Bunch of Kunst | Little White Lies

Bunch of Kunst

21 Apr 2017 / Released: 21 Apr 2017

A man shouting on stage in a dimly lit room, wearing a camouflage pattern shirt.
A man shouting on stage in a dimly lit room, wearing a camouflage pattern shirt.
3

Anticipation.

A music journalist-turned-director follows “Britain’s angriest band” on their rise to the top.

4

Enjoyment.

It’s impossible not to root for these unexpected rock stars.

4

In Retrospect.

As much about transcending “Broken Britain” as it is about finding musical success.

This doc about bile-spilling anar­cho-rock­ers Sleaford Mods is also an encap­su­la­tion of work­ing class malaise.

It is a band that on paper shouldn’t real­ly appeal to peo­ple,” says Sleaford Mods man­ag­er Steve Under­wood, dri­ving around the grey, rain-drenched streets of Not­ting­ham, but, it does.” The same could be said for Chris­tine Franz’s direc­to­r­i­al debut, a doc­u­men­tary fol­low­ing the two mid­dle-aged, mid­lands rock­ers who, in a few years, went from play­ing to a few blokes down the pub to get­ting inter­na­tion­al acco­lades for their tenth album Eng­lish Tapas’.

The result is the inverse of the glam­our or excess of clas­sic rock­u­men­taries like Beat­le­ma­nia romp A Hard Day’s Night or black­list­ed Stones doc Cock­suck­er Blues. The band’s front­man, Jason Williamson, is a self-effac­ing ex-ben­e­fits advi­sor and chick­en fac­to­ry work­er in his for­ties. When he’s not deliv­er­ing impas­sioned onstage rants against the BHS col­lapse and Twit­ter wankers, we see him wan­der­ing around his sub­ur­ban kitchen mak­ing tea for his family.

His band­mate Andrew Fearne is even more unas­sum­ing. Silent for most of the film, he dances jerk­i­ly a few steps behind Jason on stage, or taps at his ancient, stick­er-cov­ered lap­top. Togeth­er, they some­times come across like a self-aware, north­ern ver­sion of Peep Show’s Jez and Super Hans.

Every­one is sur­prised at Jason’s suc­cess. I always thought he was one of those peo­ple that would dis­ap­pear off the radar and you’d hear he was just dead,” says his own wife. Franz’s direc­tion empha­sis­es the nat­ur­al com­e­dy of the ordi­nary bloke-turned-rock star. She large­ly bypass­es the band’s Glas­ton­bury per­for­mance to instead show their knack­ered post-gig vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. Her lo-fi cam­er­a­work and scrawled titles match­es the cramped back­stages that the band find them­selves in, as well as their over­all DIY ethos.

The band is stunned at a gig when Ger­man fans sing their strong­ly-accent­ed lyrics back at them word-for-word. Sim­i­lar­ly Franz, a Ger­man music jour­nal­ist, adept­ly repro­duces a sense of work­ing class Eng­land despite being an out­sider. The sludgy tones of pints of bit­ter, rain-filled north­ern skies and con­crete motor­ways con­trast with the raw pas­sion of Jason’s onstage pres­ence, which is reflect­ed back at equal strength by his fans. The film becomes a trib­ute to the pow­er of shared expe­ri­ence in an age of alienation.

It does feel slight­ly too long, which hard­core Sleaford fans will like­ly appre­ci­ate more than the casu­al view­er. But the film suc­cess­ful­ly builds an image for the cul­ture of dis­en­fran­chise­ment for which the band have been pro­vid­ing a sound­track for the last decade.

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