By the time Alabama Shakes had finished touring their 2012 debut ‘Boys & Girls’, the quintet had gone from Southern-fried, blues rock outsiders that felt gloriously out of step with the modern world to one of the year’s biggest success stories. Beloved by Radio 2, Jools Holland and your dad, Brittany Howard and her howling cohorts had been co-opted by muso chin-strokers.
That allegiance might not necessarily be the whole reason for the 26-year-old’s solo foray as Thunderbitch, but it’s certainly something the project smashes down from the start. To begin: Thunderbitch. Thunderbitch, for God’s sake. As far as personifying the very definition of giving zero shits, naming yourself as some kind of sassy, feminist superhero must surely rank pretty high. More importantly, however, ‘Thunderbitch’ the album rolls with precisely as much uncompromising swagger as its name suggests.
‘Leather Jacket’ opens the record, detailing the bad-ass, powerful feeling of finally finding what makes you tick (“They said it would change me/And look how it changed me”). Built on stomping ’50s rock’n’roll and a speak-sing bridge, it’s like Elvis meets garage-rock revivalists Shannon And The Clams, and when Howard howls that she looks “totally fucking awesome”, it’s impossible to argue.
This sense of celebration is the backbone of the record. ‘I Just Want To Rock N Roll’ reaches a heady peak with a cry of “and now I’m golden!”, while ‘Eastside Party’ crosses Phil Spector girl group hand claps with melodies fit for a hand-jive at a high school prom. ‘Wild Child’ is pure hedonism, a 100mph clatter on which Howard declares “I ain’t no good/I’m a piece of shit” while, presumably, flipping the bird and riding into the sunset on a Harley Davidson. ‘My Baby Is My Guitar’, meanwhile, is a dark, lo-fi blues grind that makes perfect sense of Jack White’s endorsement of Howard (he picked Alabama Shakes to support him in 2012).
‘Let Me Do What I Do Best’ and ‘Heavenly Feeling’ finish the album – the former a whiskey-soaked ode to following your dreams, the latter a dusky, porch-side lesson in 12 bar blues. They’re the final two blows of a record that revels in the pure deliciousness of being free and doing whatever the fuck you want. This is Brittany, bitch.