Reverend & The Makers: 'A French Kiss In The Chaos'

Mixing music and politics is often derided as a waste of time. Many scoff at the idea that Midge Ure + A Boomtown Rat could actually improve international relations or that Sting could possibly bring an end to climate change. However, those who think music's only purpose is to provide escapist entertainment are missing out. Over the years acts like The Clash, The Specials and the Manics have breathed life into the music scene with massive tunes that spoke explicitly and angrily about the ills of society. These bands succeeded because they realised that social commentary was never more important than the music, which would make you want to fight, protest and dance all night just as much their 'message' did.

Hoping to thrust their brand of political rock into the 21st Century is Jon McClure, the confident, ever-quotable frontman of indie collective Reverend & The Makers. McClure certainly has decent credentials, having voiced his anger at the Iraq War and organised anti-BNP events, but he was let down by The Makers' 2007 debut The State Of Things. Lead single 'Heavyweight Champion Of The World' showed glimpses of why McClure had proved an inspirational father figure to the Arctic Monkeys, but the rest of the album failed to match it. The all-important question, therefore, is this: Does A French Kiss In The Chaos add some much-needed musical clout to McClure's diatribes?

Well, things certainly start promisingly with the War-sampling opener 'Silence Is Talking'. The mixture of brass and Ibiza-soaked grooves is so infectious McClure even gets away with a corny "feeling love is paramount" refrain. Sadly, things take a turn for the worse elsewhere, with the frontman's hackneyed and painfully earnest poetry eating away at the listener's spirits. Equally worrying is the band's frequent slumps into a predictable baggy drone. If The State Of Things saw the Makers accused of banging out Arctic Monkeys knock-offs, then A French Kiss is a step down as they find themselves wandering into sub-Charlatans/Madchester waters. The album's second half, meanwhile, is clogged with lazy landfill indie riffing.

When they do fall upon an interesting tune - the eerie, layered rock of 'Manifesto/People Shapers' for example - McClure's political rants are awkward and lacking in subtlety. Any anti-BNP anthem gets a healthy round of applause from us, but surely the singer can do better than the bumbling: "I'm in love with the idea of giving a f**k about these things that surround me and stuff." Meanwhile, the paranoid "You're free to do what we tell you" chorus on 'Hidden Persuaders' is unlikely to have the government quaking in its brogues. McClure's positive intentions are all well and good, but there's a limit to how far they'll carry him when he drops waffling faux-psychedelia like 'Professor Pickles', which wouldn't have cut the mustard as an Oasis B-side circa Be Here Now. He may be attempting to keep the fiery political spirit of Bragg, Strummer and Lennon alive, but musically McClure is smudging their impressive legacy.