There’s a physical element to this album that you lose in the streaming age. Its original release was in the Metal Box of the name, something resembling a film canister, with three vinyl records inside, album-sized but made to be played at 45rpm, the speed of singles.
Not only did this mean that the listener had to change sides or records every ten minutes or so, but it was also designed so that it was difficult to get the vinyl out of the container without causing damage. The size and shape of the box means also that it doesn’t fit nicely with other LPs – Lydon originally wanted a sleeve covered with sandpaper so that it would damage any records sleeves it was put next to.
I rather admire this dedication to be awkward, to test what the listener will put up with, even though I’m glad I didn’t have to contend with it.
The music is equally uncompromising. Fundamentally each track comes down to a steady bassline from Jah Wobble, combined with a variety of drummers to provide a rhythm track – PIL got through more drummers recording this album than Spinal Tap.
Over the top of this, Keith Levene plays some wandering, scratchy, atonal guitar (he uses guitars made from aluminium to give a harsh metallic sound), with Lydon crying out lyrics with a sense of alienation and excoriation of modern society. Sometimes it sounds like Lydon is in the room next door, barely distinct. On a few tracks he’s a lot more immediate. It sounds a bit like Trout Mask Replica, except that here at least everyone is (more or less) following the same melody. Wobble’s bass work has more of a krautrock regularity; the mix is some enjoyably difficult early dubstep work. Speed the drums and bass up, you’d get something like Aphex Twin.
Maybe the best exemplar of the prevailing style is Poptones, a disturbing story supposedly based on an abducted woman whose captors and abusers played the same tune over and over on their car radio, which was later used to catch them – possibly apocryphal.
No Birds Do Call has lyrics that typify Lydon’s attack on modern society, talking of people living in “bland planned idle luxury” while Chant is a disturbing, er, chant, with Lydon wailing over the top of a repeated shout of “Mob, War, Kill, Hate”. Careering is very industrial, featuring pulsing synths and sharp percussion like the heartbeat of machinery. The final track (in the original running order) is Radio 4, an uncharacteristic smooth synth reverie, unlike the harshness of what has gone before.
I’d say that this album, especially taken with the original packaging, is Lydon being sand rather than oil in the machinery of the world far more than anything he did with The Sex Pistols. The fun, yet infuriating, thing about him is you’re never quite sure how far he’s taking it – does he genuinely have disdain for his fans for putting up with his crap? Or is the whole thing a knowing wink to share with them? Fascinating stuff.
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