THE DUKE LISTENS TO
SUPERGRASS IS 10
BY SUPERGRASS
SUPERGRASS IS 10
BY SUPERGRASS
Greatest Hits records, I think we can agree, are far from the
coolest of items to be languishing in a fella’s collection.
These round-ups of the more accessible corners of an artistes
career have the aura of filthy cop-out hanging from them like
some despicable tar. Nobody, when arranging their CD
collections, has Nirvana sitting in front of In Utero. Even if
such a placing would be expected under, say, an alphabetical
regime, one would still get all anarchist with regards the
regulations, maybe flinging it into the “Compilations” pile
under the shelf by the sink.
Greatest Hits records are the easy option, is what. There’s a
hint of laziness about them, a sense that they, in some
insidious manner, cement our fear of exploration. We’d rather
buy that recent Fall compilation, for example, than spend a
fortnight wrestling with Hex Enduction Hour.
But I digress from the point I still haven’t mentioned; Some
Greatest Hits records, or Best Of’s (the kind reserved for folks
with 29 albums and not a genuine hit on any) believe it or not,
are among the finest records ever released. Stuff like Decade by
Neil Young, stuff assembled with a lot of the consideration and
the care and all that nonsense, collections what flow as well as
any “proper” album.
See also the recent compilation from Northern Ireland scallywags
Ash, Intergalactic Sonic 7”s, a brilliant selection of wonderful
pop rockery, and a much more appealing prospect than the often
rather patchy parent releases.
Which brings us nicely, if a tad belatedly (I mean what the
hell, man, three paragraphs before you even mentioned the damn
thing), to Supergrass Is 10, a career-spanning type deal from
those sideburned fellas by the name of Supergrass, who are now
ten years together, in case you were all confused about the
title.
Supergrass were never the coolest of outfits. The Britpop
Herman's Hermits, if you will, to the much more credible Rolling
Stones and Beatles types surrounding them in the old Top 40.
Following the mega-selling I Should Coco, and the underrated In
It For The Money, Supergrass appeared to slip off the critical
radar somewhat. But they were there all that time, and somebody
must’ve been buying all those singles and albums since the damn
things were never out of the charts.
Supergrass don’t deserve the mildly favourable response they so
often elicit. Supergrass Is 10 goes some substantial way towards
proving that they were, and are, among the finest singles groups
Britain has spawned since The Happy Mondays.
There’s very little here to sully a fella’s mood. Even when
Moving threatens to fling some unpleasant Indie Balladry into
the mix, it catches itself on and delivers a chorus bursting
with ska-filled goodness. Next thing you know, you realise that
even the initially offputting verses are home to some of the
finest melodies these folks ever crafted. Wistful, evocative,
intelligent, and then again with the ska.
Alright, the tune Supergrass will, for better or worse, always
be associated with, suffers from over-familiarity. Who doesn’t
know the one about “We are young, we are free, keep our teeth
nice and clean” and all that jazz? I believe there were an
elderly couple in Dover who had yet to hear it, but NATO or
someone fixed that right up. Most alarming is how little it’s
dated in the almost-decade since it first started blaring from
radios the world over.
Also alarming is how quickly Supergrass matured, musically
speaking. They didn’t start writing about “grown-up” issues or
no shit like that, but the arrangements, the invention all that
malarkey took a nuclear shot to the hole in the space between
the first and second albums. It’s hard to believe that they went
from the decidedly simplistic, if very charming, garage punk of
debut single Caught By The Fuzz, to the majestic glory of
Richard III in less than three years. If we wanna get all
scientific about it, as far as the evolution goes, it’s like an
ape waking up one morning to find it’d become a civil servant.
Well, maybe that’s not so big a leap.
Sorry civil servants. And apes.
The album isn’t arranged chronologically, which means the ever-
escalating melodic craftsmanship is less stunning than it would
be if, say, a fella just flung on the albums in order, but the
tracklisting is still intelligently compiled. Also, there are no
jarring leaps in quality, either backwards or forwards. Late In
The Day, from 1997, is immediately followed by 2002’s Seen The
Light, for example, and if you didn’t know better, you’d assume
they were from the same sessions. Imagine flinging something
from Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants by Oasis next to a track
from their previous record. A fella would be liable to cough up
a liver at the motherfucking shock of it all.
Also, it should be Standing On The SHOULDERS Of Giants, you
grammar-molesting buffon’s. (The Duke is the first person ever
to have noted this, I might add, with the exception of the
thousands who noted it earlier.)
Here, though, by way of the old contrast and so on, only the
more cockney stylings of Gaz Coombe’s earlier vocal performances
alert a fella to the fact that a much younger band are running
through Mansize Rooster than in the proceeding Sun Hits The Sky.
The two new tracks, Kiss Of Life and Bullet, are funk-peppered
pop and guitar-heavy rock respectively, both being worthy of
their placing in the tracklisting, with Kiss Of Life in
particular being pretty much as good as anything else on here.
So often these “New Track” deals on the old Greatest Hits
affairs are nothing more than a grim reminder of how unlikely it
will be that the performer(s) in question will ever reach
anything approaching “form” anytime soon.
No such worries for these cats, though. With little or no hype
nor scandal nor fuss nor fuckery, they continue to pump out
three-minute long slabs of sheer delight.
Some motherfucker once mused along the lines of “The greatest
trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t
exist, is what.” Well, that ain’t a damn thing compared to the
manner in which Supergrass have somehow had us assuming they
were anything less than musical geniuses all this time.
