Leather Jacket Rock
Some of it is good, some of it is bad and all of it is at least a little corny.
I first heard Bad Nerves roughly six years ago. Their spring-loaded fusion of power pop and punk was pretty undeniable—at once pure candy and raw adrenaline. I don’t remember the first Bad Nerves song I heard, but I remember how it made me feel. I’m not sure what getting struck by lightning feels like—a quick Google search suggests it feels like getting clobbered with a sledgehammer or kicked in the head by a horse, which sounds decidedly more unpleasant and less whimsical than I thought—but I always imagined it to feel intensely energizing for a split second, like you briefly transform into the Hulk or something. Bad Nerves’ speedy riffs and sticky melodies, chugging with the relentlessness of a pub rock band and glistening like the heyday of American power pop (think L.A. bands like The Plimsouls and The Beat), stir that kind of freakish jolt inside me.
Luckily, their songs tend to hover around the two-minute mark because if they lingered for longer, their sheer uninterrupted force might inspire you to do something stupid—like a euphoric windmill kick that accidentally takes out the potted plant you’ve been carefully tending to for months, or a spontaneous sprint around the block even though you just started boiling water and your roommate will strangle you in your sleep if you start another kitchen fire. Bad Nerves sound like a more brisk Exploding Hearts (or The Nerves, perhaps the band name is a homage) or White Reaper’s unruly British twin—their songs have a punishing pace, but oftentimes it feels like spunky pop is their first love, especially on tracks like the dangerously catchy “Can’t Be Mine” and ironically radio-friendly “Radio Punk.”
Bad Nerves make guitar pop via Mike Krol, Jay Reatard and early periods of Cloud Nothings and Supergrass, which is hands down one of my favorite flavors of the genre. Bad Nerves aren’t as deliciously scuzzy as Krol, as mind-numbingly precise as Reatard, as sonically crafty as Cloud Nothings or as charmingly silly as Supergrass, but they don’t need to be. Their economical rippers have teeth and heart, and they carry a mean pop tune, which is pretty much all you need.
Bad Nerves released a slow trickle of singles beginning in 2017, and then there were at least a couple years of radio silence. They probably didn’t do themselves any favors by reemerging with their self-titled debut full-length the same year the plague hit, but it’s a consistently solid body of work. The songs they re-released from their early days like “Dreaming” and “Wasted Days” still sound sharp in their pogoing energy and pop immediacy, while newer tracks like “Electric 88” and “New Shapes” double down on their supersonic speed while folding in more explicitly bluesy rock ‘n’ roll.
Bad Nerves are a prime example of “leather jacket rock” done well. “Leather jacket rock” is a pretty loose term that encapsulates several (but not all) kinds of rock music. Generally, I’d say it includes pub rock, power pop, garage rock and certain flavors of punk and hardcore, as well as modern “alternative” bands whose records you can buy at Urban Outfitters. Basically, while listening to the music, if you can imagine the band members wearing leather jackets, then the shoe fits. “Leather jacket rock” also intersects with “denim jacket rock,” but dear readers, do not conflate these terms. A band can also be categorized as both “leather jacket rock” and “denim jacket rock,” but that’s where things get more complicated.
In regards to Bad Nerves, they’ve sported many a leather jacket, and their reverence for rock’s primitive roots and its progression through various underground scenes and more pop-oriented, chart-friendly configurations is evident, if a little corny, which means they’re practically dictionary definitions of the term. Bad Nerves are currently on their first-ever American tour, and they’re opening for Royal Blood, which is mildly funny because one could also slap this band with the “leather jacket rock” tag, but in a pejorative way.
What makes “leather jacket rock” good is not some vague measure of authenticity or aesthetics or a requisite BPM—it’s more about whether something whips ass. But there are a few questions that might help you discern, like does the music make you feel powerful enough to earnestly wear sunglasses indoors without feeling like a dweeb? (This question may not be helpful if you’re already a dweeb.) Or, does the music rip so hard that you would subject yourself to getting doused in beer and other people’s sweat at one of their shows? Alternatively, some increasingly snobby questions include: Would the music prompt Annette Bening’s character in 20th Century Women to ask, “Can’t things just be pretty?” Or, does the band sound a bit like Wipers or The dB’s? Or, has Maximum Rocknroll ever smugly praised their “sneering, no-bullshit riffs?” I suppose a few of these questions could qualify as vague measures of authenticity, but that’s neither here nor there.
