In all honesty, it feels rushed, and what would sound grand in a sloppy den of slovenly depravity sounds like one hundred other lesser-thans. Next.
But NME and their diseased brethren needed a new rock saviour, and in Palma Violets they had the right concoction of irreverence, melodicism and innate Englishness that gets them into an embarrassing lather once a month. It was a matter of time before the band were plastered with all the superlatives, wrapped up in glossy adulation and held aloft the heaving masses, 2013's Simba.
180 is, at the end of the day, pretty perfunctory. Again, not entirely the band's fault – there are a lot of promising factors here. The ebullient shambolism of opener Best Of Friends is a good rock song, making you feel young and stupid all over again; the haggard flailing roar of Chicken Dippers dips the toe into darker depths a la Murder City Devils (and arguably the best song here); the Clash aping of Johnny Bagga' Donuts is actually rambunctiously effective rather than offensively derivative. But the rest of the album feels either ill-conceived, ill-equipped, or just plain lazy. In all honesty, it feels rushed, and what would sound grand in a sloppy den of slovenly depravity sounds like one hundred other lesser-thans. Next.