Razorlight aren't cool. It's cool to hate Razorlight, right? In a world so full of troubling uncertainty, Razorlight's unerring shittiness is a welcome constant, right? Razorlight are so uncool, you can even call them (titter!) Razorshite, which is obviously hilarious, right?

Wrong! Well...almost. After the (say it quietly) blaggard brilliance of 'Up All Night' and the (say it loudly) stadium-aping vanilla rock of the eponymous follow-up, J.Bo and co must have realised that it was time to start on something more sustained, something to justify their frontman's incessant boasting about how he was Christ 2.0 and better than sliced superlatives. So after a 12 month gestation period and some tension-free recording sessions (especially remarkable for a band with more internal friction than an elephant with a bellyfull of grenades), ol' Johnny boy is once again ready to lift up his petticoat and show us what all the fuss is about, third effort 'Slipway Fires' casting a greedy eye over the enormodomes of the world and making a lusty rush for U2's crown whilst Bono is busy bothering charities.

But by God, ol' Bozza doesn't help matters much with a woeful album cover (which shows him pouting hilariously seconds after rummaging through his nan's dressing up box whilst bemused band members stare on) and the decision to release by far the album's worst track as lead single - the insipid tosh of 'Wire To Wire'. He doesn't so much shoot himself in the foot as hand his legion of detractors an AK each and paint targets on his tootsies. The critics took one look, chuckled with the smug self-satisfaction of people having their preconceptions conveniently reaffirmed and gleefully kicked it to death. 

Which was a shame, because there is plenty of talent lurking beneath Borrell's gurning twattery; 'Hostage Of Love' is a fantastic stomp that is only surpassed by the bruised Simon-fucking-Garfunkel majesty of '60 Thompson' and busy Queen bluster of 'Monster Boots'. Meanwhile, 'Blood For Wild Blood' works itself into a right little state, also revealing that ol' wonky chops has spent just the right amount of time listening to Kings Of Leon and Leonard Cohen. That's not to say the album is perfect - you'll bellylaugh at how shite 'Tabloid Lover' is and 'You & The Rest' will make you want to napalm an orphanage - but for those enlightened few who realise that it's always easy to hate and who have the courage to break through their preconceptions, this album is pretty damn good. It's not something you'd tell someone on a first date or scream out in a crowded Shoreditch bar, but stumble across it late one night after a few white wine spritzers and you'll have a grand old time. It's hardly the most original album ever; but then it doesn't need to be: this is Razorlight tweaking the formula and, for the most part, doing it with ample fire and skill.

So ultimately, the leaves change but the roots stay the same. Borrell could have shouted this album down the toilet and flushed it twice for all it will help to change the view of the many, many haters. But those willing to listen with their ears and not their prejudices will find a clutch of great tracks here - the fact that they are buried under more than a little shite is not enough to take the sheen off their brilliance. To quote old 2pac: 'eff the haters', laugh in the face of shame and give 'Slipway Fires' a right good seeing to; notions of 'cool' aren't worth as much as everybody thinks.  

Posted In Features, Dec 03 2008. Words - Oli