Moco
Out To Go
2004
B-



rock ‘n roll is fifty, and frankly it’s showing its age: It now seems to exist more often than not as some kind of overly reverent nostalgia show or you’ll see it feeding like a vampire on the blood of its young to keep itself going. Well fuck that. Isn’t it meant to be about slaying your elders rather than consuming your young? Obliterate the past.

Moco formed in Wigan, which is a shithole full of Chatham Averages, or Cheltenham Averages, or Wigan Averages or whatever you want to call them. The Verve came from Wigan and look what happened to them. Moco formed four years ago college, or something, and Moco are rock ‘n roll. Not Rock, or Indie Rock, or Alternative Rock, or Revisionist CBGBs NYC Punk, but Rock ‘n Roll, which is an altogether different beast. A looking at your sister in a manner you find most concerning, which is smoking a cigarette not because it likes them but because smoking is cool type of beast.

Moco formed as three guys who loved playing rock ‘n roll fast and loud and stupid. And then they found a singer who is an animal, or lunatic, or psycho, or monster, who likes to climb on things and boo at audiences and sing songs about dying and girls and maybe even girls dying. And he has big chops on his face.

And so eleven songs whip past in half an hour because, really, what’s the point in slowing them down when you don’t have to? The eleven songs are called things like “Dirty Love” and “Loaded” and “Moco Loco” because if you’re going form a band and write a bunch of songs then a; you might as well use the best titles, even if they’ve already been used, and b; you’ve got to write at least one song about how fucking cool your band is, and c; fucking yeah. And every song needs a great riff and a chorus and a bit in the middle when the backing vocals go “AY! AY! AY!” like rats on PCP, during which the singing thing can throw itself off something, or onto something, or into something, and scream some more.

Quick note: “Where She Goes” is a bona fide Single Of The Week and would’ve been a bona fide hit had everywhere not sold out of copies (read: had there been enough to go around), while the title track is some kind of wah’d out swamp thing, which is exactly what it should be.

Quicker note: Apparently Moco are big in LA. Apparently Moco are the best live band in the world. If they were from New York or London they’d be huge by now. Fucking Wigan, man.



Reviewed by: Nick Southall
Reviewed on: 2004-08-18
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