The Jacks : Deluxe

Get the latest from Beat

The Jacks : Deluxe


Candyfloss. Even before you ever tasted it, you knew you were going to go frigging batshit for it.

Candyfloss. Even before you ever tasted it, you knew you were going to go frigging batshit for it. It was pink, fluffy and 98% pure sugar: aka, kid heroin. To your six-year-old eyes, ‘twas all that was good. It’s like that with this album. The CD art is disarmingly retro, a black-and-sepia marvel adorned with ‘50s lingerie-clad coyly smiling wenches, leather jackets, cartoon wolves. There are ads for The Jacks’ “high frequency electric treatment in your own home!” and “The shocking truth revealed… inside!” It’s done with lovin’ care and attention and looks really nifty. Your six-year old eyes are drawn in, and, just like that first taste of candyfloss, when you put the album on it’s a sensory delight. But the candyfloss of this Melbourne trio is a bitter sweet indeed.

There’s a cracker straight out of the gates with opener All Nite, which boasts rockin’ raw punk helped along with a large dollop of rockabilly. We’re introduced to the snarling vocal of lead singer Sammy 7 and some great instruments: frenetic drumming and loud, fuzzy guitars. Next song Into Forever builds on this mood of beer, bikes and loose women with some Irish-tinged punk a la The Pogues, and could in fact be at home nestled anywhere on Rum, Sodomy & The Lash.

The upbeat punk tone of the first half of the album is a great scene-setter, but doesn’t set The Jacks up as one-trick ponies. Coming half-way through at number four is Hit City, which changes it up a bit as a heavier, more straight-up rock ‘n’ roll number. It’s really nicely paced and flows on from the other material as opposed to jarring with it. “I don’t need your money / And I don’t need your love,” growls Sammy. You get the feeling these guys don’t need much except their instruments and the open road. Then we’re back in Shane MacGowan territory with Dead Radio, one of the album highlights that also gives nods to Anti-Flag and Rancid. The instruments overlay well here and hint at what we can look forward to in terms of musicianship with these gentlemen. Slower-paced closer Midnight Drive has a great bridge and some fittingly tonal vocal back-up to accompany Sammy 7: “Baby don’t you wanna be / On a one-way ride?” he entices, “Baby don’t you wanna be / On a midnight drive?” You get the feeling that this is a drive one little hussy isn’t coming back from.

Apart from the vocal, the drumming is another stand-out on the album, playing breakneck speeds with easy changes in tempo (Hit City, Old Black Rose), and it’s obvious that drummer Jungle Jim Smith is just generally content with beating the ever-loving shit out of his drumkit. The production is raw and fuzzy, as it should be, and the enthusiasm seeps out of the speakers like nicotine tar.

It’s a sweet debut, and any learner’s flaws can be quickly forgiven in the face of such passionate rock ‘n’ roll that makes you want to shout the pub a round. So in short: help yourself to The Jacks. They isn’t candyfloss, but dude, you can buy beer.