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PEACE - IN LOVE (Columbia)

"I. Man's perceptions are not bound by organs of perception; 
he perceives more than sense (tho' ever so acute) can discover" 
- William Blake, There Is No Natural Religion


Well of course this review is late, album came out weeks ago. I can't earn a living out of writing about pop anymore though so I have to do my proper job first. It fucking angers me that this is the case. All apologies. Anyhoo here's an old dead guy called F.R Leavis. He once said . . .

'The common pursuit of true judgment' : that is how the  critic should see his business, and what it should be for him. His  perceptions and judgments are his, or they are nothing ; but,  whether or not he has consciously addressed himself to co- operative labour, they are inevitably collaborative. Collaboration may take the form of disagreement, and one is grateful to  the critic whom one has found worth disagreeing with” - F.R.Leavis, initially quoting T.S.Eliot, "The Common Pursuit"

Here's a new album from a new, very much alive band called Peace who the BBC and the NME and lots of other people paid to know and talk about music assure me is already one of the highlights of the year.

It's called 'In Love' and is one of the shittiest most shameful things I've ever heard. Apparently anyone who doesn't like it is a buzzkiller - fine, some buzzes need swatting into oblivion and squishing against the pane, let me in a  childish retaliatory fashion aver that anyone, and I mean ANYONE who does like 'In Love', should be instantaneously considered a cunt like they've had a good word to say about Thatcher. That's not an over-reaction. 'In Love' is all bad all the time and Peace's fans are all cunts all the time. ALL CUNTS. ALL THE TIME. 1 and a half out of 10.

Now, I can hear some mealy mouthed motherfuckers groaning already: "Seriously Neil, what's the point, you KNOW you're gonna hate it, WE know you're gonna hate it, why bother? Why not tell us about something you like?" How many times do I have to say it? Because they keep dragging me back in! Because the stercoraceous parasites that still swarm round the festering clag-ridden arse of mainstream Mercury-nominated British pop eject methane of such a nose-razing pungency I can't keep quiet! And whether they like it or not, as Leavis intimates in typically astringent style, they and me are in this together, forever.
    Of course, no-one sent me the Peace record. I don't know those people no more. So I did what any skint fucker wanting to hear them did, dl'd all the tracks through the magic of and sat back as the data was converted into soundwaves and then I made my first mistake. I read the reviews. Everytime I write about pop these days I think 'this could be the last time'. And then I see the shit other people are getting away with and sadly have to strap on the gloves again. Fucking stop lying so I can stop truthing. Please.

I read the NME say that 'As Britain suffers from youth unemployment and economic crisis, our greatest currency is the chime of a golden tune. Peace have delivered 10 of them. So what if they’re a bunch of pirates and not pioneers? This is their time."
I read The Quietus promise that Peace were " vibrant, singer Harry Koisser assuring “We’re gonna live forever, baby” over cooed, chorused backing vocals and bright, Squirey guitar . . .  you can’t touch Peace, armoured as they are with a few good tunes, youth, fans and happiness. It doesn’t really matter whether you give them a chance or not." 

I noticed plenty of pre-emptive whingeing, a firmly entrenched nagging irritation at the inevitable critiques Peace would attract, the tiresomeness of being unable to square senses & reason. The Quietus review opens by heading such tedious nitpicking off at the pass, pointing out that it's only those old knackers addicted to their own grumbliness who'd be churlish enough to complain: "Ah, another week, another few hundred words of staunchly defending the right of young men to play guitars and be happy against the massed ranks of miseryphiles". 
 For the NME ,likewise it's those gloomy old farts who don't remember love who are missing out:  "The narrow-minded reckon their experience of history can’t be surpassed; that there’s no point in drawing inspiration from the past because it was better IN THEIR DAY. They murder people’s vibes because they’re buzzkillers. They criticise young people for being unoriginal and lazy because 58 years after Bill Haley And His Comets’ ‘Rock Around The Clock’ charted, idealistic, rebellious teens haven’t evolved beyond simple pleasures like first crushes, guitar strums, pop hooks and leopard print. This disappoints buzzkillers immensely. Buzzkillers will use songs such as Brummie quartet Peace’s ‘Lovesick’ – about reckless abandon and skipping school – to lambast uncomplicated singers like Harry Koisser for cooing “I don’t wanna make no sense” over an updated version of the refrain from The Cure’s ‘Friday I’m In Love’. They’ll demand something more sophisticated – a unique way of saying “I love you”, perhaps. You can safely assume buzzkillers are no longer in love, detest romantic gestures and are cautious of hype bands with hippy names."

