Sleaford Mods – The Demise of Planet X

If you’re already familiar with the work of Sleaford Mods, there’s a strong chance your opinion as to the quality of their work is firmly entrenched by this point. The duo’s thirteenth album, The Demise of Planet X, is unlikely to change your mind. The Mods are either an utterly essential antidote to Austerity-era Britain, an abrasive fuck you to the establishment, or they’re the ultimate example of the emperor’s new clothes. Like Marmite, chopped liver, or even European politics, the middle ground is a lonely place.

I can understand how Sleaford Mods enjoyed a moment in 2014, as they broke through with Divide and Exit. Jason Williamson’s breathless spoken word rants on tracks like “Tied Up in Nottz” offered a glimpse of life in an increasingly broken Britain, capturing the type of working class disillusionment that social commentators would suddenly become very interested in after the 2016 EU referendum. Andrew Fearn’s backing tracks offered a grimy take on post-punk that amplified Williamson’s rage in the same way The Fall’s spiky guitars fuelled Mark E Smith’s motormouth.

It’s 2026 now, and just as Britain is still broken, for all Williamson’s talk of anger management, Sleaford Mods still sound incandescent. But they also sound stuck. What thrilled listeners a decade ago, now sounds self-parodic. 

The lethargic “Bad Santa” demonstrates the band’s stasis. Its sluggish loop dissipates momentum, while a weary Williamson takes an uncharacteristically feeble shot at Andrew Tate, before turning his focus to grotesque wealth and power (“Maccies on a private jet”).

Guest spots offer a welcome break from Williamson’s East Midlands drawl, and BIG SPECIAL, Life Without Buildings’ Sue Tompkins, Aldous Harding all contribute to positive moments amidst the sonic drudgery. However, these are pretty much undone by the grotesquely embarrassing Gwendoline Christie monologue that drags otherwise decent opener “The Good Life” into the abyss. 

Like a true professional, Christie gives it her best, but there’s no theatrical delivery that could make lines like “I smack my head, In a smelly bed, And I cry like a fucking child, My fucking head's gone, fuck it” credible. Ironically, this feels like a segment that would have landed more successfully in Williamson’s voice. It’s his vulnerability—and while these words are hardly poetic, they are at least authentically his.

The Demise of Planet X is a miserable album from a fading force. Sleaford Mods had a moment, but the moment has long gone, and their failure to evolve and expand can no longer be disguised by high-profile guest appearances or anti-Tory rants. The old tricks have lost their potency, and without them, the rage and Williamson’s endless torrent of expletives sound increasingly tragic.

The Demise of Planet X is out now via Rough Trade.