It really is hard to believe that Irish rock’n’roll bandits The Minutes have been making a racket for most of the past decade considering how their long overdue debut came to be.
In the span of five hysteric days the three Dubliners fried twelve tracks barely caged by thirty five minutes to tape in a New York studio from where the album takes it’s title and if the jaunt to the Big Apple is evidence of anything, it’s that The Minutes are making up for lost time.
Although the trio have only been operating under the ‘Minutes moniker officially for four of those noisy ten years, to say there is a weight of expectations on the belated release of Marcata from an Irish scene that’s been set alight by their performances would be putting it thinly.
What The Minutes bring to the table is pure-bred rock’n’roll, brewed to levels of volume and attitude that the supposed renaissance of UK guitar music hasn’t produced a whiff of thus far. It’s a ragged blend of squealing Stooges grit, with a dash of the scuzzy psychedelia of early Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and an aptitude for melodies that’s entirely their own. We’ve heard it all before and still sounds like something out of this world, thanks entirely to a crackling sum-of-it’s-parts songwriting ability.
Couple that with the greasy garage persuasion that seems to have rubbed off from tours with Albert Hammond Jr and The Von Bondies and you’re left with an unwavering hell-ride brimming with vintage pop, the kind with boundless appeal that could launch The Minutes to massive stages.
The rugged six-string work eclipses each track with grooving strut, met with huge chords and a definite, studied swagger. Try not to feel feel like Richard Ashcroft in the “Bittersweet Symphony” video when parading down the pavement to “Fleetwood”, we dare you.
In “Black Keys” singer Mark Austin resembles Lennon at his fiercest over a mud-stomping White Stripes brassy thump whereas “Gold” has a huge ‘Rattle and Hum‘-ish flavour to it’s sneering gallop.
“Believer” is on the other hand is an example of The Minutes sounding like no one but themselves with it’s driving tempo littered with drum fills and crackling distorted vocal commanding it all.
For such bite-sized blasts that make up the album, the rhythms on display will keep you guessing as your feet adapt to each toe-tapper. The interlude too is a welcome breather that doesn’t compromise the energy, if anything it maintains interest for the final hurdle which, apart from the “Bring It On Down”-esque “Heartbreaker” struggles to keep up the quality served in the opening half.
But with the bar set so high by the first handful of tunes it’s forgiveable that they’re short of breath by this point and with a swap-over in the running order the album maybe wouldn’t sound as front-loaded.
Truth be told though, minor gripes aside there is very little else to pick holes in with this album. A touch more inventiveness in the titles perhaps might have been more worthy of some of the songs here, as it would be a shame to see the likes of “Believer” and “Heartbreaker” lost amongst famous counterparts
It feels like such a complete work, a real start-to-finish album, as a homage to the rock’n’roll greats, but totally their own at the same time. An underground classic debut from one of Ireland’s loudest, and if the world’s still not listening at this point The Minutes might have to get a whole lot louder.
(Daniel Robinson)
