Listen to Cage the Elephant

Ten minutes before taking the stage in a small, jam-packed basement venue in Brighton, the singer Matt Schultz stands, unrecognised, among the crowd. You could observe of most vocalists that their transformed persona — beneath stage lights and with a sound system blasting out behind them — bears little relation to the demeanour they exhibit at other times. But there is something about Schultz, standing there shyly with a beer in his hand, swivelling slowly round to take in the audience, that, for all that nobody has an earthly idea who he is, marks him out.

When, a short while later, his band, Cage the Elephant, rip into their first song, the pent-up energy his earlier stillness hinted at is explosively confirmed. Indeed, each of the Kentucky five-piece performs as if physically jolted by an unseen current: they crash into one another or the crowd at the front; sweat pastes their hair over their faces; and Schultz reveals himself within minutes as one of music’s most charismatic new front men.

What’s their music like? Some sniff that Cage the Elephant make lowest-common-denominator cock-rock, short on subtlety and long on misogyny, that they are little more than a party band for neanderthals. Their fans beg to differ, hearing echoes not only of very early AC/DC and Aerosmith in their music, but of the raw, thrilling power of the MC5 and the Stooges, too.

Now, you and I know that the snippy-sniper camp very likely contains uptight folk who, when in drink, are the type you see crashing around the dancefloor to songs they wouldn’t be seen dead praising when sober (and who probably have cherished vinyl copies of Highway to Hell and Toys in the Attic on their shelves). But what do the band themselves think of such critics? Schultz’s brother Brad, the band’s rhythm guitarist, is clear: “I don’t give two shits about what they say. People are either scared or offended by us.” Matt adds: “It’s right in people’s faces from the start, and some don’t know how to take that.”

In conversation, the siblings mix profanities with a Southern courtesy that must owe something to their upbringing on a commune that was initially druggie and then turned, heavily, to God. Matt is the more coiled of the two, cracking his knuckles or tapping the table furiously throughout the interview. Brad, though he seems more open, is also watchful in his own way. Discussing the contract the band signed — to an American record company, which then licensed their debut album to labels in other countries — he says: “We haven’t done a lot of marketing in the States” (which sounds more savvy than punk). Later, explaining why they didn’t sign the worldwide deal that was on offer, he explains: “If everyone’s going to have their hand in your cookie jar, or change your recipes, well, f*** that.”

They get on just fine, they say, although, as Matt observes: “If it goes to blows, it goes to blows.” Most often, scraps kick off with gripes such as “Wash the dishes, man” or “Who keeps on using all the toilet paper?”. The band have, since last autumn, been sharing a flat in Leytonstone, east London, and are dry as a bone on the area’s charms. “There’s, like, a pub there,” says Matt. “Plus, we have an Asda right in front of the house.” “Oh, and Tich [the bassist, Daniel Tichenor] witnessed a hit right outside his window,” adds Brad. The line-up is completed by Lincoln Parish on lead guitar, with Jared Champion on drums.

The brothers had their fair share of trouble growing up in the small town of Bowling Green (principal industries: Chevrolet and Fruit of the Loom underwear). They had plenty to rebel against. After their parents found religion, the family (the pair have two younger brothers) would attend the local Pentecostal church “pretty much every day”, says Matt.

“Everybody sang,” Brad continues. “A lot of people danced. Or they’d run up and down the aisles, going, ‘Aaarrgghhh’ or ‘Whoooo’.” They were only allowed to listen to Christian music, although, as Brad recalls, “When our dad was in a good mood, when he was feeling saucy, he’d put on some Joe Cocker or Pink Floyd, and perhaps a little Steppenwolf, too. Daddy didn’t want us to listen to all that shit, because it was all about, or made on, drugs.” He once smashed a Pearl Jam cassette in their presence, though some may feel Mr Schultz was doing them a favour on that occasion.

The family was also poor — “two adults and four kids in a two-bedroom apartment”, says Brad — with a kitchen whose floor had a huge crater in it, and cockroaches that roamed both free and plentifully. “You’d check your cereal bowl for them before you ate,” remembers Matt. Their reminiscences contain no hint of self-pity or resentment about either the grinding poverty or their father’s strict approach to parenting. “Our mom had a great sense of humour,” says Brad. “We had this toy tape recorder with a little microphone, and, I guess to make us feel better, she’d walk around imitating Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, going, ‘I’m Margie Schultz and we’re here with the poor and deprived. Look at this hole in the kitchen floor.’ If you listen to the tapes now, you can hear Matt going, ‘Mom, it’s not playing my voice,’ and she’s saying, ‘Well, son, that’s because you need to wind it back.’ ”

It’s playing his voice now, of course. The band’s brilliant debut album is, both on disc and on stage, a record that, on the surface, demands to be played at maxi-mum volume, the soundtrack to a weekend-long summer gathering where no questions are asked and no purists admitted. Songs such as Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked — which describes picking up a hitchhiker who turns out to be a prostitute — are unlikely to pass muster with the taste police, even though the act that its strung-out riffing most recalls is Beck. But what of Tiny Little Robots, a straight punk tirade against conformity, or the Iggy-like, anti-war Drones in the Valley, both of which betray a caustic turn of phrase worthy of Alex Turner?

Equable and, with their rolling, drawn-out Southern cadences, polite they may be, but the Schultz brothers are not keen on the word “party”. At first, they disagree about this when the subject comes up. “I don’t like talking about it,” says Matt. “Brad is more like, ‘Well, it’s the truth, it’s what we do.’ But people then start looking at you and going, ‘You’re just a party band.’ I just don’t want to get misconstrued.”

A straw poll conducted after the Brighton show suggests that Matt has little cause to worry. A few admit to disappointment that he hasn’t, on this occasion, essayed one of his famous bar-top dances. Nobody, though, shows the slightest sign of concern that they might have just been enjoying a guilty or dumbed-down pleasure. “They’re punk, man,” says one woman, borrowing the brothers’ favourite verbal book end.

In the doorway, a young lad is surrounded by enthusiasts. Matt Schultz has been recognised and looks pretty pleased about it. Even shyness, it seems, has its limits.

Cage the Elephant is released tomorrow on Relentless

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