By Alex Szeptycki

On Welfare Jazz, Viagra Boys succeed through their skillful manipulation of pure bombast, spurred on by haywire grooves as well as plenty of oversized personality.

Viagra Boys. Photo: Spotify.

Viagra Boys, a post-punk outfit that hails from Sweden, is well named: it mocks society’s notions of manhood. Frontman Sebastian Murphy sings in a hoarse snarl, a parody of machismo whose surrealistic recklessness is leavened by arid wit. The band, its guitars and horns wailing, wraps around his vocals via driving, claustrophobic grooves that threaten to devolve into anarchy. We are left with a skittish form of satire, a lampoon that darts between the illuminating and the ridiculous. The band’s sophomore album, Welfare Jazz, directs this deconstructive impulse back at itself.

Musically, Viagra Boys succeed chiefly due to their ironclad dedication to a compelling groove. On the surface, the band’s compositions come off as crowded and messy, but the various elements blend together and drive the music forward. The rollicking instrumental number “Six Shooter” is representative. An energetic odd-time guitar groove demands constant acceleration as it speeds over a standard rock beat. Intermittent sonic embellishments — competing guitar riffs, blaring horn passages, and solid noise — threaten to derail the elemental rhythm. But the core holds firm, and the beat rockets forward. It’s this allegiance to the elemental pulse that allows the Viagra Boys to dip their toes into cacophony; the risk that they might throw themselves off the rails just adds to the excitement.

The band’s arresting grooves are reinforced by the unpredictability of their sonic palette. Their gritty, guitar-driven brand of rock is thrown into disarray by Oskar Carls’s recurring saxophone. He makes good use of his versatility, moving from roaring passages that clash with the guitar leads on the opener, “Ain’t Nice,” to a melancholy jazzy cadence that darkens the peppy dance punk of “Creatures.” His presence surprises expectations, adding a fresh dimension.

Then, there’s the delivery of front man Sebastian Murphy. He constantly contorts his voice into rough growls and boisterous shouts, tinged with an ever-present sneer. Given the chaotic noise behind him, he takes advantage of the opportunity to twist his words, infusing sarcasm whenever possible. Take “I Feel Alive.” Murphy’s words exalt his newfound sobriety: “Oh Jesus Christ I feel alive, just last week I thought that I was gonna die/And I’ve been clean now for some time.” But Murphy’s ragged delivery, spat over a stuttering piano lick, suggests that his joy will be short-lived.

Murphy weaponizes this performative irony; his lyrics are simultaneously sincere and insincere. On Welfare Jazz, this double-edged approach is often directed inward, at the singer’s own flaws. In “Ain’t Nice,” Murphy, accompanied by scuzzed-out guitars, hails his toxicity in a romantic relationship. “You ain’t nice but you got a nice place/Hope I can keep all my shit at your place,” sings Murphy, highlighting his own asshole behavior. Murphy’s over-the-top persona invites us to take the Viagra Boys satirically. “Toad” sees Murphy hamming up his version of a man
singing the hard blues. Jangling keys and growling rage while Murphy croons “Yea you can’t change this hound dog/No you can’t fix me.” The celebration of the male loner, sufficient unto himself, is intentionally overblown.

This self-awareness about macho defeatism darkens the album, undercutting songs that in other contexts might be upbeat. “Into the Sun” plays out as an apology; Murphy appears to be begging forgiveness for his actions. But it’s hard to take the singer seriously when eerie, stilted guitars launch into the rockabilly cliches of “Toad”: “I’d stop all my ramblin’/And playin’ around/I’d stop drinkin’ and gamblin’ to earn back your love.” Then, there’s the closer, “In Spite of Ourselves,” a John Prine cover. The tune revolves around an ornery couple; they’re as angry with each other as they are in love. As Murphy and guest Amy Taylor sing the duet in corny country accents, it’s hard not to question the sincerity, or supposed affection of the performance. What might be tender in safer hands is warped, forcing us to further question the relationship.

Welfare Jazz also contains moments where Viagra Boys shift from incisive humor to the utterly absurd. Spoken word sketches pepper the track list, and each one is stranger than the last. The pinnacle of the nonsense comes with the tune “Secret Canine Agent.” As a squelching bass speeds forward, Murphy unleashes line after line detailing the exploits of, well, spy dogs: “He’s a good boy/Well he’s my favorite/He’s a canine/Secret agent.” It’s entertaining — but reeks of self-indulgence when compared to the rest of the tracklist.

Still, when Viagra boys properly mix weirdness into their tunes the results can make for the album’s finest — or at times most infuriating — moments. It depends on the track. A touch of the macabre bolsters the power of  “Creatures,” a scary narrative that meshes well with the group’s nocturnal synth beat; it’s the perfect match. Murphy’s vivid imagery describes a shadowy underworld. It’s hard not to believe the singer’s own experiences aren’t fueling this nightmare. “We are the creatures/Down at the bottom/We trade in scrap metal/And electronics.” It’s an atmospheric excursion into the murky and contorted.

On the other hand, the bizarro can also backfire, spectacularly. The band tries to inject humor into “Girls and Boys,” to disastrous effect. It’s perhaps the weakest track on the album. The music — a wall of guitars, drums, and horns — never coalesces. Murphy’s lyrics amount to little more than a misogynistic screed, the lament of an impotent lunkhead: “Girls, they always try to tie me down.” The track is inchoate — driven over the edge by the nonsensical shouts of the band.

On Welfare Jazz, Viagra Boys succeed through their skillful manipulation of pure bombast, spurred on by haywire grooves as well as plenty of oversized personality. They gamble that they won’t sink into fatuousness and, at their best, they don’t because they are just as eager to laugh at themselves as they are at everyone else.

Alex Szeptycki is a writer from Charlottesville, VA. He recently graduated from Stanford University, majoring in American Studies with a focus in contemporary art and pop culture. He’s currently working as a freelance writer at the Arts Fuse while navigating post-grad life in a pandemic.