Yard Act – ‘Where’s My Utopia’ album review: Trying to have fun before the inevitable cull
THE SKINNY: It all begins with: “Right, do you wanna know what I reckon?”. It has to start with something. The frenzied diatribe that follows stays true to that opening statement—one that could just as easily have been made by Piers Morgan or a pal with three pints in his system who has recently succumbed to a conspiracy theory or contrarian football claim. From this opening remark onwards, Yard Act never relent once in their fraught barrage of passing thoughts about the sordid status quo and their own sniping post-punk position within it.
Where’s My Utopia is a stream of social commentary of the most self-referential order. It is, in many ways, a concept album that examines the social science of the so-called ‘tricky second album syndrome’. Musically, they avoid this mythical syndrome’s clutches, but they know that’s not enough. That’s never been what the accursed syndrome is about—they know that their day of derision will come…and it will come. Yard Act are almost definitely a band soon to be relegated to the ash heap of history. They’ll be cast there by a coterie of cool people vaccinated from the appeal of collective fun.
Why? Well, certainly not because of the quality of the two albums they’ve released to date. Nevertheless, their fate seems set to unfurl as follows: to be a cult band that will enjoy a heyday followed by a sudden smear campaign, one that sees them fall out of favour faster than a racetrack rabbit before being resurrected by a new generation who weren’t privy to the strange and sudden denigrating rhetoric that flattened the band the second that they faltered from their pomp, and everything was suddenly revised as ‘rambling bullshit, unfunny pretence, and ripped off Blockheads riffs’.
These kids will see through that insurgent critical cynicism. They’ll revel in the catchy quality of the tunes and the quirky originality of James Smith’s verbose lyrics. And they’ll crown them ‘greats’ from the past, spawning, perhaps, a very well-reviewed memoir called something like, but not necessarily, Life in a Golden Rover. The comeback will see the old fans that abandoned them when questions about how cool and working class they truly are came to the fore, say, ‘I used to love Yard Act’. And all the old music journalists who wrote nasty things will hope that the internet somehow forgot to store their scornful prose as they pester PRs for interviews about the big Wembley comeback in their more mellowed professional years.
The reason for all of this is that cynicism and second-guessing are the engines of pop culture’s arc. To literally quote the aforementioned bastard man, Piers Morgan, “One day you’re the cock of the walk, the next, a feather duster”. Critics are the butchers who see to that transition, and these days, everyone’s a critic. The only way to escape this fate is to become an ‘icon’, a mythical status beyond impeachment, a God of culture that can’t be cancelled or met with anything other than reverence. While records of this continued quality may well place Yard Act on that pedestal one day, it seems unlikely, simply because of their self-aware uncertainty, the tailoring (or lack thereof) of their trench coats, and a canny knack of not taking things too seriously. The cut of this jib usually bars you from iconic status.
So, all in all, I conclude the skinny of this review feeling like I’ve actually barely mentioned Where’s My Utopia or the quality of the content therein. But that’s sort of the point of the record—it encourages gripping engagement by pairing dance-infused post-punk arrangements with wordplay that illuminates this fractured age from the perilous perspective of an insecure post-punk poster boy who tries to use his sense of humour to laugh through the panic attacks. So, even if you’re one of the early naysayers getting ahead of the curve and queuing up your words of scorn in advance of the avalanche, then you, yes, you, could never truly deny that it isn’t an album of immense interest.
In fact, Yard Act might have just about formed another classic of the era that saves them from the aforementioned fate that they so fear.
For fans of: Signing the petition to save the old local social club that they’ve not been to since buying a pair of Red Wing boots and moving to the city.
A concluding comment from the ghost of the guy from ‘Tall Poppies’: “Smartest man in the room vibes from a fellow who couldn’t re-wire a plug. While I mightn’t have The Guardian smarts to comment, I know spoken-word social commentary is getting old, and songs are better with singalong choruses.”
Where’s My Utopia? track by track:
Release Date: March 1st | Producer: Remi Kabaka Jr | Label: Island Records
‘An Illusion’: A kitchen sink intro. The opening gambit is given everything: a snippet of Katy J Pearson backing vocals, a gospel choir, and so many modes it’s virtually a post-punk mini-opera. One cynical morning, you might say, ‘I wish this song could decide what it wants to be’, but on a good day, you can bask in its excitable modulating happily. [4/5]
‘We Make Hits’: The album’s decree laid bare in a blitzkrieg of bass-driven punk danceability. It’s simultaneously accessible and quirky, crowning it as the reason you’re a mate who ‘isn’t into much alternative stuff’ likes Yard Act. And for the hipsters, there’s the pointed jab of what it says about being a post-punk band presently. [4.5/5]
‘Down By The Stream’: A journey back to the days of high school antics and all the innocuous mistakes that somehow start to haunt you into the existential snap of your settling down days. This is cut over a scuzzy and crowded soundscape that verges on being grating. [3/5]
‘The Undertow’: A morose and suddenly sparse opening gives in to the energy of the album as synthesised strings flutter in as though they’re picking up signals from the M People. The build towards a booming crescendo is indicative of their rapidly developing compositional skills. [4/5]
‘Dream Job’: There’s something about the sound of this disco anthem that reminds you of being eight and smelling that plume of perfume that meant your mother was going out for the night. Perhaps that’s proof that there’s a pinch of Lamont Dozier’s side of Motown undercutting the punk of the record. [4.5/5]
‘Fizzy Fish’: If you’re a naysayer, then this probably presents you with an opening. A surrealist assortment of fish-based lyrics meets with a crash of wavering instrumentation. The rather frantic and uncouth nature of the track makes it feel a little bit like an off-cut. [2.5/5]
‘Petroleum’: Lethargic vocals drape themselves over an inventive driving bassline as Smith makes a rare perusal around the realm of relationships. It’s produced to the nth degree with overlays, volleys of guitar that slip in and out of syncopation for added interest and even patches of auto-tune. [4/5]
‘When the Laughter Stops’ (ft Katy J Pearson): Contrary to what the ‘Tall Poppies’ fellow said earlier, this is a chorus that Kylie Minogue could have a hit with. The melody is so thrilling that it masks the fact that this is the sort of invention that makes post-punk seem like a silly label for the band. Smith sings that he wants to juice this venture down to the pith if a return to normal jobs looms, but this blows that apart. [4.5/5]
‘Grifter’s Grief’: A twinkling synth fires off a track at pace, so much so that it feels like New Monkey turned punk—a venture disguised with a middle eight, and the record’s continued insistence to make melodies as crowded and cut-up as the core beats can bear. [3.5/5]
‘Blackpool Illuminations’: Yard Act’s very own ‘I Trawl the Megahertz’. A psychoanalytical exposition of a traumatic childhood holiday in Blackpool culminates in the existential realisation that you ought to say ‘if this isn’t nice, what is’ more often in life rather than worrying about how it might all go wrong again. A unique and original effort, brimming with life and a stunningly sweet sound—their definitive track. [5/5]
‘A Vineyard for the North’: Almost R&B-like in its composition, this groove could get Sir Douglas Bader’s toes tapping. As the lyric’s decree, if that Bader line is problematic, then I wrote it meaning well. In this manner, Smith finally grants himself self-forgiveness and lets his hair down to his toes. The instrumentation follows suit, kicking it back for a holiday groove. Hopefully, Yard Act remain on their own hard-earned holiday from the grind, living the high life of a duly successful band for many more records to come. [4.5/5]
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