Album Review: Half Man Half Biscuit - The Voltarol Years (2022)

 Craig Stephen on the prolific Half Man Half Biscuit …

Half Man Half Biscuit never stop. Four decades on and the albums keep a-coming. Just as I wonder if Nigel Blackwell has dredged the well of humour dry, the world churns out more merde for him to get his teeth into. As it were.

The Biscuits have been around since 1985 when the world was first introduced to their love of minutiae on the seminal Back in the DHSS album, a period piece of observant, wry tracks that cast an eye over everything from unemployment to table football to the galling awfulness of children’s TV presenters.

Every two to three years the Biscuits relaunch with a new album, and The Voltarol Years is their 15^th studio album (on top of numerous EPs and a few compilations). The previous 14 masterpieces were all released on Probe Plus but with that cult label’s closure through its owner’s retirement, they’ve released this on R M Qualtrough, a name so anti-rock’n’roll I’ll assume it’s their own set up. That change may explain the gap of four years since No-one Cares About Your Creative Hub So Get Your Fuckin' Hedge Cut.

 The Voltarol Years contains the usual cutting edge sarcasm and satire, railing against the worst elements of society: football fans who aren’t really football fans, middle class aioli-consuming moaning minnies, pedants, grumpy online chess players, C-list celebrities and what have you. If there were ever a political statement in a Biscuits track it would be about the bickering at parish council meetings over poorly-devised pavements.

This is all delivered in a manner that defies musical norms, none of which is more evident than on ‘Grafting Haddock In The George’, where, mid song, Blackwell deviates into a monologue about Martin, one of those people who want to be at the centre of everything and who like the sound of their own voice. As he does so the band pares back to a single bassline: 

“He was at Knowsley Safari Park one day where he saw a monkey with a banana in one hand and a tin-opener in the other, and he shouted over: ‘Hey, you don’t need the tin-opener for that!’ To which the monkey replied: ‘It’s for the custard, dickhead!’ …”

In the 1980s and much of the 90s the Biscuits could drop in obscure references knowing that fans would need to ask their mates what it meant or remain befuddled. Now, all you need do is search Google. So what exactly is Urbex or buskins of mottled cordovan? Who is Anthony Power or Chicory Tip? And where exactly is Haverfordwest and why is it named so? Do I even care? That, perhaps, is the entire point.

‘Rogation Sunday’, meanwhile, reveals how a man finds a curious note from his other half that brings a double-whammy of bad news:

“I came downstairs and found your note / The greater knapweed near the mugwort by the buckthorn tree is dying / P.S. Yes, I have left you”

The preamble to all this merriment and mirth ‘I’m Getting Buried in the Morning’, is the tale of a murderer about to meet his maker, and who wonders how he’ll be remembered (not fondly obviously). Our anti-hero cheers that: “Yeah, I’m getting frazzled in the morning/ So get me to the chair on time,” sung in the manner of that ol’ cockney classic ‘Get Me To The Church On Time’.

The music is a varied mash of standard rock and indie-pop, sometimes grating, often enthralling, as on ‘Awkward Sean’, a personal favourite due to the breezy pace it takes. The narrator wonders what has happened to his old pal and tries to find out from others who knew him. Some say he died a long time ago, some say he’s alive in a small town in Pembrokeshire, west Wales (hello Haverfordwest!). We discover that Sean was a little bit different: while his mates liked the flamboyant footballers such as Best, Pele and Cruyff he was an admirer of more functional German players. In the pubs: “We would play pool/ He would arrange beer mats into a tower.” 

Amongst the jollity and scornful mocking, The Voltarol Years does contain some bleakness, as on ‘Big Man Upfront’ where another ratbag hits his dog cos he’s “hard as nails” and crashes his car but survives – “I cursed the airbag when I heard” bemoans our storyteller.

The Voltarol Years won’t be picked up by global radio, trend on Spotify or be listed in the Top 75 Albums of the Year by Mojo magazine. They don’t even try to go beyond their fanbase nowadays, and never really did – after all they eschewed a TV appearance that could’ve boosted their profile in the 80s to instead see local side Tranmere Rovers. But, in age of increasing cultural tediousness and AI-generated music, bands such as Half Man Half Biscuit are needed more than ever. “What side of the indie war were you on Grandad? I was on the side of Tess of the Dormobiles, lad”.