No Frills Reviews

The latest from the UK indie-pop veterans has been met with universal acclaim, but we need to talk about the vocals

Cult indie favourites, Los Campesinos!, released their seventh album in July to much acclaim; lauded as their most complete work and the ultimate Los Campesinos! album. So, as someone who has followed them since their first EP almost 20 years ago, why have I been left underwhelmed by it?

I’ve tried to come up with a considered analysis to explain it, but the simple truth is that it’s because the vocals are terrible. Now, that’s not really anything new for Los Camp. The vocals have always been pretty terrible. Frontman, Gareth David’s hyperactive, petulant whining having developed over the years into a slightly more considered, brooding type of whining. But the dodgy vocals were almost part of the charm. His whole thing was unfiltered, heart-on-sleeve outpourings so having a raw emotional quality to his voice made perfect sense and the obvious flaws could be excused.

On All Hell, Gareth’s vocals have become a kind of terrible that undermines Los Camp’s whole essence of being. He’s actually been working on his singing voice; it’s not exactly good but it’s acceptable. The problem is that he’s adopted a selection of Americanised vocal ticks to go with it, and sorry, but fuck that. A shudder shoots through me as he over enunciates the ‘er’ in his words like a California Valley Girl caricature. I cringe as he pronounces it ‘asshole’. And, I hastily hit skip as he chews his way through “The Order of the SEASAANS” like some 2000’s pop-punk dork. The bad vocals of old could be excused because they felt authentic, but you can’t be authentic when you’re singing in a fake accent.

The other aspect of Los Camp that I’ve long excused is their “UK’s first and only emo band” schtick. I have no time for emo because it is, of course, a genre for American teenagers and emotionally-stunted reprobates. Being that overtly angsty as an adult is deeply uncouth. But, Los Camp offered a very British variation on it; with their slew of obscure and hyper-specific reference points and an underlying sense of relatable self-deprecation. Yes, they were often overly earnest, but it was done with a knowing wink to the camera.

It isn’t like they’ve dispensed of the humour here. There’s still moments, like on Holy Smoke where Gareth’s lack of children and profession see him cast as “walking dead at 37”, which are mildly amusing in a not-actually-funny kind of way. But when you combine the tales of woe and sad-sack miserabilism with a near 40-year-old bloke singing in a fake American accent, it all hits a bit differently. That knowing wink doesn’t carry the same plausible deniability it once did. Lyrics which I may have read as a defiant middle finger aimed at the powers that be or a therapeutic purging of intrusive thoughts, now feel like a self-indulgent celebration of mediocrity.

In spite of my distaste for the vocals, they’re actually tolerable for about three quarters of the album and there are some excellent moments here. In particular, track 4 (it’s title is too awkward to type out) gives a 80-second glimpse of tender, minimal indie-folk beauty.

But I’m afraid you’ll have to go elsewhere for a positive analysis because seriously, that accent, man. It’s dreadfulness consumes all around it. It not only sounds horrendously annoying, but it taints my interpretation of the lyrical content and has me questioning whether I can ever listen to Los Camp in the same way again.

Best tunes: A Psychic Wound, Track 4, Long Throes,

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