   Hell I can't build fire in your belly. It's there or it aint. It's irrelevant that my most powerful memory of being young is not being in love but being in hate. I can say it's simpleton shit to relegate criticism to a role as simply championing music for the effort implied. I can also say that the reassertion of cliches like 'this is their year', 'this is their time' don't make those cliches any less cliched, or any less false (quite an achievement for a cliche to actually not contain one grain of truth). I can also suggest that the militant reason I never moved to London - cos all my friends would be cunts in bands and cunts in PR and other cunting journalists - is now precisely the thing strangling the life out of the music press and the major-label sanctioned pop culture it tries to backslap into our hearts.

But what the hell, I'll let them enjoy their moment of panic. Nobody gave a fuck when where I worked was trampled into the dirt for the sake of the market-leader, I ain't shedding a tear now I see those market leaders in freefall and panic, that palpable sense of heads-down busy-ness that is always the prelude to an ugly demise. You wanna go down scrabbling in desperation, or go down in righteous flames? They've made their 'choice'. At least for them it is a choice. For those of you wanting to crack in (still you come like sheep to the moon!) and seeing the opportunities dwindling I say Blow The Capital. Nothing is going on there bar the moving of money, the geographical agglomeration of a bourgeouise 'creative' class around a similarly narrow-based political elite , the clarion call to people willing to pay to feel artistic, to waft their bad art back n forth at each other. London's critical community inhabit merely a theme park for the 'creative'  (tickets cost your soul and last 4 years). You, you starlet, you antagonist, you are seriously best off out of it. There's more to call 'unoriginal and lazy' in the written word than the sung  note at the moment, and that's going some. Stay away from anyone who seeks to defend your generation en masse, who seeks to stick up for you or attack you because of something as happenstance as how long you've been here. You don't need fucking sticking up for on this. Your generation, like every generation before/since, is making appalling decisions from  tiny smug blissfully ignorant minds, low expectations and flat-out dreadful taste, and they need poking in the eye with a sharp shit-dipped stick at every opportunity. Anyone, particularly anyone young, seeking to defend you because you're young is clearly a clueless fucker & those self-appointed defenders of the jejune are myriad and deeply clueless in their fuckery. On twitter yesterday I read someone much followed, an authorative cultural voice who I'm pretty sure has always been wrong about everything, talking about Thatcher's funeral and saying that "no-one under 35 even knows who she is so why should anyone care?" When it comes to Peace themselves the reviews similiarly have a strange urge to actually forbid critics criticising, a strangely fascistic stance against naysayers seemingly consisting of nothing other than the infantile bleating of people saying 'awww you're MEAN, leave us alone, we're only bairns'. So much defense of the young. From so many people who are SO SCARED of the young. People with seemingly no actual experience of young people to realise that actually young people frequently want to learn rather than be understood, want to argue rather than be deferred to, want to have their opinions questioned, their idols trashed, their habits unpicked, want to be jabbed in the ribs, poked in the shoulders and told they're fucking wrong, just like anyone else, just like everyone else, occassionally told what's what, or at least given something to get their teeth into beyond an endless soppy syruppy nod to their superior knowledge, the scurrying pitiful sound of da meeja warily scuttling around a readership's feelings.   
   If there's one thing you can be sure of, if someone uses youth as an excuse for something, that person, young or old,  is massively underestimating young people, is actually denying young people equality by positively discriminating where it's absolutely not required, tacitly admitting that what they really think is the horrifically conservative idea that YES you do get extra pips on your shoulder for having been here longer than other people. Whereas us old fuckers and plenty of young fuckers (esp. those young people at the wrong end of the class/income scale now used to judge who is allowed to speak) who in 2013 are feeling increasingly alienated from the BPI/IPC/EMAP partyline of progress (the steady reassertion of business muscle after those scarily threatening years of an unbarcoded net) know from bitter experience that age don't mean SHIT and can NEVER be used as either badge of pride or shame.  Young people want to be spoken to across the table, not condescendingly DOWN to by the simplifications and lazy dumbness of those young enough to know better or the embarassing sticking-up-for-the-kids type shit older pop writers imbibe in to stay the right side of their juniors. Fuck this endless tiptoeing, you'll fuck your calves up forever. Kids are people. Relax & talk to em. Nothing wrong with music writing being like listening to your mates but why now always those boring boring unfunny mates, never the ones who make you bust a gut and blow yr mind and try harder? 
Another noticeable note to the shrillness of Peace's myriad defenders (who seem to be making a much louder noise pre-emptively shouting down their potential detractors than Peace's actual detractors, who seem to actually be non-existent) is that they all feel as if they constantly have to be proving a point about ORIGINALITY, either that it doesn't matter or that Peace are somehow being original by sheer dint of verve and gusto and the indisputable facts of commerce (so odd to hear defenders of 'indie'-rock and these are legion and extend throughout the net, equate popularity & 'quality' with such eery blitheness). Musicians both unconsciously/secretively mainstream and self-consciously outre blather on about originality on an almost constant basis, seeking their own exoneration or exultation (whole separate issue how the spineless underground is equally lacking in guile & purpose & reason to be right now). The starting point for anyone picking up an instrument is how can I make this give pleasure. Even the most avowedly avant-garde of arse-tronauts can only start by somehow referring to the past, what worked for them, what gave them pleasure, even if the racket they're making and the brows they're furrowing make it seem like the only pleasure is in looking like they're in pain. 'Originality' is not our primary desire from art, what we want first & foremost is pleasure and delight & to achieve that at some base level we're inevitably looking back, and we're playing with history. What makes bands interesting is how they see that history, who for them is important, who comes to the fore when conjuring their own abilities into the fray, crucially how much of their own personality they can imbue their art with. Working backwards from such self-evident truths - it helps if the players have personalities, something strong that pushes through to impart the unique stamp of the person doing it, the stamp that stops things being all merely licks & lineage & learning. The one-off hit of STYLE that's at the heart of what it is to be creative, the, yes, 'originality' of persona that allows music to stop being mere maths and become an eruption from an other, a fresh human communique, no matter how much plagiarising and bastardising you're doing in the process.And of course, the purest motivation no musician admits is that far down, inside their lonely cold marrow, they want to be liked. It's a totally honourable motivation that can lead to wonder. Peace don't sound like they want to be liked, they sound like they're far too busy making music to care about what you think. It's partly why I dislike them so. I really don't trust the musician. I trust people who play music. 

