In an Authenticity-Obsessed Culture, Are Sleaford Mods the Real Deal?

“If someone's a pile of shit and they say ‘we’re a pile of shit’ there's nothing wrong with that,” says Jason Williamson, lead singer of the Nottingham post-punk outfit, Sleaford Mods, as he sips out of a cardboard coffee cup on the lower floor of his hotel.

“But it's just once a pile of shit is starting to trade itself as something more integral with its roots firmly in the ground for whatever reason. That’s the issue.”

It’s hard to say who – or what – Williamson is referring to as the topic of authenticity is bridged in our 20 minute interview on the morning of their show at the Opera House in Sydney. If we’re going by previous interviews, it could potentially be about the spat between them and Bristol rock band, IDLES, who, in the past, Williamson had accused of “appropriating a working class voice” – a voice that sits at the genesis of much of Sleaford Mods’ output.

Since 2007, their minimalist, post-punk discography has highlighted the state of terror in which the UK wades, touching on the spreading hate and disdain felt by the lower classes in the wake of ever-growing monetary and class division. UK Grim, their latest album, is the most recent chapter, asking what authenticity means against a backdrop of social media, media-smart royals, corrupt politicians and cosy, consumerist conformity. 

“At the same time, if it's something that's marketed at clueless people, then it's pretty grotesque as well, isn't it?” says Andrew Fearn, the other half of the duo. 

“I think the other thing is – and it’s different from authenticity – I think it’s just ego,” says Williamson.

The question of authenticity has followed Sleaford Mods since their conception – as it does for any band or artist singing conscientiously on subjects of class and division. It’s why they called IDLES “harmless idiots” and a bunch of other singers, including Blur’s Alex James or Noel Gallagher, posers and sellouts. While controversial, you have to at least respect that they’re not scared of saying what they want to say, when they want to say it. It’s how authenticity works, right? 

It’s also how their lyrics work best. Rather than complex, poetic soliloquies, they say exactly what they mean. And it’s what UK Grim was made for – an album crafted not in the hopes to achieve a better future, but to reflect the true shitstorm that is the present.

“So Trendy” – a weird, warbling track that hones a flatulent sounding horn as Williamson repeatedly belts, “so trendy” over and over – takes aim at the inauthenticity of social media as well as technology’s aid in separating humans from other humans.

Hey, it's back and bicep day/ check out all my squiggly veins/ Got a fifty-seven screenshots in one hour just in case, the lyrics go. 

It’s true that we’re living in a time and place where capital A-Authenticity is sold to us through influencers on a tiny screen. In trying to be genuine, the scales often drop in the other direction. Genuineness is shaped, formed, moulded.

Sleaford Mods’ own social media presence is interesting, to say the least. Their instagram mostly consists of selfies of Williamson, either crouching or with hands scrunched in his jacket pockets, as he shows off his joggers and fits. These days they even have a TikTok page that presents the same type of semi-serious larrikin behaviour. And for a group that prides themselves on reflecting resolute genuineness, using social media so diligently seems at odds with their message.  

“I don't take it seriously. You've got to take the piss on it. It's just a portal that I think we sometimes need to step away from because it's not real life,” says Williamson.

“The band page, which I mainly do, goes off the rails. It’s quite aggressive and very judgemental. And I’m sort of stepping back from that a bit.”

As for TikTok, Williamson's wife made the page and – rather than seem like some exciting opportunity to promote their music – it sits more as an after-thought, collecting dust.

“I don’t get it. You’ve got certain American actors talking about politics and people you wouldn’t expect to give their opinion while they’re walking their dog and I just don’t really get it,” says Fearn.

“And it also gives everyone a taste of fame. And everybody is trying to climb through the bigger portal. So it’s a weird one. I think it’s twisting people,” Williamson adds.

While it seems like TikTok fame isn’t on the to-do list, fame itself – and Sleaford Mods’ quick ascent up the social-ladder – has, in the past few years, resulted in external criticism that questions their ties to their working class roots. Now that they're making more money and separate from many of the hardships they once experienced, is that authenticity still genuine?

“You can't really say a lot, because people refuse to listen. They've got their own ideas about how they feel about you,” says Williamson.

“So it doesn't really matter what you say. They still keep barking the same shit.  A lot of it's down to jealousy. A lot of it's down to people in the music game that haven't made it. Yeah, it's a tough one.”

“It's fair enough,” adds Fearn, “I was the same when I had no money. I hated people that were rich.”

Staying true to an original image – that took shape over a decade ago – would be a feat difficult for any artist to achieve. The goal, after all, is to sell yourself (and your music) to billions of people around the world.

But by the end of my time with Sleaford Mods, it’s hard not to admit that they’re the real deal. Whether it’s because of years of growth, development and scrutiny under the limelight, or the fact that they’ve found longevity in a youth-obsessed, next-best-thing culture. 

It seems authenticity still matters.

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