@ La Belle Angele, Edinburgh, Wed 14 Oct 2015
‘We’ve got a full house, Edinburgh!’
Jason Williamson is in ebullient mood this evening, which is somehow not entirely at odds with his stage persona; a working-class everyman given license to vent, veering between sneering disdain and apoplectic fury at the state of the country and the people in charge.
‘This daylight robbery is now so fucking hateful, it’s completely accepted by the vast majority,’ he spits during Face to Faces, a diatribe with a particularly bleak view of humanity. Such misanthropy would be draining were it not tempered with genuine wit and lyrical craft, and it is this skill that goes a long way to explaining Sleaford Mods’ otherwise bewildering rise to prominence.
On paper they’re an unlikely success story: two middle-aged guys with a rigorously DIY approach to music that they extend to their live gigs. Musician/producer Andrew Fearn occasionally presses a button on his laptop to begin the next track, content to nod his head and sip from his beer, while Williamson unleashes the fury; part John Cooper Clarke drollery, part Ian Dury sprechgesang, yet entirely captivating in his own right.
Fearn’s minimalist post-punk bass and beats are a deceptively insistent framework around which Williamson can wind his lyrics; the solid, simple repetition a counterpoint to the linguistic elasticity. In their complete eschewal of theatrics and rock-star posturing they are arguably as close to pure punk as you will see in these safe, pre-packaged times; which could also partly explain their popularity.
They roar through large chunks of latest album, Key Markets; Arabia, Bronx in a Six, Live Tonight, and No One’s Bothered are all chewed up and spat out, the last track perhaps the closest they’ve had to a radio hit, being comparatively free of profanity. Last year’s Divide and Exit is raided for the vicious duo of Tied Up in Nottz (‘With a Zed, you cunt!’) and A Little Ditty, before the brilliant Jobseeker rounds off the main set.
You do end up questioning just what makes Sleaford Mods quite so exhilarating, yet a happy, sweaty throng is left behind after an incendiary hour. You also end up questioning just why the flag of the contemporary protest song is being held solely by two sweary chaps in their forties. Where are the snarling, frustrated, young punks and righteous troubadours? Even Frank Turner’s come out as a right-winger. To quote another modern philosopher, Mark Renton: ‘It’s a shite state of affairs!’ All of which make Williamson and Fearn all the more vital. Long may it continue.