If the holy troika in nineties terms is defined as New Kids on the Block - Take That - Backstreet Boys, then Menswear, naturally, don't rate. Not merely because they failed on the commercial level, but because rather than aim squarely at a teen well-scrubbed r'n'b market, they rode the Britpop wave, played rock music and wrote their own songs. The last time any band, English or otherwise, pulled something like that off was Duran Duran, and the 'Swear weren't sleek-looking enough. The back cover demonstrates that pretty clearly, in that only singer Johnny Dean has anything along the line of the robot gloss which is essential for these things (and damn good robot gloss it is -- he looks like he should be on the cover of The Man-Machine, except it also looks like he has honest to goodness pouting sex appeal to go with it; even more trickily, he studiously avoids looking at the camera).
All this said, I adore this album, I love these guys, and they should have been contenders on some level, I know not what. I even have all the singles, pretty much, and the fact that they disappeared and then supposedly started doing country-rock before splitting into various similar Southern boogie fates (supposedly) pains my heart. They fell victim to dreams of quality, that reach for 'maturity,' when they should have avoided it like the plague. The bandmembers were no fools, were perhaps too self-conscious of their potential shelf-life and fate, said as much in interviews well before the album finally surfaced at the end of the Britpop Year, 1995. Still, such an ignominious way to bow out. Not kosher.
So this album. Friend Brian argued that in their own odd way they were English equivalents to San Diego's godlike Rocket From the Crypt -- heavy duty liars and publicity scam artists in the best of ways, dedicated to taking the kids with rock power, and possessed of (generally) damn good dress sense on stage. Beyond that things get different, but it's a good starting point. Everything on the album is stitched together from different sources, happily pastiched. Every single sounds like it came from somewhere else familiar first -- "I'll Manage Somehow" is "Oblivious" by Aztec Camera, "Daydreamer" is pop-pitched Wire (cleverly avoiding an actual full lift like Elastica fell victim to, I should note), "Stardust" ain't got nothing to do with Ziggy, but just about any cheeky punk/pop hit ended up here. And I could go on -- "Hollywood Girl" is a Jam B-side, "Little Miss Pinpoint Eyes" starts with a knockoff of Johnny Rotten's "Rrrrrrrright!" from "Anarchy in the UK" and throws in a random Suede reference via Hampstead Heath, etc.
But what makes it all great is that it all hangs together, like a playlist of indie cool pureed and served in a form that theoretically should appeal to everybody as opposed to snobs. What makes it better is that unexpected touches keep popping up -- "Hollywood Girl" has a melt-in-your-mouth chorus that Weller could never write, "Stardust" has more toss-off lines per minute than any bitchfest you've ever been in (singing "He's a superficial fucker!" is a fun joy, I've found, in the right situation), "Sleeping In" has this bizarre Jethro Tull flute out of nowhere, and so forth. It all hangs together brilliantly, and I listen to it all pretty regularly still.
Supreme high point of the album and their career -- "The One." The ultimate kiss-off to the rat bastard at your school who was the big man on campus while you were stuck on the margins, and who you discover has become a brain-dead drone while you at least have a life, it is, and the requisite Britpop String Arrangement here kicks, snarls and snaps right along with the music, right down to the final soaring chorus. They did this even better the one time I saw them live. Genius.