Bermondsey Joyriders – Self-Titled

The Bermondsey Joyriders sound as if plucked straight from the late 70’s UK rock n’ roll punk scene.  They have a classic bluesy punk essence to them that has since been long forgotten, and vocalist Gary “Guitar” Lammin has a coarse Cockney accent that only comes from years of excessive whiskey consumption at local neighbourhood pubs.  To top things off, with all three band members easily pushing fifty, I wouldn’t doubt if these guys were still living in some imaginary rockstar fantasy.  Cause that’s more or less what you need to really think this dated brand of “authentic” rock n’ roll is worth dedicating yourself to that late in your career.

Now I realize how pretentious that sounds, but it’s all true.  Everything on The Bermondsey Joyriders self-titled debut looks and feels appreciable only by those who actually lived in that long past decade.  And this isn’t a modern take on timeless oldies, it’s a style that was in an early state of evolution at the time, but eventually grew into something more.  Just don’t try telling that to The Bermondsey Joyriders… by the sounds of things their musical bible spawned from those since long forgotten times.

When it comes right down to it, the whole album sounds as if written by a mob of buzzed soccer hooligans.  Now while the Joyriders would likely take that as a compliment, I feel that it limits their sound to a very confined geographic region – like a couple local Cockney bars or the likes.  These are extreme working class anthems about nothing more than soccer (obviously referred to as football here), fast muscle cars, and pub life.  They’re not rallying cries like many of today’s surviving Oi! groups like The Business, but incredibly simple desires and anecdotes.  For example, tracks like “The Café Racer” idolizes muscle cars to godly levels, “Football” explains how the sport is the start and end of all worldly priorities and pursuits, and “Again and Again” just rambles on about being a the tough guy in the neighbourhood.  In any case, these are songs by soccer hooligans, for soccer hooligans.

I realize just how ignorant and elitist this review makes me sound, but I can’t explain my luke-warm reception of The Bermondsey Joyriders in other terms.  There’s definitely an audience out there who will eat (or should I say drink?) this up and rock along time and again, but there’s also a ton of people like myself who are simply several decades too young – or nowhere near the streets of Cockney – to relate to it.  To each their own.