Earth vs. The Wildhearts

THE WILDHEARTS "Earth vs. The Wildhearts" (East West)

THE WILDHEARTS are crass, obnoxious, boast a lead singer who finds it nigh on impossible to keep in tune and, in the absence of any new product from Metallica, have probably produced the hard rock album of the year.

Fronted by former Quireboy Ginger, these London longhairs trot out every cliché in the book - plus a few they've invented themselves - but have enough sense of their own ridiculousness to avoid straying into Spinal Tap territory.

Not that their amps aren't cranked up to '11' though for the terrace chant opener 'Greetings From Shitsville', a hooligan ode to the joys of their home city which is destined to find a place between 'Who's the wanker in the black?' and 'You're going home in a New Cross ambulance' in the Millwall songbook.

If it's high art you're looking for, you've definitely come to the wrong place. 'Everlone' and couch potato anthem 'TV Tan' do little to up the subtlety quotient and by the time the Motorhead-ish 'Suckerpunch' arrives on the scene, your sensibilities will have been kicked, spat at and given a good poke in the eye.

Mindless as all this might seem, The Wildhearts have actually succeeded where so many others before them have failed and that's in blurring the dividing lines between pop, punk, grunge and metal to the point where they no longer have any relevance.

This is illustrated to particularly gonzoid effect on 'My Baby Is A Headfuck' - without doubt the best song The Ramones never wrote and the proud owner of a fret-scorching solo from Mick Ronson, which underlines the tragedy of the great man's death. Add to that some wonderfully dumb lyrics, girlie doo-wop backing vocals and a Phil Spector wall-of-sound production job and we're talking serious mayhem.

The quaintly titled 'Loveshit' is pretty much the only throwback to Ginger's previous place of employment, a suitably whisky-tinged barroom romp which is equal measures Faces, Humble Pie and Free. Make mine a double!

In a less complicated world, The Wildhearts would be stadium-filling heroes but seeing as they've never admitted to a heroin habit, don't wank over Big Star and aren't on first name terms with any supermodels, there are a lot of people who aren't going to bother their arses giving them a chance.

The band don't exactly help matters with a sleeve that trawls new depths of bad taste but, what the fuck, perhaps we're better off having them all to ourselves.

• Stuart Clark