The early 2010s were an interesting time for guitar music. Whether it was vaguely mythical/apocalypse-themed alt-pop or curly-mustache-core, stomp-clap-hey folk, the bands that ruled the airwaves around that time reeked of what can only be described as “youth pastor energy.” Outside of this nightmarish sphere, some of the biggest rock albums of the era included Arctic Monkeys’ AM, Jack White’s Blunderbuss, The Black Keys’ Brothers and El Camino and Queens of the Stone Age’s …Like Clockwork. This was more or less the sonic landscape Royal Blood were birthed into—the sort of post-garage-revival, straight-down-the-middle rock that was more interested in meaty riffs than experimentation. As a fan of Arctic Monkeys throughout high school and college who can’t seem to listen to them anymore without grimacing, I’m mostly uninspired by this era of rock music, particularly The Black Keys, who were framed as Ohio’s official rock ambassadors at that time, when in fact they are corny as hell and Cloud Nothings were sitting right there!
Royal Blood’s origins felt almost sinister at the time. A full decade ago, before the term “industry plant" got regularly thrown around, Arctic Monkeys headlined Glastonbury, and drummer Matt Helders wore a Royal Blood shirt during the widely broadcast set, despite the fact that the band hadn’t released any music yet (and didn’t have any official merch for that matter). Shortly after, Royal Blood’s self-titled debut album was released on a major label, debuting at number one on the U.K. albums chart, and the rest is history. Of course, they’re far from the only band to leverage industry connections to get ahead, and there are pitfalls to romanticizing the age-old mantra of “You gotta pay your dues,” but to say Royal Blood’s ascent was typical isn’t exactly accurate.
Stylistically, I’m not the biggest fan of The White Stripes, one of rock’s most lauded duos, but there’s a real bluesy verve to their playing and writing—you can draw a clear line back to bands like The Sonics and MC5. They sound primal and nasty, yet melodic and groovy. The White Stripes are undoubtedly a reference point for Royal Blood, but this English two-piece took what the famous Detroit band did and reduced it to edgeless, superficial, woefully anonymous nothingness. Their bog-standard, inoffensive garage rock sounds like it was made specifically for a meatheaded Jack Daniels commercial or the walk-on music for a “dangerous” stand-up comedian who’s about to whine about trans people for an hour.
It’s hard not to find it rich that a duo that sounds like a snot-leaking toddler’s idea of a rock band is also trying to beat the drums of “We are the saviors of rock ‘n’ roll” and “Auto-Tune is an abomination” or whatever. Earlier this year, while Royal Blood were performing at BBC Radio 1’s Big Weekend festival, frontman/bassist Mike Kerr went on an embarrassing rant about rock’s supposedly dwindling popularity—mind you, Royal Blood’s new album debuted at number one on the U.K. albums chart and according to Billboard, they were outselling The 1975’s newly reissued debut album “by a ratio of more than 2 to 1” at one point—and then chided the audience for not cheering loudly enough. Maybe—and just spitballing here—a band that didn’t spend years playing in front of 1.5 people at bars that smell like grease and urine should relax about a subpar reaction from a crowd of thousands.
This all goes to say that “leather jacket rock” is a broad concept that can go very well or very poorly, which is why it’s so amusing these two are sharing bills together. I was excited when they announced a Cleveland date, because I was stoked to see Bad Nerves at their second-ever U.S. show and curious to find out if Royal Blood were any less insufferable in person—maybe I had been too cynical.
