Lyric-heavy music with bad lyrics, schtick-heavy music with tired schtick.

For all their faults, Sleaford Mods have a lot to offer the world of punk, particularly in this current age of inclusivity in which electronic rap-punk is considered as acceptable as a bunch of kids jamming on their guitars in a garage – I was going to refer to this world as “underground”, but I recently saw frontman Jason Williamson on Sunday Brunch, so that doesn’t really apply. Those aware of the duo’s quirks will view a new Mods album release as ominous as a review that starts with the words “for all their faults”. The Demise of Planet X will not sooth the apprehension of those who feel it, no matter how vital they may feel the duo’s niche is – middle-aged East Midlander shouting outside a pub as his mate plays an electronic loop on his phone – and no matter how well they coincide in an era in which having your own niche makes for good weaponry. I recently reviewed Dry Cleaning’s Secret Love; a band with its own niche, a band that has previously collaborated with Sleaford Mods, but the album takes on enough of an advancement to move us past what we may consider predictable or gimmicky about it. Planet X is Sleaford Mods flogging a dead horse, combined with Jason Williamson’s worst trait that has recurred on much of the duo’s music; political barbs that are supposed to be taken seriously, that just…end up…sounding…really silly. It’s probably worse if you’re actually English, because he will sound like somebody you know, somebody that has likely given up on their well-thought-out counterargument to call you dickhead, which says more about him than it does you and what a dickhead you are.

Not only does Bad Santa exhaust all of what Sleaford Mods could possibly exhaust, but the very specific action I just mentioned actually happens. Jason explains his own joke, then gives up and swears like your uncle making sure to be the loudest voice after Christmas dinner – “Caravan king, Don King, Emperor Ming-ing…minging, minging you cunt”. His barbs go nowhere, and I mean nowhere, taking on Dapper Laughs, which I’d approve of if it wasn’t 2026 and anybody could remember where he’s buried. His potshots are tiresome, his delivery is predictably blathering, and the album starts to properly fall apart at this moment – bear in mind, this is track six out of thirteen. There’s a lot of tired Sleaford Mods schtick that is rarely alleviated throughout the album. The zephyrous post-punk of Elitest G.O.A.T. – featuring a casual piano and happy bassline – gives it a try whilst Jason has a good little shout (“so when you bring in the Daleks, remember they don’t do escalators”), as do some of the album’s guest vocalists; Gwendoline Christie brings it on The Good Life; despite being fairly theatrical, it is less an actor’s performance, more the kind of histrionic vocal that’d make for a good, aggressive punk album.

But otherwise, the album summarises the duo’s catalogue for people who aren’t that into them; go-nowhere attempts at wordplay (whilst tiringly namedropping Tom Conti and Little Mix of all people on the title track), rants without cause or pause (Don Draper), and taglines that could only possibly stick with those willing to memetically recite them to their mates because they’re ham-fistedly designed to (the “you know they come, you know they come and then they go” intro of Double Diamond; the “you’re not miserable, you’re nice…WHAT?” back-and-forth of No Touch; the “shove it up the nasal” refrain of Flood the Zone). The aforementioned Double Diamond does contain a metamorphic final section in which Jason’s face explodes, which I would love to hear more of in the future, and the uniquely sinister party beat/bassline of Gina Was makes up for its terrible spoken-word poem intro – I hate the over-the-top way Jason stresses some of it – but at this point, Sleaford Mods are fly tipping their schtick all over the little grassy bit by the motorway. Sorry, that sounded like one of Jason’s lyrics.

Jason Williamson sounds far more enlightened in interviews or press releases, believe it or not. I’d say you’re better off reading what he has to say about his lyrics whilst listening to Sleaford Mods instrumentals, but honestly, while The Demise of Planet X is reasonably-well produced, it’s hardly musically propulsive. You’re better off doing what any sane person would do and cherry-pick your favourite tunes, and not the ones the thought of which would make you run for your life if your mate Jason were to show you what he’s been working on. That’s the thing, isn’t it? This is serious business to him, and bandmate Andrew Fearn, and I want to be fair to them – especially when you consider how many people there are out there that are willing to snub them just for being themselves – but this album is nowhere near as profound as it wishes to be, and how could it be? It doesn’t advance, it doesn’t say anything substantial, it’s just very, very silly.

Best tracks – The Good Life – Elitest G.O.A.T.
Weakest tracks – No Touch – Bad Santa.

Rating – 5 out of 10