In order to function and consume a product of nearly any nature, be it music, films, food, wine etc. it is the very nature of a normal, non-mental human to require some form of comparison in order to grasp their association with the product.
Critics and the like will constantly name drop people and influences and inspirations to a product because then the audience can conjure their pre-conceived perception of the item in question and whether they would benefit from the discussed entity.
Obviously this is frowned upon by musicians because everyone wants to be envisaged as 'original', but unfortunately, nine times out of ten this is far from the case. I get it though. You strive over your music for endless hours, you quit your job to pursue it, you break up with your girlfriend and then some ponsey, blogging prick (like myself) comes along with some utterly lucid comments and BAM! he defecates all over your hard work. But who cares? he's just a chronic masturbater hiding behind a computer screen.
Anyhow. Translucent comments are the bane of both musicians and critics, and it's a dangerous path to tred, comparing bands to other bands. But as i said, grievously, this is the human way - and we need it to function.
My problem with this whole facade is lazy journalists. Journalists who hear a london accent and see a bloke with a guitar and instantly spray images of 'Lad Rock' and 'Kasabian' and 'Brit pop revival' etc. simply because they're either too comatosed in their bubble to muster up the energy to go and see the band or because they really are that ill-informed and oblivious to the way the band actually differs from these mentioned analogies. But then again, their often right.
They weren't right, though, with 12 Dirty Bullets.
A lady at the BBC wrote about their 'well-used sound', 'the libertines' and even opened the bloody review with 'Hard-Fi'. Lazy. If she'd have taken the time to immerse herself in the raucous goings-on at the 12DB camp then she would have heard a whole lot more.
Lyrically rich in social observations that eb and flow with a backbone of sharp wit and an accurate eye, Singer / guitarist Jamie Jamieson hurls out contagiously hook-laden words like their confetti, casting them deep into the growling guitars that cascade their debut record like a tidal wave of distortion and distinct Britishness. On record, these are songs that embody a generation of young men and women in modern day Britain. Nights out on the tiles, boozing and birds, pubs and problems, the usual stuff, but the subject matter that transcends them into a grimey rock and roll band that cast them further away from the likes if Arctics and Jamie T than you first think.
The conviction in which these indie-rock punches are packed with is sincere on the highest level. 12DB's songs bleed with the grit of London and the stories they tell exude reality and sentiment and verve. They're not smooth-surfaced happy endings - they're the pennings of urchins scrambling urban playgrounds and dodgey tainted characters who you wouldn't want to meet down a back alley.
But what this young lady at the BBC clearly failed to do was to see the band perform these convincing roars of incendiary modernism's on a stage. Because if she had, she would have mentioned that the transformation of these songs from record to live performance is near inconceivable. They roar and pound with the ferocious vigour of rabid guitar-wielding rock stars. They cascade the scene with poignant wails of exploding vocals that induce flashing lights and a berserk audience response, primarily because it's inescapably up close in your mug - loud, booming and infectious.
'Rock And Roll Pretty Boys' begins with a subdued one-man-one-guitar enterence until crashing into a paced-out foot-stompin' indie-pop riot. 'Good Time Girls' and 'Black Roses And Violence' not only provoke urbanised hedonistic imagery from their titles, but they also bark with non-pretenious erruptive eye-gauging blasts that are nothing short of colossal.
A recent U.K tour saw them showcase a number of new anthems, namely 'Motown'. A howling judder of noughties indie-rock - and with this debut of new songs came the confirmation that 12DB are no longer still taking the tentative steps of a developing outfit: they are infact THERE. At the point they need to be, to make an impact, to demonstrate their ability, and just maybe, to change a few pre-conceptions of the couch-bloggers and the like. Swell.
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