Pitchfork

If there's one thing that the ever-shortening attention span of music's Major Leagues has taught the current crop of crossover sensations making their way towards some measure of commercial success, it's that time is short. Like knocking over a convenience store, the m.o. is slash-and-grab, get in, get out, and don't let anyone come to their senses or put things into perspective. The three R's of rock and roll are now Release, Release, Release; anything, doesn't matter, just make sure your name never leaves the new release rack, even if you have to tag something as banal as a Saves the Day CD to do it. Perhaps it's just a passing trend, but for the moment, in the wake of some ridonkulous market over-reaching by Interpol, the YYYeahs, and now this pants-load from The Libertines, it certainly seems like quality is on summer holiday.

Now that they're starting to get the press they so richly deserved for last year's remarkable Up the Bracket, The Libertines, like their riches-to-more-riches counterparts in NYC, have to start pooping out half-baked EPs in between albums. I Get Along is one such EP; hell, there's even a bare ass on the back cover. And below that? The tracklist. Only stink-lines and flies buzzing the titles could make the implication (it's inadvertent, but you don't care about that) any more obvious. Out of five tracks, four are new, three sound like hastily recorded demos, two are even worth a damn, and one sounds like the nightmare soundtrack to a world where The Clash went mall-punk. It's like a countdown to irrelevance.

The best thing that can be said about "Mayday" or "Skag & Bone Man" is that they're over before anything really awful to say about them can leap to mind. Tipsy, British pub-punk, complete with a stylishly disheveled (drunken?) round of backing vocals on "S&B Man" is burned through with properly half-assed enthusiasm, where energy subs in for real aptitude for the material. It's formulaic, without any of the attention to detail or deft stylistic shifts that marked the tunes on their debut, but it's under three minutes for the lot. At least The Libertines know better than to waste too much time on obvious filler.

The first three tracks are the backbone of this skeletal EP, and they fare only marginally better at producing something worthwhile, despite some high points. "I Get Along" isn't even among the best moments on Up the Bracket, but its thrashing, trainwreck guitars and Carl Barat's sleepy-eyed cockney/Casablancas hybrid vocals are pure, gleeful abandon. "The Delaney" is sharp, Clash-informed pop with some of the sharpest songwriting The Libertines have put together; from the jangling, trebly riffs to an insanely memorable vocal line, it's got hooks to spare.

But as good as they are, together they only begin to counteract the vapid brain damage inflicted by "Don't Look Back into the Sun", their new single, a song just catchy and empty-headed enough to surely be a fair-sized hit for them. It's like "The Delaney"'s evil counterpart, infectious as syphilis and for all the wrong reasons, with dumbly cutesy vocals and a food-court-sized guitar line. If it wasn't for the enduring, beery charm, or character, or whatever in even the sappiest of Barat's vocals, if he was just a tad whinier with a hint of pre-pubescence thrown in, this would pass for any other band that still wears wallet chains and Vans ("for skating"). It's possible you think that's a good thing; if so, congratulations. As I see it, the tragedy here is that for one reason or another, this has been keyed in as a single; it's not hard to imagine why, either, but it doesn't bode well. In typical single fashion, it may sound nothing or everything like the next album; just in case, enjoy the sound of Up the Bracket while you can, and while you're at it, pass on this.