The Art Of Rolling

There are quite a few things that the world needs at the minute: love, of course, empathy, tolerance, a Larry David Presidency, and maybe even a new album from Lauren Hill.
However, I’m not sure how far down the wish-list one has to travel before the prospect of a Scandinavian Ocean Colour Scene is mentioned.
The Blue Van have been making great critical in-roads Stateside where – if any proof was ever needed that, trans-Atlantically speaking, Britpop had about as much of a cultural impact as the Carry-On films – their brew of early Kinks, The Who, and The Yardbirds is being hailed as a genuinely fresh creative angle.
Stop sniggering down the back.
The four-piece have dubbed their sound ‘pigtraad’. This, roughly, means ‘barbed wire music’.
Unfortunately, ditch the superfluous second ‘a’ and, in English, it’s a definition of what’s on offer on their first LP that I can’t really top.
Know those awful bands that Noel and Liam routinely, and self-servingly, pronounce as the next big thing? Monosyllabic Weller-fanatics with Johnny Marr haircuts and songs titled ‘Bring It Down’ or ‘Come On’?
We had hoped that, like rabies, they couldn’t cross the channel. Unfortunately, the symptoms displayed by The Blue Van (the slavish devotion to meat and potatoes pub rock, a fondness for moccasins, a number called ‘Baby, I’ve Got Time’) suggests that the virus is now airborne.
Of course exposure to alternative treatment (Eno, Squarepusher, Outkast, Low) has been known to drive the sickness away, but past experience shows that those struck with the most virulent strain tend to shy away from help.
Approach with caution, then. Remember what happened last time.