder’s Pilgrim Soul is punctuated by wailing electric grooves, and, dragged kicking and screaming onwards by the frankly awesome playing of bassist Matt Taylor, the song is an repeat-listens triumph. Two separate breaks define it, and neatly display each side of this schizophrenic band’s personality – the first with thudding snare and scathing “ba ba da”s, the second floating on 2-Tone hi-hat, breathy harmonies, and longer, languid melodies. It’s not a million miles away from Bloc Party.
Unfortunately, third track Don’t Say No is barely more than a pale imitation of its predecessor. The wide-angle riffs and wandering bass are nice enough, but the song’s desperate search for a vocal hook results only in the repetitive use of the title’s three uninspiring syllables. And while the Chief Pinkton sound is still in evidence, the Spanish and Caribbean influences have been toned down in favour of the kind of drivetime guitar fuzz which has characterised Snow Patrol’s recent output. It could quite happily soundtrack an episode of Hollyoaks, and while that’s not always a bad thing, in the case of this band it represents something of a disappointment.
Closer You is two years older than the other songs, and the stylistic difference is certainly noticeable, if not unwelcome. The muted signature melody is lovely, oddly recalling both Hell Is For Heroes’ I Can Climb Mountains and AFI’s Rabbits Are Roadkill On Rt. 37, although to be honest there is little else about the song to suggest its authors are great connoisseurs of punk rock. Instead we have something resembling The Cure covering Kubb’s Remain, with a flamenco edge just occasionally visible, but somehow pivotal in enforcing the overall effect. The urban buzz of mournful guitar and cymbal clatter paint Roberts as a spurned white man falling drunkenly, whistfully, yet articulately around the Latin quarter – regretful yet purposeful. Babylon in a Bacardi advert, then.
Essentially, Chief Pinkton are a very good band. Magnificent production is central to their on-record quality, with each instrument individually resonant. However, they are at their best when avoiding the straightforward mainstream route, with the cosmopolitan feel of the first two tracks here an undoubted trump card. They’d do well to remember that.
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