An undeniably impressive second album – more Philip Larkin than Mark E. Smith.
David Sheppard 2011
North London trio Let’s Wrestle have been with us since 2007 when, as precocious teens, they unveiled their smart-yet-indolent take on classic underground rock disenfranchisement – The Fall meets Buzzcocks in 21st century suburbia, effectively – immediately gaining favour with scenesters like Art Brut’s Eddie Argos and landing them a deal with bijou indie imprint, Stolen. 2009’s sparky, cheekily titled In the Court of The Wrestling Let’s album debut followed, winning universally positive notices and establishing frontman Wesley Patrick Gonzalez as a wry, singular wordsmith, mature beyond his still tender years.
Recorded in Illinois with bespectacled grunge doyen Steve Albini at the controls, this sophomore outing is understandably crunchier than its predecessor. Once again p*** and vinegar guitar thrash meets bubblegum pop, but this time the melodies are more consistently nagging and Gonzalez’s lyrics broader in scope, dissecting the travails and tragedies of quotidian life with a disarming candour, sporadically etched with genuine gallows wit.
Granted, the band is still ingénue enough to wear some of its influences rather too loudly on its sleeve (the formidably catchy I’m So Lazy mines prime Dinosaur Jr., while I Forgot could be The Lemonheads covering Buzzcocks), but there’s innovation and originality aplenty, too. Piano-propelled, post-divorce paean I Am Useful offers a typically affecting gear change, its classic pop chord progressions and aching, emaciated Bert Weedon-esque guitar solo framing mordant, acutely human observations ("I’ve got all your stuff in parcels by the door / But I don’t have a wife any more… I’m going to put an English face on this…") – more Philip Larkin than Mark E. Smith.
Yo La Tengo-like maternal tribute For My Mother, meanwhile, manages to sound both heartfelt and unsentimental – a fiendishly difficult trick to pull off – while the almost countryish Getting Rest eschews the full band thump entirely in favour of acoustic guitar, cinema organ and keening harmonies; an English Fleet Foxes on a budget. It, like much of this fine and not at all ‘difficult’ second album, is undeniably impressive, but it leaves you with the ineffable impression that the best of Wes Gonzalez is yet to come.