   It'd help musicians if the music press they read would shake up the trad cannon now and then, question the official past more, start ruling a few things OUT rather than just waive all the same old classics through the gates to be arranged & neutered into the same mutually-re(v/f)erential lists and hierarchies. A shake up of that order's not gonna happen anytime soon (rubs forefinger & thumb together, rolls eyes), but it's gonna have to if indie rock wants a way out of its current political/musical/sexual/lyrical holding patterns. With an at-least-slightly-cockeyed vision of the past (and that's gonna be found thru writers who feel like the past is worth fighting over, not just for alphabeticising or ranking) retroism needn't be a problem, I love plenty of impossibly dated music but only when I feel like I'm hearing a human being with a reason to be doing this, not just a fucking muso with the taste/learning required to earn 'the right' to do this. When mind-numbingly predictable sources are blended in a way that gives  next-to-nothing of the people involved, if you feel as you're listening that what was in mind was not art or expression or truth but simply the unctuous clever-clever stacking up of taste to the point where personality is voided, then I'm sorry, that's a shitty motivation to make music and I see no reason why I should have any motivation in listening to it. Nothing to say and, fatally, nothing to sound out, just cross-referencing, filing, no failures in technique but a massive fatal failure of spirit that thus keeps Peace tethered to their sources, unable to add anything, doomed to be a grab-bag, a precis of an era thankfully long gone. Fucksake, I remember where I was at the early 90s student-bop much of 'In Love' tries to replicate. I was sat on the steps pointing my plastic pistol at these future captains-of-industry fantastising killing these motherfuckers. I knew then that they were a closed club and they'd end up running tings. No fucking change at all. Look at them being interviewed. Just look for a second.

