On the surface, Sense of Solitude is gritty rotten-toothed Brit-punk, imbued with some obviously normal pop influences owing large debts to Sham 69, the Stranglers, and early '70s cheese-whiz prog-metal. It's all too obvious that this "supergroup" of sorts (hey, there's a part-time Buzzcocks roadie or somethin' here, I think) rather not be categorized as merely "punk" in the one-dimensional Rancid sense. In fact, they try too hard to keep you off balance, as they not-so-slyly tiptoe around specific categorization as pure, gloriously moronic human pogo-sticks. Throughout their awkward phases of musical contrast, though, they do retain a galvanizing "modern life is bullshit and other people suck" credo.

Yet, if the Mercenaries would've stuck to revealing only the obvious idiot-rock side of themselves, this might have been a better-- albeit more predictable-- album. One minute they're doing the ram-it-down-yer-throat punk thing; then they whimper off into a piddly little electronica number and the vocals get ridiculously lachrymose and monotone. Then, maybe it's off again to a Hawkwind-aping space-metal guitar solo interlude, or a song like "Where is Love--" a kind of Red Hot Chili Pepper funk-metal disaster.

Lead singer Steve Ignorant lays down the lyrics with those priceless gnarled cockney speech deformities, kinda like if an angry Michael Caine fronted a rock band. In fact, sometimes, as on the pub-rocker "Down to You," Esquire Ignorant almost sounds like a rough imitation of expert limey impersonator David Lowery.

And do these guys really need to present any sort of official anti-cultural manifesto like "Cheap Excitement"? I guess every punk band has to have its own self-deprecating, proud-to-be- empty "Pretty Vacant," right? The song in question makes the startling declaration that they don't enjoy reading and don't fancy art, either. Wow, y'mean punks enjoy simple, crude pleasures? Man, that's weird. And to think I'd have mistaken them for a band of fey Oxford- educated editorial assistants at The Face doing the hobbyist band thing for shits and giggles.

And after all that humbug about hating art, it's kinda funny when the Mercenaries make obvious attempts at sounding profound and meaningful. They sometimes go into these silly little Mother Goose rhyme schemes, as on "See It Through," with Ignorant sounding at least as funny as Spinal Tap's Nigel Tufnel doing "Stonehenge." And "Killing Time" is yet another song addressing all the hypocrisy, boredom, pointlessness, lovelessness and all the other bleedin' societal maladies and misery that characterizes life in jolly olde England.

To me, though, the first track on the album, the anthemic fist-pumper "No More Running," says all that really needs to be said. Yeah, matey, ye got yer three or four white-hot power-chords burnin' through the air, and Mr. Ignorant spewing up his stomach lining at the antagonistic society that's got 'im backed into a fuckin' corner. He's alienated and right pissed, boyo: "Every day is the same sense of solitude/ Stupid people with their stupid little attitudes/ Pushing me to places I don't wanna go/ Giving me advice I don't need ta know." And to think, we here in the USA turn to that sentimental townie Bruce Springsteen for sociological insight? It's too bad the rest of the album doesn't fulfill the promise of this volatile opener.

The final song, "Sunday Morning Neighbors," because of its obvious opus-like quality, is worthy of commentary that's every bit as rambling and over-extended as the track itself. Just when you think the Mercenaries can't pull any more erratic stylistic stunts, these flighty lads once again attempt to upend your expectations. The song begins clanking along on a familiar-sounding four-chord figure (see Lou Reed's "Kill Your Sons"). Then, some delicate piano passages create a sparse intermission, and pretty soon, ho!-- here comes a galloping rhythm and distorted wah guitar creeping up from behind. Suddenly the music ceases for a split second, then immediately begins again, this time riding a much faster tempo-- accompanied by some processed-cheese synth lines and Deep Purplish metal-wank solos. The song screeches to a halt yet again, and immediately reverts back to a variation on the song's main riff, finally trailing off on an epic "Hey Jude"-inspired fade-out.

Maybe all this gratuitous contrast is part of the underlying hoax here-- to make you think they're just gorilla-rock simpletons before laying some psuedo-complex prog-rock nonsense on us ta try an' blow our fookin' feeble lil' minds. Unfortunately, they make exceedingly weak attempts at transcending the boundaries of dumb-as-nails three-chord punk. Simply put, when these geezers aren't being naturally loud, nasty, and bone-stupid, they're just not all that interesting.

-Michael Sandlin