“Ice Cream“
from the album Fantastic Playroom
2007
iTunes
Remember how refreshing all those indie-rock boy-bands sounded when they first rediscovered the slanted angles and spiky rhythms of post-punk four or five years ago? But, oh dear, look at how dull and diluted they have become as their lackluster second and third albums hammer this monochrome formula into joyless chart fodder. Which helps to explain why the sexy, arty grooves of New Young Pony Club feel not just exciting but necessary.
Like CSS, the Gossip, and other female-centric peers, this five-piece from London have not forgotten the playful mischief and glamor that fuels all the best pop music. They are already bigger than the “new rave” tag foisted on them by the music press, and their highly assured debut album crams a mini-riot of post-punk pastiche, bedsit electronica, reggae, funk and shouty attitude into 39 minutes.
The band’s livewire singer, Tahita Bulmer, delivers her scattershot lyrics in a deadpan, semi-spoken staccato that lends attention-grabbing charisma to even the most robotic tracks. She sounds sulky and defiant on Get Lucky, moody and withdrawn on the nocturnal prowl of “Talking, Talking,” and plain lascivious on the innuendo-laced lust anthem “Ice Cream”: “Fantastic flavored fancy/ Sick like Sid and Nancy/ Wicked as a joyride jaunt,” Bulmer squeals over a throbbing disco-rock backdrop that is bizarrely reminiscent of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”. Which is a good thing, obviously.
Produced by the band’s guitarist and the main songwriter, Andy Spence, Fantastic Playground is a crisp and bouncy affair. It contains teasing echoes of early 1980s New Wave legends including early New Order, Tom Tom Club, the B52s and Bow Wow Wow, but New Young Pony Club wear their retro references lightly. Judging by the sizzling urban-samba rhythms of “Hiding in the Staircase” and the stuttering percussive clatter of “Jerk Me,” comparisons with the likes of No Doubt, Timbaland or Kelis would make just as much sense.
Crucially, Fantastic Playroom is not some in-joke collection for painfully hip rock historians. Brimming with smart, infectious, contemporary pop, this is the album of the summer and, so far, the best British debut of 2007.