These are the people now who make pop, who write about pop, who PR for pop, who've got the whole fkn thing wrapped up now. Perhaps the most racially and economically narrow set of people ever to be in control of a music genre since the golden days of Oi. Or its cuddlier, less working-class, equally blanched 90s equivalent, Britpop.
     No accident that Peace appeal back to those 90s because it was those 90s where apologetics became the internal bloodstream, and arrogance thus became the blaring facade, of what was served up as alternative/independent. When simply saying you were rock and roll often & drearily enough was enough to make you iconic. 

Two songs from the 90s are key here, Robbie Williams uber-nasal (in tone & inspiration) 'Let Me Entertain You' and Oasis' endlessly-micturating 'Don't Look Back In Anger'. In their ways they've both laid the template for everything that's come since, that half-witted (yet convinced it's witty as fuck) self-awareness that instantaneously stalls joy, the tacit admission in both numbers that alright, best we can do is slightly crapper versions of what's come before, but hey, if we all close our eyes and pretend, who cares eh? And if that's admitted then any kind of pastiche is ok, will pass, so many moments from Oasis, just like Peace, where you think not only 'are they just going to steal that then?' but 'my god, how withered does your soul have to be to be willing to put your name to such flabby, lazy larceny?' 
    Take that admission of general abitshitness, that pride in 'getting away with it', in precisely avoiding the big statement either musically or lyrically in preference of making some facsimile of feel, attitude scruffed like factory-damaged jeans, a simulacra of 'importance', take that sanctification of the half-witted & slow-moving, combine it with a desperately insecure need to be loved, the dizzy dissipation in motivation that happens when social media infects pop not on a musical but on a spiritual level and you have the piss-stinking dead end we're in now. And just as social media interaction so often hinges on the upwardly hopeful australian inflection, that sense of plea within statements that begs for approval, that hopefully, cutely asks 'please, will this do?' - so 90% of modern pop has that plea within, is cowed by the offical history's omniprescence into desperately cloaking itself in the same tropes & motifs, pretending that it's squeezing fresh goodness out of these dried up dugs when all that's coming out is so much sour balloon juice. And because of the narrowing class basis of everyone involved, from press to PR to musicians, that mutual backslapping is getting plummier and plummier, as the real motivation behind doing any of this evaporates evaporates in a phut of hssssssss. In this fecund air where the priveliged young musician willing to work within the confines of the cannon find patrons easily and the young poet & the young prophet finds him or herself marginalised come Peace, good organisers, keepers of the dying flame of white guitarpop supremacy, great shite hope, what everyone NEEDS to keep their lies, their lives, their recovering businesses intact.

D) Graded
Before "Higher Than The Sun" even starts you think "what kind of slack-of-thought-process went on to give it that fkn title?" but being a charitable cove you let it begin its countdown to its end and straight away realise that Peace have all kinds of wonder at their disposal, not a scintilla of wit or innocence or personality or surprise about any of it, and next to nothing to say. Words shovelled together into a pile and left like that, like a students dinner/dogs breakfast, sitting atop the baggoid undertow trying not to be noticed. None of which would matter if for a single moment something surprising, pleasant, pleasing, joyful happened in their music. Instead of your heart skipping a beat your brain starts doing the maths: MBVish guitar in one ear, Razorlight guitar in the other, an atrociously lumpy rhythm section flailing somewhere in the middle, the moments of stop-start proudly marshaled with the ruthless editing order of (and FOR, presumably) a highlights montage on Soccer AM, the lyrics trying their hardest to be some kind of snapshot of young love, just coming over like vaguery and smarm.

