Overblown albums by formerly creative and potent punk bands are disappointing. The bloated, louche mannerisms and coke sweats that accompanied this album - desperation to gain the adulation of a V Festival main stage 4pm slot crowd of holidaying teachers and X-list celebrities - hang over Wildlife like a shameful and depressing spectre. There is a long and undignified history of this sort of late-career crap; bands deeply entrenched in an industry with a lifestyle that can only be perpetuated by hanging on past any degree of relevance. You feel sorry for them, but it is they who had the final say on releasing such a carbuncle for public consumption. You would guess that switching back to a genuine indie label would afford greater autonomy and creative scope… evidently not. Wildlife might contain a couple of amusing death rattles, but cannot escape being a thirtieth-rate facsimile of an amalgam of pointless shit.
Now for the autopsy. This cliché-driven hard rock has only the most fleeting, vestigial traces of its hardcore roots. ‘King Baby’ begins with a list of inanities read out without a hint of irony, and a second-hand riff - it kind of sounds like Primal Scream at their crowd-pleasing worst, albeit with considerable less ‘weegie cojones and more lacquered black fingernails. They call him the “cocaine kid”; I assume that this is due to Cardamone's consumption of said powder and its distorting powers over quality control when writing and recording an album. ‘We Sick’ continues in a similar vein - or nasal passage. It’s so listless it doesn’t bear comparison with their earlier work. ‘It’s Alright’ is a mawkish and depressive track of little musical interest, with subject matter that could really only satisfy the most slap-able urges of a fourteen-year-old goth from Luton. The refrain “we come for your love” attempts menace. It is not menacing. The derivative tendencies intensify with ‘No Lord’, a Bo Diddly beat hitting 10 on the Cliché Richter Scale. ‘Bad Blood’ says “don’t do drugs” - they were so not on drugs they ripped off the memorable drum machine part from Iggy Pop’s ‘Nightclubbing’ and the drums from Wu Tang’s ‘Cream’. This could be inspired, but the singer is tiring and they have made a pig’s ear of it. The rest of the album trails into tired filler; landfill indie.
In fairness, ‘Venomous’ is at least up-tempo, however the attempted experimental pedal sounds are superfluous and, set against some unrequited guitar loving, a little silly. ‘Sin Man Sick Blues’ is rehash of Bowie’s ‘Suffragette City’, crap but listenable. Likewise ‘Tina Turner’ has slightly redeeming features. Nevertheless, this album has scant redeeming value at all. It has made obvious compromises to mainstream taste and failed to become accessible. Indeed, by doing so I believe they have further alienated their earlier support. Icarus, this may well be the end of the line…