When I was growing up and Grotbags was a resolutely unfunny character on the resolutely shit Rod Hull and Emu show, there was a thing called the PMRC. The wife of Al Gore (he ended up being the Deputy President of the USA if I have my history right) decided that rock music was warping the minds of “the kids” and before anyone could even scream “won’t somebody think of the children” there was a sticker that said “Parental Advisory Explicit Content” on any record with a swearword on.
Thing was, our mums never came with us to buy records and there were occasions where we bought the damn albums because they had this badge of honour on.
Now, these days, who buys albums? And the modern day equivalent is the “E” for explicit on Apple Music. Glory be – and well done boys and girl – of the 10 songs on “Grotbags” nine of them have this symbol next to it.
That, you have to say, is pretty good going – and a higher score than any exam I ever sat.
And, actually, that isn’t a bad insight into the band, either.
I am prepared to bet you that whether you enjoy this record – the debut from Manchester’s self-proclaimed “Greatest Band In The World – is going to hinge on this.
See, there’s amongst the other things that we’ll get to, about halfway through this 22 minutes, there’s a song called “Big Baby” (the one without the E). It is about a humungously fat kid. It contains this line: “I didn’t know Jacamo, had started selling baby clothes.”
You either thing that is genius, or you’re wrong. And if you are wrong, then Grotbags thanks you for your interest, no hard feelings. The rest of us can get on with working out why they’re so very, very, very good.
The first words on the record are these: “Hello, we are Grotbags, we are the greatest band in the world, we write amazing songs, but they all kinda sound the same.”
They do. They do. On both counts.
But rather like the similarly loony Presidents of the United States of America, what they do is write “proper” songs, they just happen to be barmy.
“Muscle Touch” is a pop punk ode to steroids, you know, cuz they can, “Cute” is power pop gloriousness that manages to namecheck, Springsteen, Silverchair and Ween and offers the incredible thought that: “if you want to kiss while listening to Slipknot then I don’t mind that at all.”
Grotbags understand that work = shit (if we can paraphrase Corey Taylor’s masked men) and “Alarm Clock” is a hymn to the sickie, “Puke” takes the sickie literally. And deals with throwing up in someones mouth instead of snogging them. “It started with a kiss, but it ended with a no” goes the chorus – before the outro reckons “I would still kiss you if you’d just been sick” (unless it’s Kylie I think I’d give it a miss).
“Fried Egg” is an 80s pop thing, a wholesome thing about drugs binges, though, and “Tinder Surprise” lives up to the best title in 2020 so far by being the only song I’ve ever heard about dick pics.
“Astro Terf” is actually moderately sensible. On one hand a condemnation of social media, which always get bonus points, but then it does involve launching anyone they don’t like into space. Over some great harmonies, mind.
“Hiya” has a companion piece. “Biya” (obviously) and over something that sounds a bit like Oasis, it says this: “goodbye you c**t’s, we’ve been Grotbags, we’re off down the pub.”
Sorted.
Most people are going to hate this. Most people are supposed to hate this I am guessing, but those of us who recognise twisted genius is still genius all the same, have a brand new favourite band.
Rating 9/10