"You wanna play it cool, you wanna be the man

You wanna hold my heart in your hand
But you know that the truth, is just the fruit of the fool."

Of course, mebbe words that meant something would be inappropriate for Peace's growing & glowing fanbase of Ruperts & Hilarys & pogoing Cameronite-rimjobbers, & a  beat that actually made you dance rather than flail wouldn't suit schmindie dancefloors. I can understand why Peace have made these decisions and made them as lucrative as possible but like the Stone Roses you wonder why anyone would want to listen to this given even a cursory knowledge of its sources, why you'd sidestep the fiery embrace, the tongue of flame down your throat, in preference for the lukewarm hot water bottle & the dummy & the security blanket of a band who don't look as good or as bad as you, a band as tiresomely inadequate as all mainstream white British entertainment is in 2013. It's in the tedious depths of 'In Love' wherein Peace's paladins in the press start reading uncomfortably like the kind of old-guard they're so keen to publicly decry. The notion that if you don't get this you've somehow forgotten what it is to be young is as nauseatingly condescending as the idea that young people can be excused ignorance about history & politics and all those things their media are insistent they don't care about anymore. Youth is no excuse for this mediocrity. And today's critics are perhaps the first generation of critics to actually use youth as an excuse, to actually even MENTION age at all as anything important. Strange, when even Peace know, everything is timeless now. Even their haircuts say so. 

    That perceived current atemporality of music is actually nothing new in itself. Depending on your vintage at some point in your life you'll have been preciously horrified by what's going on in your name by your generation and will have retreated to a point where old music means more to you than what's on the radio or the papers. Waybackwhen that implied a retreat from the present, a spurning of airwave and print and telly with a sense of horror at how little that was contemporary actually reflected or touched you. Now, no such isolation, or the critique at its heart,  is needed - that atemporality is accentuated & lubricated by the fact that all that old music is also on the radio, in the music press (on the cover no-less, why risk finding a new band when another 'classic' 'from the archives' shot might entice not just lads but their dads too?) & prettymuch infinitely accessible at any given moment. There isn't that pressure anymore to be in touch with what's going on right now, or conversely any guilt or critique attached to hiding in the past because everything is going on right now, all points in pop space and pop time equally accessible, and often equally bereft of context. And so in this massive combined museum and shopping mall contained behind that screen you're staring at,  music fans, finger on device, have been lulled to a space where their 'choice', the twitch that finger takes, has all the demonstrable 'meaning' of a choice at the Ikea soda-pump, the market forcing your own sense of banality home, making it endlessly plain that it waits to digest, process, interpret, then pounce on those choices as you move on through the flow, rarely halted by pop-up, never stalled by advertisement, faintly grateful for your own targeting, trying to seek the glimmering heart of things amidst the falling times-remaining, the falling time left until the DL is complete, the miasma of pound signs that suffuses every click and share, the bits of pop's endlessly exploitable back-catalogue that every click suggests will be sellable to you. Easier when the music  doesn't make you think about the present. Or the world you're ignoring because of this screen. 
    So you find yourself doing more of that referencing back when listening to 'In Love' not cos of mere mean-spiritedness but because that's all that Peace seem to be engaged in.'Follow Baby' gives you ten seconds of Placebo & Nirvana before falling into that habit so common amongst todays schmindie royalty - not actually writing melodies but writing chords and then finding something vaguely unmemorable enough to sing over it that won't derail the progression of those chords, the taking up of your & their time, the wearing  down of the allocated hour. Beats again hitting with all the unforgettable student-bop pissweakness of EMF or Jesus Jones (without the 'futurism' arfarf). Becomes clear over the snoozeathons of the phoned-in 'Lovesick' (mobile phone commercial) and cold-sick Coldplay maneouvres of  'Float Forever' ("If you're not happy wearing denim you're the devil" - fuck YOU) that the real star of 'In Love' is Jim Abiss, the guy who yes produced all of Kasabians stuff but who did produce the first Arctic Monkeys LP (the last time I can ever remember UK indie-pop having anything approaching 'feel'). Hats off to him, he pulls out all the stops throughout 'In Love', punches the band to the right peripheries, jazzing otherwise pedestrian repetition with video-friendly shock effects, graining Harry Koisser's voice into a  prsitine amalgam of all the indie-rock singers he's ever loved, cinematising the mix till you're in the front row and the Dobly's at maximum width & depth. But even his brilliant trickery can't mask the sheer pisspoor paucity of Peace's imagination & desperately derivative & dry songwriting.  The limp "disco" of 'Wraith" is the kind of lazy-assed jam-that-shoulda-stayed-a-jam nearly all bands are capable of but should never dream of actually recording/releasing, here populated by some truly careless and dogshit-ugly textures (an awful house piano and some choppy 'dancey' guitar so neckless & ponytailed it damn near makes you puke). "Delicious" threatens to be interesting (well, I like the bassline) for its first ten seconds before Koisser's voice comes in, again singing about nothing, making sure that every melody is so horribly like a regurgitated meal you'd long forgot it becomes unswallowable emetic drek, the band forgetting about sparseness or detail or space (sure sign of a high-level musical 'skills' amongst all involved I'm sure) and just filling in all possible gaps with their endlessly widdly smart-arsed noodling and grandstanding soloing bullshit. Fucking hippy cunts.
    Just when you think things can't get any worse you get 'Waste Of Paint', so shameless & pointless a baggy rip-off (albeit tarted up with some of Abiss's wankiest moments of tricknology) it's scarcely believable that a label could sign and sell this shit. You've seen a billion bands like this and you've ALWAYS taken one look, listened for five seconds and then fucked off to the bar. "Toxic" unfortunately isn't a Britney cover, just some  grislyness that makes Muse sound like innovators before 'Sugarstone' & 'California Daze' see 'In Love' out on a wave of 60s-necrophilia like Kula Shaker factorial fucked The Bluetones to the power Reef until their sphincters started shitting out songs. And so and lo! with these borrowed tods in borrowed togs, the sound of 2013, the band whose year it is, the album that will doubtless be up near the top of those end-of-year-lists, comes to a pitiful end, a whimper, a solemn quiet meant to imply the passing of something legendary, a silence you can't help but feel would've been improved by an Abiss-arranged panoply of delay-suffused bogflushes and heavily phased straining noises. We can move on. And try and forget that this is the shit being boosted in 2013 as the best we can get. The most we can hope for. The chime of a golden tune (can't say I spotted ANY to be honest). Youth, fans and happiness. Sure, good luck to 'em. They were on two nights ago in Cov. They're on again tonight look. Sell-out notices can't lie. 