Tchaikovsky may well have written a couple tunes about some
nutcracked fairies in a sugar plum or some shit, but if he wrote
anything as glorious as Richard III, I’ve yet to hear a solitary
fucking note.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
coolest of items to be languishing in a fella’s collection.
These round-ups of the more accessible corners of an artistes
career have the aura of filthy cop-out hanging from them like
some despicable tar. Nobody, when arranging their CD
collections, has Nirvana sitting in front of In Utero. Even if
such a placing would be expected under, say, an alphabetical
regime, one would still get all anarchist with regards the
regulations, maybe flinging it into the “Compilations” pile
under the shelf by the sink.
Greatest Hits records are the easy option, is what. There’s a
hint of laziness about them, a sense that they, in some
insidious manner, cement our fear of exploration. We’d rather
buy that recent Fall compilation, for example, than spend a
fortnight wrestling with Hex Enduction Hour.
But I digress from the point I still haven’t mentioned; Some
Greatest Hits records, or Best Of’s (the kind reserved for folks
with 29 albums and not a genuine hit on any) believe it or not,
are among the finest records ever released. Stuff like Decade by
Neil Young, stuff assembled with a lot of the consideration and
the care and all that nonsense, collections what flow as well as
any “proper” album.
See also the recent compilation from Northern Ireland scallywags
Ash, Intergalactic Sonic 7”s, a brilliant selection of wonderful
pop rockery, and a much more appealing prospect than the often
rather patchy parent releases.
Which brings us nicely, if a tad belatedly (I mean what the
hell, man, three paragraphs before you even mentioned the damn
thing), to Supergrass Is 10, a career-spanning type deal from
those sideburned fellas by the name of Supergrass, who are now
ten years together, in case you were all confused about the
title.
Supergrass were never the coolest of outfits. The Britpop
Herman's Hermits, if you will, to the much more credible Rolling
Stones and Beatles types surrounding them in the old Top 40.
Following the mega-selling I Should Coco, and the underrated In
It For The Money, Supergrass appeared to slip off the critical
radar somewhat. But they were there all that time, and somebody
must’ve been buying all those singles and albums since the damn
things were never out of the charts.
Supergrass don’t deserve the mildly favourable response they so
often elicit. Supergrass Is 10 goes some substantial way towards
proving that they were, and are, among the finest singles groups
Britain has spawned since The Happy Mondays.
There’s very little here to sully a fella’s mood. Even when
Moving threatens to fling some unpleasant Indie Balladry into
the mix, it catches itself on and delivers a chorus bursting
with ska-filled goodness. Next thing you know, you realise that
even the initially offputting verses are home to some of the
finest melodies these folks ever crafted. Wistful, evocative,
intelligent, and then again with the ska.
Alright, the tune Supergrass will, for better or worse, always
be associated with, suffers from over-familiarity. Who doesn’t
know the one about “We are young, we are free, keep our teeth
nice and clean” and all that jazz? I believe there were an
elderly couple in Dover who had yet to hear it, but NATO or
someone fixed that right up. Most alarming is how little it’s
dated in the almost-decade since it first started blaring from
radios the world over.
Also alarming is how quickly Supergrass matured, musically
speaking. They didn’t start writing about “grown-up” issues or
no shit like that, but the arrangements, the invention all that
malarkey took a nuclear shot to the hole in the space between
the first and second albums. It’s hard to believe that they went
from the decidedly simplistic, if very charming, garage punk of
debut single Caught By The Fuzz, to the majestic glory of
Richard III in less than three years. If we wanna get all
scientific about it, as far as the evolution goes, it’s like an
ape waking up one morning to find it’d become a civil servant.
Well, maybe that’s not so big a leap.
Sorry civil servants. And apes.
The album isn’t arranged chronologically, which means the ever-
escalating melodic craftsmanship is less stunning than it would
be if, say, a fella just flung on the albums in order, but the
tracklisting is still intelligently compiled. Also, there are no
jarring leaps in quality, either backwards or forwards. Late In
The Day, from 1997, is immediately followed by 2002’s Seen The
Light, for example, and if you didn’t know better, you’d assume
they were from the same sessions. Imagine flinging something
from Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants by Oasis next to a track
from their previous record. A fella would be liable to cough up
a liver at the motherfucking shock of it all.
Also, it should be Standing On The SHOULDERS Of Giants, you
grammar-molesting buffon’s. (The Duke is the first person ever
to have noted this, I might add, with the exception of the
thousands who noted it earlier.)
Here, though, by way of the old contrast and so on, only the
more cockney stylings of Gaz Coombe’s earlier vocal performances
alert a fella to the fact that a much younger band are running
through Mansize Rooster than in the proceeding Sun Hits The Sky.
The two new tracks, Kiss Of Life and Bullet, are funk-peppered
pop and guitar-heavy rock respectively, both being worthy of
their placing in the tracklisting, with Kiss Of Life in
particular being pretty much as good as anything else on here.
So often these “New Track” deals on the old Greatest Hits
affairs are nothing more than a grim reminder of how unlikely it
will be that the performer(s) in question will ever reach
anything approaching “form” anytime soon.
No such worries for these cats, though. With little or no hype
nor scandal nor fuss nor fuckery, they continue to pump out
three-minute long slabs of sheer delight.
Some motherfucker once mused along the lines of “The greatest
trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t
exist, is what.” Well, that ain’t a damn thing compared to the
manner in which Supergrass have somehow had us assuming they
were anything less than musical geniuses all this time.
Tchaikovsky may well have written a couple tunes about some
nutcracked fairies in a sugar plum or some shit, but if he wrote
anything as glorious as Richard III, I’ve yet to hear a solitary
fucking note.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line
