22-20s, 'The 22-20s'

The law of averages probably doesn’t state it anywhere but it would be fair to assume that, if America produces modern bands such as The White Stripes and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, it’s only a matter of time before Britain hits back. Leading the fight are the 22-20s who may be from Lincolnshire but sound quite unlike anything from the sleepy English county. And it doesn’t take long for them to have their wicked way with you. The gratifying effects of their self-titled album quickly seep into your veins and swirl around like an intoxicating, heady brew of dirty, rocking beats. It’s a record that should be listened to alone in the bedroom or with friends in the garage. And nowhere else in between.

You can’t help but feel that lead singer Martin Trimble was brought up under similar bedroom/garage rules himself. As already stated, he originated, like his band mates, from northern England, a region Darwin’s Survival of the fittest should have been written about. And its laws pervade this album: it sounds magnificently primal, literally roaring away at times. Just shy of forty minutes, the record assaults the head and heart in equal measure. Within seconds, you’ll hear distinct traces of The Rolling Stones, Yardbirds and the Animals. Trimble virtually spits out his lyrics with a healthy distain for everything and everyone. Considering he’s only in his 20s, his rugged voice sounds like its been round the block a fair few times – and then some.

And so ‘Devil In Me’ would be what the Rolling Stones sounded like if they were fresh faced on the scene, ‘Baby Brings Bad News’ is a boozy lament (“I’m getting bored of looking at his bedroom door/I’m getting bored of the song he sings that I’ve heard a million times before”) par excellence whereas ‘Shoot Your Gun’ is a sonically charged blues fest that defiantly asks you to cry. The tears won’t stop pouring out. And by the time you’re through – just wait until you feel the dazzling denouement of ’22 ‘I’m The One’ and ‘Hold On’ – you’ll be holding on for dear life. Mick Jagger and Jack White might be unaware of what’s going on underneath their noses but you need not be.