    But anyone party to this bullshit should be fucking ashamed. There is a direct link between letting people think that dilute regurgitations of the past is the best we can hope for and letting people think that the cultural and political realities of today 'have always been like this', that all politicians are bastards and there's no point fighting it because it was ever thus. A conservatism blankets indie, has really sunk in subcutaneously since the rise of the Stone Oasis Screams, the first bands to lucratively make 'indie' music a home for purely white music fans, denim blinkers on, winkle/desert boot-heels firmly stuck in the quicksand of their own fear and snobbery, their fashionable love of the musical products of a segregated past, their reactionary inability to absorb the music of a multicultural present. For those of us old gits who recall the "good old days", and those of us young folk for whom the present isn't just about shits and giggles and an expensive eternal gladhanding, we both know that they weren't fucking good old days, & that these aren't the greatest times of our lives, and so we both seek music that doesn't sound quite like either, that comes to rewrite history, change and charge the present with its own image, chart the future. Don't be fooled by the protectors of Peace that to hate them is to look back. It's not the likes of me or you, but groups like Peace that do nothing but look back, that have relegated the now to an endless slavish deference to an ancient past, the flattening down of edges to make the past ever-more palatable, the breaking down of rock to a smooth paste, spread thin . Good with olives & french bread. Of course it'd be commercial suicide to put anyone else on the cover, to seek something you can't explain, seek thrills, rather than boosting whatever Warners or Columbia have biked over this week, timidly acquiescing in a decaying culture. So I decided to review the Peace album and it'd be better to like them cos they're going places and I say fuck youth when it's this old, fuck fans if they're this fucking stupid, and fuck happiness if it means the smug assurance that the middling will triumph whilst the revolutionary and revelatory will be impoverished & obliterated. Kill buzzes like this on sight. Don't let pop's coalition (PR, Press, Labels) fool you. Their shit is so dead it stinks. Leave 'em to it. Best off out of it. As a matter of some urgency, we need to get elsewhere. 