I arrived at Cleveland’s Agora theater and stood amidst a crowd of mostly white men, mostly dressed in black band t-shirts. Funnily enough, there’s an Asking Alexandria show happening just down the street at the Masonic Auditorium, so that makes two gatherings of black-clothed fans for cringey British rock. As I wait for Bad Nerves to come on, I notice a young-ish guy a few feet away wearing a Don’t Tread on Me cap—something that will become even funnier in just a short while.
The British power punks sauntered on stage and took the challenge of a large, unfamiliar audience head on. They broke into their newer album material first, like “Palace” and “Baby Drummer,” and it was immediately apparent how tight they are as a group. Their interplay was sharp, and their throttling pace was just as tantalizing as I’d hoped. Frontman Bobby Bird’s—who at least at point went by Bobby Nerves—voice sounded slightly rugged, yet pop-y, and it had that same filmy, lo-fi feel that works so well on their recordings. He wore a Government Warning shirt, a nod to the defunct Richmond, Va. hardcore punk band, and of course, Wayfarer sunglasses. Their guitarist George Berry—who spent much of the set with his pick ceremoniously raised to the sky, though unclear if it was a clever ploy to air out his exposed pits—chimed in on backing vocals, adding an even poppier counterpoint to Bird’s voice and making the set feel like a true power pop triumph. I should also mention that their bassist Jonathan Poulton had a cool dangly earring—why do bassists always have a cool dangly earring, can science explain this?
Royal Blood fans were minimally engaged during Bad Nerves’ set, though a smattering of them seemed to recognize “Radio Punk,” which got immediate cheers and is definitely a standout in the band’s short discography. Then, they ripped into their most recent standalone single, “USA,” which criticizes American hegemony and mass incarceration. Apparently this went right over the head of our Don’t Tread on Me dude, who cheered loudly throughout the song—nothing to make you feel like this country is going down the drain like a conservative misunderstanding rock lyrics about the guise of American patriotism. Though in his defense, I couldn’t quite tell if Bad Nerves substituted the song’s shout of “CIA” for “USA” in an effort to appease American audiences. In any case, the band’s most mod/Oi!-centric song sounds sick live.
The closest they came to pulling a silly stunt was standing completely frozen for a full minute or two while the drummer tapped his cymbal like a metronome before rambunctiously breaking into “Mad Mind.” It’s kind of a cheap move, but it worked, injecting a much-needed burst of energy into the room. They closed with “Dreaming,” also their album's closer, and it was hard to come away with a more pressing thought than “Damn, I need to see them play at a small venue, like yesterday.” My only complaint about their set was the volume, which could have been cranked up a couple notches, though maybe that’s just my ears, which have been pummeled by PA systems for years, or maybe that’s just standard fare for an opening band at a big venue.
After their set ended, I left the pit and headed to my seat to get a good view of the headliners. Now, let me preface my thoughts with this: Dunking on Royal Blood in 2023 is like an adult dunking on a three-feet-tall Little Tikes hoop—they’re not exactly critical darlings. However, Royal Blood are doing very well for themselves, and I’m an idiot who enjoys joking about bands that think they’re really doing something, when in fact they are not.
Fittingly, Mike Kerr walked on stage in a leather jacket and heeled boots that looked a bit silly, and drummer Ben Thatcher was in your standard-issue “I’m a band guy” Led Zeppelin t-shirt. His drum skin had a white tiger’s head on it, and it had six eyes, so you know the music you’re about to listen to is wild and crazy. They walked on to Edwin Starr’s “War,” which was easily the coolest thing about their set.
Royal Blood opened with “Hole,” a slow-crawling riff fest which should induce that scrunched, blissful slow-riff face, but instead induces little more than a yawn. All I could do was sit and ponder the song title, which bears the name of a much more interesting band. As the set progressed, I started to ruminate more on their setup. Thatcher’s drum beats are precise yet ploddingly simple, which makes sense considering slow-to-mid-tempo rock songs are their wheelhouse, but when watching a big-venue show with only two people on stage, it makes you wonder why he didn’t have a little more fun with the writing of his parts—listen, I’m not asking for anyone’s best Max Roach impression, but a bit of flair can go a long way.
