There seems to be an endless horde of fresh-faced bands that proclaim to be resurrecting the spirit of rock n’ roll these days. They see themselves to grabbing the genre by the scruff of its neck and dragging it back to its supposed glory years. Yet, few bands can say they’ve lived the lifestyle quite like Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell. These working class grease rock bastards, fuelled by speed, cheap lager and roadside fry-ups, have the scars to prove their worth.
The thing is, The Shovell has never claimed to be the biggest or the best around and frankly they don’t care who is. There is no brash egotism at play here, just a rough-and-ready honesty which permeates in what these three guys do. Their songs haven’t washed in weeks, far too busy spinning crackling Budgie vinyls, knackered Motörhead live albums played at a sluggish RPM and snorting self-inflammatories to do anything hygienic. If you want your music dressed up to the nines like an American prom queen, look elsewhere.