Although they've always had to fight for their corner, Bradford's obstinately passionate NEW MODEL ARMY never wanted it any other way. The struggle's been worth it, though, as they remain one of the few artistically credible survivors of the 1980s bloodbath whose new work can reasonably stake a claim to relevance.
NMA'S new album "Carnival" is indeed a credit to its' creators. Indeed, while Justin Sullivan and co have suffered their share of tragedy in recent times (not least the premature death of original drummer and lynchpin Rob Heaton), this long-awaited new statement of intent makes it abundantly clear that writing them off remains a stupidly premature move to make.
Opening track "Water" finds the guitars biting and snapping, while proud new(ish) skinsman Michael Dean's drums pound out an essential, tom-heavy tattoo. It's urgent and raw, and in touch with their great early work, though maybe a tad more refined and modern. Whatever, it's an excellent start and has you believing this could just be vintage NMA.
The great news is that for the most part "Carnival" lives up to the promise, too. Justin Sullivan's vocals and lyrics are as emotive and aware as ever, the whole band - also including relatively long-term bassist Nelson, new lead guitarist Marshall Gill and keyboards man/ second guitarist Dean White - are pumped up and energised and the remaining ten tracks are all at least good (the skanked-up "Bluebeat" is arguably the weakest track to these ears), with four of the brood sounding like classics-in-waiting.
As always, Sullivan's songs are a potent mix of the personal and political. Songs like "LS43" and "BD3" are postcode semaphore for songs concerning the band's West Yorkshire roots and the latter especially finds past and present merging vividly into one when Justin sings "On the wall 'Bin Laden was here'/ Turn around and it disappears/ Soft spring rain and wild skies/ Wild hope in the kids'eyes...and no-one's really sure if this is home" and contemplates his place in the increasingly scary scheme of things. He does so again during the slower, aching "Carlisle Road" when he sings of going "up to the kids' bedroom....touched their sleeping faces/ wondered how I could protect them." I'm not sure if the subject matter here is rioting/ civil unrest or not, but whatever the deal the song is affecting and beautifully weighted.
The album's finest moments, though, are those where NMA combine personal and global issues. The first tour de force is "Red Earth", which is certainly one in the eye for the self-congratulatory Live 8 set. Taking in genocide, starvation and AIDS in Africa, it begins with a distinctly world-music feel a la Peter Gabriel with marimbas, keyboards and rolling drums supporting Sullivan's lividly moving lyrics ("Children walking barefoot in the golden dust/ Boys with blinding eyes, perfct skin and Bible names/ Machetes and AKs take back was taken") before the band's natural tendency to rock finally shakes the shackles off. You've just got over that epic when they hit you with a second in "Too Close To The Sun". This again surprises with Beatles-style mellotron and an unusually gentle intro giving way to something as dramatic and affecting as ever. I'm not sure if it's the second coming Sullivan has in his sights or not ("Tell Mary I never chose to come but all too late/ This time the time has chosen me"), but the song certainly hits the emotional spot.
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Good though these are, the album's zenith is scaled by both "Another Imperial Day" and the closing "Fireworks Night." The former deals vividly with the illegal movement of refugees/ asylum seekers across borders and the lives that are ruined in the process. The song itself is a rising, chromatic rocker burning with intensity as Sullivan delves into the nameless horrors and shocking degradation many are forced to endure. "But you made it, you're another one over/ seeping on a bench in a railway station in the heart of Europe/ Haven't eaten anything for two days straight/ But where there's a will there's always going to be a way" he sings, pulling no punches whatsoever. It's devastating stuff, but arguably usurped by the closing "Fireworks Night" : apparently a tribute to the late Rob Heaton. The drums roll ominously, guitars and keyboards add kindling and Sullivan's half-spoken narrative takes us to a place few writers would dare share with their public. "And now you'll be further on than I ever went. Is it still painless? Do you get to float and look down and do all that?" says Sullivan and you're right there, eavesdropping on them. It's uncomfortable, but magnificent and could well be one of the best songs they've ever recorded. And that's saying something.
So the more things change, the more they stay the same. New Model Army will never be welcomed into rock's comfy inner circles and will no doubt continue to be conveniently airbrushed out of most of the history books, but their no-holes-barred presence remains one of the necessary thorns in the side of an industry glad to chew up and spit out. I, for one, am bloody glad to hear them return in such rude health.
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