If a certain Channel 4 piece from last December is to be believed, The Molotovs have “brought back gigging in real life.” That was the claim of the interviewer rather than the band themselves, though as Internet People are wont to do whenever teenagers see success, pitchfork-sharpening began post-haste. Thus, The Molotovs became the newest target for all manner of ‘industry plant’ and ‘rich parents’ accusations. And to play devil’s advocate, they don’t seem entirely unfounded. Calling out big, early-life support slots is nothing new; what is, is zeroing in on Mathew Cartlidge’s Rickenbacker guitar, a boutique, particularly expensive model that your average 17-year-old probably hasn’t saved enough pocket money to afford. To be fair, it’s not like the parents have Wikipedia pages or anything, though the Instagram post of Mathew being towed behind the family yacht is not hard to stumble across at all.
The smoking gun, though, is how The Molotovs, of all bands, found themselves with terrestrial TV airtime in the first place. Their cited mod influences likely play well to that type of audience, but there’s little difference to a band like, say, The Spitfires, who sport a similar suite of touchstones with a fraction of the attention. Even if it’s probably an oversimplification to state outright that they ‘bought their way in’, all signs point to a privilege that fans of ‘true’ punk and grassroots acts forging their own path will take umbrage at. As we all know (or should know), musical merit and success have no fixed correlation, so the absolute best case scenario is that The Molotovs are good in spite of whatever resources have been pumped into them. And, well…
Look, it could be worse. Among the greenhouse accumulated of all these supposed ‘plants’, The Molotovs are far from the most disingenuous. It’s not like a teenage boy who idolises Paul Weller isn’t an established British archetype. But at the same time, there’s a distinction to be made between experiencing cultural osmosis and bending over backwards to facilitate it. When Wasted On Youth opens with Get A Life, already sniping at critics and detractors, it’s supposed to paint The Molotovs as standing up for their work and creative journey. All it really does it look defensive and reactionary, and the veneer of realism chips before it even gets going.
The album gets caught between presenting The Molotovs as characters and emphasising their true-to-life depiction, ultimately getting overtaken by the former. Songs like Daydreaming and Rhythm Of Yourself end up feeling so tiring, as calls to action about following your own path that their creators barely seem capable of themselves. The low point is Popstar, an outdated and derisive interpretation of modern celebrity that feels written specifically to win over grumpy old men. For as much as The Molotovs want to be convincing as these old souls born in the wrong generation, they just aren’t good at masking artifice. Age is definitely a factor; no matter how readily Cartlidge will tinker his voice to sound more Weller-like, at the end of the day, he’s still 17. Therefore, the numbing excess of More More More doesn’t land, and Nothing Keeps Her Away would be unbelievable from anyone, let alone someone doing their A-Levels.
The silver lining is that it’s easier to get away with music cobbled together from existing parts than with an outright persona. At least Wasted On Youth is pleasant to listen to, largely thanks to the full, rounded guitar making the most of its £2k+ price tag. It’s a natural fit for an album dabbling with widescreen Britpop on Daydreaming, or old-style indie pep on Rhythm Of Yourself. Pleasingly, The Molotovs tend to keep a rich mix as standard, and never really fall into the claggy, dulled-down tropes of many a ‘70s and ‘90s throwback. In fact, it might surprise how bright Wasted On Youth can actually sound. With a fondness for Oasis-esque maximalism and the occasional punkier rip, it’s difficult to not pluck out some appeal from this.
And to an extent, The Molotovs’ survival is reliant on that. The simple set-up and precocious duo at the centre are attractive prospects, reflected in music with plenty of ‘normie’ appeal. The album will probably do well for it, given that the general audience being cultivated is less liable to get in the weeds about what’s not placed right in front of them. That’s not a slight at all; it’s valid to want to remove the roadblocks in front of the art you’re consuming. But doing that might also be giving The Molotovs more credit than they deserve. Yes, they’re easy to listen to, but is that all? You don’t even have to broach questions of personal authenticity to spot the exact sources threaded in—The Jam; Oasis; The Libertines; anyone else with a similar sound and a bad haircut.
It all leaves Wasted On Youth feeling rather threadbare and ephemeral. The Molotovs satisfy for a bit and then disappear without a trace, their constituent parts being re-absorbed by the musical titans they came from. When the thought process of replicating those acts to the letter is left so prominent, it’s hard to imagine a scenario where this could last. Instead, a pre-established audience ready to like and support them on principle is more worthwhile to capture, apparently. After all, they’re the ones who’ve been defending The Molotovs most vehemently against ‘plant’ accusations, under the veil of “If the music’s good, why should it matter?” Chances are that’s the exact reaction wanted and anticipated. The Molotovs will get big because a combination of the right assets, the right sound and the right easy-to-please listener-base will make it so. And who says music isn’t a meritocracy…?
For fans of: The Jam, The Libertines, The Buzzcocks
‘Wasted On Youth’ by The Molotovs is out now on Marshall Records.
Words by Luke Nuttall