I’m also perplexed by their stubborn devotion to disguising the bass guitar as an electric guitar. It seems like this yields a cleaner, more compressed sound than you’d want in a filthy rock song. To his credit, Kerr does a convincing job of mimicking a six-string guitar, but there’s something slightly restrictive or computerized-sounding about the end product, which is almost inherently dull. This compression feels like an artistic choice, but it just doesn’t do their songs any favors.
As their music fell short, I began to listen more closely to their lyrics, in hopes of uncovering something else to latch onto. I listened attentively to “Lights Out,” a song about unrequited love, and not only was it full of hackneyed metaphors—like “You’re a cage, won’t you let me in?”—it’s also about as impersonal as a greeting card. Next, they played “Mountains at Midnight,” and their love of typical rock ‘n’ roll iconography became apparent: bruises, ruses, bones, potions and the like. But rather than use these images for satire or something merely dumb and funny, they bombard listeners with a grab bag of stereotypical sleazeball phrases, like “I’m a bruise you soothe / in your dancing shoes,” or “Twenty-four karat thug / In a velvet glove / Pinin’ for pretty potions down those holes you dug.” It’s then that I’m reminded of my rabid Arctic Monkeys-listening years—at least Alex Turner is funny when he writes about dirtbags. The space-station-martini ephemera of Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, peppered with quips like “What do you mean you’ve never seen Blade Runner?”, runs circles around lines like “I gave my knuckles a run for their money / Spider web cracks on the mirror / I see someone but not somebody.”
Their most compelling moment was actually when they stripped things all the way back for “Waves,” the final song from their new album Back to the Water Below. Joined by Bad Nerves guitarist Will Phillipson, Kerr sang tender pop melodies that recall Badfinger or Road to Rouen-era Supergrass. The swelling chorus was a surprising moment of poignancy, and perhaps a sign that Royal Blood would be more potent if they wrote songs that sounded more like Travis and less like a duller version of Queens of the Stone Age. There are two other ballads on their recent LP, “The Firing Line” and “There Goes My Cool,” which don’t make an appearance in Cleveland, but they’re pure Submarine soundtrack/Suck It And See fodder if I’ve ever heard it—especially the twee guitar melodies of the former and the crooner-ish vocal delivery on the latter—and you know what, they’re pretty good! They sound a bit like the sweetly soaring Elbow, and if Royal Blood were less concerned about trying to be the best meat-and-potatoes, dragon-and-flames-and-cigarettes rock ‘n’ roll band, maybe they’d be on to something.
I recently read a tweet about “music for people who don’t like music,” and while Royal Blood could probably fit into this category, my hope is that if there are people with not-yet-far-gone taste who listen to Royal Blood, that they eventually graduate into better things (or hold out until Royal Blood go full-Travis mode). I mean, I’m an ex-Stereophonics fan, so you know, all can be absolved in due time. Need more gnarly, no-nonsense rock recommendations than the ones already listed here? Check out The Marked Men, Carbonas’ 2007 self-titled album or hell, just listen to Ramones, “leather jacket rock” royalty.
As for Bad Nerves, their next big support tour is in the U.K. with glam-rock jesters The Darkness, who I’m just now finding out never really went away. Recent projects from The Darkness include a concept album called Easter is Cancelled, which imagines a world where Jesus didn’t actually die, and a live Christmas album titled Streaming of a White Christmas—hmm, okay sure, why not? I hope a Bad Nerves U.S. headline tour is imminent, and I gotta imagine someone has their head screwed on tightly enough to send them on the road with White Reaper at some point.
And as for “leather jacket rock” nation at large, don’t forget to call your mom, ease up on the stick-and-pokes and put on Travis’ “Why Does It Always Rain on Me?” every once in a while. Or, if you can’t stomach Fran Healy’s nice-guy rock, put on the thrice-mentioned platonic ideal between Travis and “leather jacket rock”: Supergrass. Maybe this piece is just a thinly veiled plot to get everyone to listen to Supergrass. If you’ve ever read any of my work and wondered, “Is this just a thinly veiled plot to get everyone to listen to Supergrass?”: the answer is yes.