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In many ways, the Adverts represent all of the most damning stereotypes about punk rock; when they began as a unit, they really couldn't play at all. They were pure attitude, pure sneering rage. But particularly in the context of UK punk, a survey like this of their career reveals that they both proved the depth and scope of music and attitude that the genre could encompass and offered the argument that there are infinite possibilities within even the most basic framework of rock & roll. They defied the Clash by refusing to evolve, aside from eventually growing quite competent on record; they defied the Sex Pistols with an emotional range as often tongue-in-cheek or self-deprecating as confrontational. Somewhere in these singles are the roots of a perfectly agreeable full-blooded rock band that never got the chance to materialize.
Happily, their legacy is tied to some classics that are capable of carrying the angry spit-of-hatred punk torch. But their absolute best single is their debut, the one that features a band that only knows one chord, and is monstrously, admirably proud of it -- "We don't give a damn," T.V. Smith sings on the hook of "One Chord Wonders," which despite its snotty attitude comes across with a stronger undercurrent of humor than Johnny Rotten would ever have allowed. But by denying themselves a rock mythology, by refusing to take even their own psychodrama seriously, the Adverts may finally be even more rebellious. "One Chord Wonders" is the best pop song ever written about sheer incompetence; it's banging, it's pathetic, and it's magnificent.
The Adverts' other classics have their appeal, even if none of them quite measure up to "Wonders." The beloved "Gary Gilmore's Eyes," a disturbing study of identity about a patient receiving infamous murderer Gilmore's eyes in a transplant, shows a literate playfulness already miles beyond most killer punk singles, aiming for long-term impact rather than the jugular hit. The other side of that 7" is "Bored Teenagers," a nearly perfect 1:46 anti-anthem that infuses the Ramones' poetic apathy with the fury only the British punks ever really offered. That song's sequel "No Time to Be 21" benefits from both cheerily ingratiating handclaps, just the kind of thing punk purists tended to loathe, and Smith's outstandingly preening vocal. Their songcraft may be rudimentary, but the Adverts put on quite a show.
By "Safety in Numbers," the Adverts are already getting adventurous and offering new wave material of considerable, if sideways, sophistication that no longer fits in with any simple punk aesthetic. Though it made no impact in the charts, it's an agreeable branching out. The elaboration continues with the multitracked guitar trickery of "We Who Wait," the almost heavy metal-like vibe of "Drowning Man," the echo-ridden psychedelia of "On the Roof," and the goosestepping apocalypse of "Great British Mistake," all recorded and released in the space of barely two years.
In general, though, the Adverts stick to slamming out pogoing, delectably simple guitar music that stings. For a band who made such a show of their own lack of skill, the Adverts turned out to be quite a durable unit. The rhythm section in particular -- drummer Laurie Muscat and bassist Gaye Advert, later Smith's wife -- has an impressive propulsion that coalesces and bites in a manner the Pistols never really did. And if Smith isn't nearly as strong a frontman as Rotten, he's actually better at giving in to a song, as when he surrenders to the surprisingly complex melody line on "New Church" and lets it carry him away. His wailing even redeems the baffling Joe Meek knob twiddling on "Bombsite Boy," though it's a relief when he launches into a frenetic, youthful, quick-step chorus. Smart kids playing strong punk rock is always, always, always a relief. And when you can't find no relief, then like someone said, there's no future for you.
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