Pitchfork

The Constantines' 2001 debut is still a mostly unknown, untouched gem, glistening ruby red in the dim, dark recesses of your future psyche. Flawless albums come every year or two, but The Constantines was that rarest of long-players, the perfect debut. Between a corrugated cardboard facia and thin, bleeding shell, the band's first CD was sheathed in a white paper slipcase, each of its 1,000 copies entwined with a single blue-tip match. "The cardboard was lifted from alleys and dumpsters... wherever we could find it. We cut it, stamped it, and assembled the packaging."

A sickeningly, painfully simple reconstruction of all the music that's ever really Mattered, The Constantines announced the Best Band in the World, and we-- critics, caricatures and cunts-- have been foaming at the mouth to crown another one for twenty years now. Fearlessly quoting Rod Stewart in a ballsy appropriation of slick, vocalist Bry Webb throatily blasted altruistic credos like "forget your rock culture stuck in tow.../ It's boredom beyond measure."

Most often (and accurately) labeled a Fugazi/Springsteen hybrid (just add a touch of Svenonius), The Constantines are resurrecting rock music from the frigid, faggy dungeon currently overrun with a thousand self-obsessed, coke-snorting keyboard players. Nailing fashion victims to the wall, these tireless, traditionally bent cads effortlessly reclaim the sexiness and sexuality of rock rhythms, wresting abandon from effeminate black-and-dayglo pretenders, righteously reacquainting us with the filthy, sinister roots of the medium. Theirs is the sound of craven, drunk friend-fucking, of smoky, dead all-night bars and wondering how to keep the party going.

"On to You" is the most immediately, emotionally resonant piece here, nominally recognizing its own merit, boldly incanting "sha la la, sha la la, ooooooooooh" over a mounting finale. Wind-swept, it combines the passion of almighty Bruce, the gutsy indie aggression of Archers of Loaf and the glacially cool depression of modern UK pop acts, forging a new, gritty alternative to Britain's overproduced ballads. You would hear beer glasses topple in this cerebral, shady bar; you would cough away smoke or rudely contribute it, eagerly waiting for resolution, grinning knowingly with every chorus, submitting.

The advance single "Nighttime/Anytime (It's Alright)" slits the throats of a thousand false prophets; filthy back room keyboards wheeze through decades of dust behind the band's signature, hard-panned electric guitars, fighting as brothers, betraying each other. Webb is still mining the streets for his hugely dramatic, beat poet lyrics, and they work as literature. "With one foot in the gutter/ The city is my sister/ The nighttime is my lover." The timeless adages Webb pens-- and even those he borrows-- are traditional and instantly classic, conveying both the desperate state of rock and roll and the majesty of its imaginary pasts.

Shine a Light may be a shade inferior to its predecessor, bogged down by a superfluous Question Mark & The Mysterians organ and awkward female vocals, but while considerably looser, there's an obvious effort to break with the past, to look forward for inspiration and improvement. This also means it's markedly transistional, experimenting with brilliant ideas too seldom trusted. Still, it's all too easy for The Constantines, a band so filthy, gritty and raw, they can only fail upwards.

Unlike the chic Strokes or pretentious Interpol, they are truly opening their hearts, pining desperately for the rest of us to join in (or at least bear witness to) their memorial for rock and roll, an artform consumed by its fans, all desperate for a glimpse of its glory. Though not quite the slap in the face issued by their debut, even this album's very worst song shines a light on what's wrong with our landscape. Find it and follow.