The joy of meat-and-potatoes rock

‘Meat-and-potatoes rock’ is the pejorative term critics use when describing groups of white men with guitars who play loud, uncomplicated music. Why would anyone enjoy such stuff, when there are the ceviches of hyperpop, the flavoured foams of experimental hip-hop, the chargrilled seasonal vegetables of jazz? Don’t they know the world has moved on?

Unfortunately, the world has a habit of not listening to the critical consensus. The highest new entry in last week’s album chart came from the Snuts, a meat-and-potatoes guitar band. This week’s No. 1 album is all but guaranteed to be by Liam Gallagher and John Squire, the Toby Carvery of meat-and-potatoes rock. As the prevalence of burger chains and chicken shops on the nation’s high street should suggest, a lot of people really, really like meat and potatoes.

There’s a sense of great comfort in encountering two guitars, a bass, drums and a singer

I do too. And I like it in music. There’s a sense of great comfort in encountering two guitars, a bass, drums and a singer, where the rules of engagement are absolutely plain. Specifically I like the kind of meat-and-potatoes rock that tends towards the melodic over the shouty, where the debt to the Rolling Stones is evident – I like a bit of roll with my rock – and where the guitar chords are palm-muted or chopped back, rather than forming an overwhelming wall of noise. If we can throw in a good lyricist – someone capable of rhymes more sophisticated than ‘desire/higher’, then we’ve hit the jackpot. But put pretty much any rock band with big riffs and big choruses in front of me and I’ll enjoy them, even if I feel no need ever to buy their records (it’s why I secretly prefer Absolute Classic Rock in the car to 6 Music).