By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
It takes only a few moments on the phone with Sergio Pizzorno -- guitarist and chief songwriter for the kinetic U.K. dance-rock quintet Kasabian -- to figure out that neither term applies to him. It's four in the afternoon, he's just rolled out of his bunk, and the blast of frigid Boston air that greeted him as he stepped out of the tour bus was a rude but necessary wake-up call.
"America is so fookin' cold, I'm freezin' my bollocks off," Pizzorno murmurs in his thick Leicester accent. "It's good, though, it's waking me up -- I decided to go on a two-day drinking binge and it was an incredible experience, but now I'm here but I'm not, and we have sound check in a few, so I gotta get with it."
And, he adds, if the festivities to come are anything like the previous stops on the band's inaugural U.S. tour, he wants to be more than semiconscious. "There's been a ton of girls, man! That's the reason I play guitar. Well, it's not the No. 1 priority, but it's definitely a nice little bonus, mate."
Chicks, booze all Pizzorno and the rest of the scruffy-looking Kasabian gang -- singer Tom Meighan, guitarist-keyboardist Christopher Karloff, bassist Chris Edwards and new drummer Ian Matthews -- need to do is chuck a TV into a hotel swimming pool or head-butt an autograph seeker and they'll complete a rock-rapscallion trifecta that we haven't seen from a British band since Noel and Liam wreaked havoc on our shores what seems like eons ago. And besides, when you're named after Manson Family member-turned-state's witness Linda Kasabian, you can't come across like a namby-pamby.
"I think nowadays people expect you to sip your tea and talk about fookin' Tchaikovsky, or go on about the fookin' poem book you just read on the bus and get weepy, and that's bollocks, mate," says Pizzorno. "Life's too short for that shit."
Now all we need is a bit of the ol' inflated ego to top things off.
"We have as much fun as we possibly can, and we make great music," he continues. "It's what we do we're rock-and-roll stars, man."
Ah, there ya go! Well, it's hardly the first such audacious statement Pizzorno or one of his bandmates (all friends since childhood) has made to the press recently, especially in the run-up to February's Brit Awards, where Kasabian -- practically unknown throughout England at the beginning of 2004, though the group's been together since 1998 -- was up for three awards, including Best British Band and Best Rock Act (it lost out in both categories to those "students" Franz Ferdinand). The U.K. media has had a field day running with Kasabian's oft-stated intentions of becoming the latest savior of British rock. And while his band's self-titled debut album finally was released in March, six months after its British release, Pizzorno has already discovered that word of Kasabian's cockiness has definitely preceded the group's stateside tours.
"It's funny," he says. "Some people here in America say to us, 'Ahhhh, you fooks, you come over here with this arrogant fookin' rock-and-roll attitude, and that's dead now, those lifestyles are dead.' And they're not, mate, they're not. We're just having fun, man. We're all 24 years old, we go all around the world and play in front of people, we like a few drinks, we like to have a little bit of a party every now and again. That's a great way to live your life. Them ideas, they ain't dead, d'y'know what I mean? It's still alive and kicking 'cause it's fun, man, it's fookin' fun."
If Pizzorno maintains a worldview befitting a Gallagher brother -- certainly appropriate, since it was seeing a 1995 Oasis concert that inspired him to form his own band -- Kasabian displays a swagger and energy that has less to do with anthemic pub-rock than with the baggy grooves of the Stone Roses and Happy Mondays, and the dark, electronic-laced psychedelia and sloganeering of Vanishing Point/XTRMNTR-era Primal Scream. The latter vibe is especially evident in the lurid, distorted bass line, the walloping drum loop and the whooshing synths that propel opener "Club Foot" like a Kowalski-driven Challenger tearing through a dimly lit tunnel and leaving tail-light acid trails in its wake, and in the druggy haze of "I.D.," with its disorienting keyboard oscillations and shoegazery guitar pulsing under coolly laconic vocals.
When he's not channeling Bobby Gillespie's menacing drawl, Meighan demonstrates a knack for melodically slurry Shaun Ryder-isms, made all the more obvious on tracks like "Processed Beats" and "L.S.F. (Lost Souls Forever)," which sport some of that old Madchester chemical bounce. Still, there's enough sonic deviation -- the motorized snap of "Reason Is Treason"; the sitar-fed creepiness of "Running Battle"; the dapper instrumental "Ovary Stripe," which could have perfectly soundtracked the closing credits of The Bourne Supremacy -- to keep the album consistently engaging and prevent it from descending into the realm of pure rehash.