The Enemy - We'll Live And Die In These Towns (Stiff/WEA)

Hiding behind the logo of Stiff Records, actually now part of Warner Brothers rather than the hugely influential indie label (the real incarnation folded in 1985), and having supported everyone from The Fratellis to The Manic Street Preachers to fellow Midlanders Kasabian in recent months.

Tom Clarke, Liam Watts and Andy Hopkins have come a long way since being July 2005's Coventry and Warwickshire Band of the Month but the irony of this is, of course, by now they're a long way from any danger of wasting their lives in any of the dour, dead-end towns that dominate their lyrics.

And somewhere along the way, the initial appeal of their radio-friendly punk has worn off. A quick blast on a single or two was great but in longer form it doesn't work quite as well, perhaps because there's more time to notice that what they're offering isn't really any different from any one of a thousand groups who've been listening to Paul Weller and Terry Hall a bit too much recently.

They've picked up some tricks along the way, such as the Kasabianesque lad rock stomp of Aggro, but it's all just picked and lifted from elsewhere.

Also, and perhaps this is just me getting too jaded, but these are mostly depression-era songs for a country that's no longer in a depression and their lyrics and sentiments belong just a little bit too much in the bleak, devoid-of-all hope mid-to-late 70s to take seriously in 2007.

There is a danger in labelling them nothing more than bloody unoriginal Specials copyists however, because while they undoubtedly are, at least they're not ashamed to wear their influences on their (record) sleeves, offering up a cover of A Message To You Rudy on their website (and on the B-side to Away From Here, although not on the album).

Despite their protestations against their hometown and their desire to escape it, they seem completely incapable of letting go of its influence and musical heritage.

In the end, The Enemy are too much of a lesson in contradictions. Too young, too successful already and too obviously focussed and determined to have experienced for themselves any of the dead-end hopelessness they're singing about.

Several of their songs, not least It's Not Okay, are full of great energy and great music, but it's 30 years out of date to the extent that it sounds more as if they've been commissioned to soundtrack a period piece about the 1979 than produce a new album. Teenagers shouldn't be as obsessed as this with their dads' record collection. Really, it's just not right.

Ironically, right at the end, they redeem themselves with a romantic little pop ditty that strays into Colourfield territory, with Clarke's scowling, angry young man tones wrapping themselves as well as they can around gentler, less confrontational sentiments. It's the most interesting thing on the album and if they can harness this flexibility a bit more in the future, they might just find themselves lasting the course.

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