"If it were not for the Poetic or Prophetic Character the Philosophic & Experimental would soon be at the ratio of all things, and stand still, unable to do other than repeat the same dull round over again" - William Blake, There Is No Natural Religion.


  1. I've never listened to Peace. Now I don't have to. Thanks.

  2. i listened to the first half, didn't spot a tune either.

  3. This is the greatest music review ever written.

  4. I expect you want us all to hear your righteous anger but, honestly, you just sound bitter. And really fucking confused. This is far too long for me to even begin with all the things wrong or nonsense/illogic within it. Ultimately, it sounds like a man who can't write, raging at an industry that won't give him a writing job. Sorry if that stings, but you do seem very keen on people being honest.

    I'd never heard of Peace before reading this (and nor had my teenage kids or any of their friends) so, aside from anything else, you're giving them way more importance than they need. I really have to wonder why.

  5. Anti - Peace, but still pacified - Mr N.K could review - would love it for the press pack.

  6. Well, this is fantastic. I've send it round as a motivational letter for the aspiring musicians I know (maybe they'll get the hint? haha).

  7. This is a wonderful, wonderful review

  8. "not actually writing melodies but writing chords and then finding something vaguely unmemorable enough to sing over it that won't derail the progression of those chords, the taking up of your & their time, the wearing down of the allocated hour"


  9. This is absolutely bloody fantastic. Oh and "Anonymous 5 May 2013 10:21" is so blatantly one of the journos written about here. Truth hurts, eh?

  10. good lord you know you're a dour cunt when you write FIVE THOUSAND WORDS preaching to the internet about a mildly successful indie band. all those long sentences and swears kind of undermine the sense of smug cleverness those big words you use are meant to put across as well.

    1. Yeah, he is a dour cunt (and always has been) but he also happens to be right.

  11. And, perhaps more seriously, what seems to be a strata of homophobic language running through this.

    Perhaps the "old school" the author proport to come from isn't quite so vintage after all...

  12. erm, I didn't notice any? and having read this guy's rants and reviews since the mid 90s I think I can confidently say he is not anti-gay in any way.

    this is an awesome piece, as per... the only slight worry I have is that you nail your flag so firmly to the mast I wonder what would happen if this band somehow comes back next year with a genuinely good album that you actually like. because sometimes bands do that. start out mediocre then suddenly crack the secret code of greatness. unlikely I know. but would it be "word eating" time then? :)

  13. "Rimjobbers" and endless references to anus and shit in trying to describe his dislike for the music. And this seems to be present to offset the post-Oasis blokeiness of this coming next-big-band.

    Don't know him from Steve, sure he's in no way homophobic, but this approach seems illustrative of a latent homophobia at worse... at best, surely there are more interesting ways to a) express anger and b) critique the music than resort to anal fixations?

  14. Let me get this straight. You've directly linked scatology with gayness, and you're saying Neil's the homophobic one?

    Man alive.

  15. Not scatology but anality; "arse-tronauts" as a term of abuse etc.

    Or maybe you're right, and this isn't demi-offensive banter, so I ought to shut up and read other writers instead, can't stand the heat etc.

    I've no idea about Neil's position; my comment was in respect to the nature of his writing.

    1. You are confusing the great british tradition of being obsessed with arses and shitting with homophobia.

    2. Also - small point but by referring to artists as arse-tronauts I'm really talking about the notion of being 'up your own arse', nothing sexual at all really. I hope this has cleared up any arse-related confusion.

  16. "tl;dr" can fo;ad.

    Also, Neil has expressed wishes to enter into physical relations with certain men in the past, e.g. Brett Anderson & that one guitarist out of Menswear.

  17. Lousy band. Pseudo-punk image playing pop. Retch!


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