A brief preface – nearly everything in this review will sound like a backhanded compliment. But that’s sort of the point of “Club Majesty” in the first place.
Throughout the history of popular music, there’s always been a place for bands that aren’t meant to be taken totally seriously. Ghost is the most recent headline example, but GWAR certainly falls on that spectrum, as well as S.O.D, Big Dumb Face, Lordi, Green Jelly, Haunted Garage, and…….well hell, there’s got to be one non-metal one....They Might Be Giants (phew, that was close.) Anyway, add Royal Republic to the list. Done poorly, tongue-in-cheek rock is frankly awful, but there’s a narrow trench leading to an exhaust port less than two meters wide that if you can successfully navigate that, you’ve got gold on your hands.
Royal Republic, for their new album “Club Majesty” threads that needle almost flawlessly, which is a rare feat in and of itself, but they accomplish the task by combining tenets of pop, rock, disco and blues and blending them into a slurry that’s one part high-octane Reverend Horton Heat, one part the Spinners, a splash of the Bee-Gees and just the barest, barely perceptible hint of the rock side of Bruno Mars.
It takes a little patience to unlock. The first play-through sees the listener taken aback, the general reaction being “what on earth IS this?” because the album comes full force from the beginning of “Fireman and Dancer” and never lets up on the combination of catchy rock and unapologetic campiness. Once the initial shock wears off, the layers start to peel and it becomes more accessible. Make note though, the camp never lets up, so prepare yourself accordingly.
Where “Club Majesty” first finds some purchase is in the well-arranged and mixed choral vocals of “Can’t Fight the Disco,” which leads to involuntary toe-tapping and head-nodding. These songs are capably constructed and designed to be earworms, which is exceptionally hard to do on such a consistent basis. For songs that lack bridges in the traditional sense and never change their idea or theme once they’ve started, they still hold attention through sheer force of personality.
The album is never better than it is on “Like a Lover,” which is the perfect synthesis of all the band wants to be – rocking, simple, sleazy, infectious. The giant hook chorus, complete with choral backing vocals and simple but soaring melody, makes for a nearly perfect rock banger in four-four time.
Vocally, Adam Grahn lives, however unlikely, at the crossroads of Jyrki 69 and Dave Wyndorf. He dances with brilliantly dumb puns and lyrics barely fit for a high school kid’s ruled notebook pages, and all of that is to the album’s betterment. One need not get farther than the pleasantly bumping “Fortune Favors” to see the finest example of the outlandishly simple executed at a professional level. The rhythm is infectious enough as it is, but it’s sold by Grahn’s matter-of-fact delivery.
A note of caution – while “Club Majesty” is a rollicking, fun ride, it also possesses the strong potential to be the most goddamn annoying album in your collection if the timing is bad or you’re in the wrong mood. Any album with an affect like this balances precariously on the precipice of being too much, and if you’re not looking for this specific brand of beat-driven campiness, it can go badly. To wit, my phone was shuffling songs through the Bluetooth connection to my car’s sound system, and “Bulldog” came on while I was (parked) trying to dial into an important but stressful conference call for work. And as I’m hastily hunting through my contacts for the call-in number, the song starts yelling at me “YOU TAKE A DUMP I PICK IT UP IN A BAG!” which is categorically the last thing I wanted to hear in that moment. So, listener be cautioned.
“Club Majesty” is just that – downbeat-heavy pop rock that engenders majesty through sleazy themes and catchy arrangement. It’s probably not for everyone, but the people who won’t dig it probably aren’t any fun. And if music isn’t fun, then what the hell are you even doing?
No comments:
Post a Comment