Weedy as wank. With a video like a low-budget cross between 'November Rain' and the inner sleeve of 'Beggars Banquet' (and with one genuine moment of gorillas-in-the-dry-ice hilarity when that Liam creature monkeys up to the camera in silhouette) but somehow even worse than that suggests ('sexy' nuns, I shit you not!). A rejected Del Amitri b-side in any other age, in this paltry one a 'great track' from 'a legend', 'Shine A Light' achieves the somehow impossible task of making Primal Scream sound like innovators through the neat trick of being utterly rancid shit from start to finish. Someone please give me (Anselmo voice) five minutes alone with yer lad and I'll make him into a racist to go with his homophobia and sexism. Go home and count yer money man. Quietly.
Whaddayado when all the kook runs out? When your target demographic becomes bored of you a little? Y'can't do another 'Big When I Was Little' - that was shameless, a craven pile-up of retro-references as desperately flailing as Alan Partridge suddenly shouting 'TISWAS' then mumbling '. . . . errm . . . sweets they don't make anymore . . . '. It always seemed one step away from simply lurching into being the cover of the 'Fresh Prince' theme perhaps most guaranteed to mop up all that whined-for pocket-money. Of course you could always call it a day, become a model or a runner or an actress or simply ask daddy or mummy for a job somewhere quieter in the biz, somewhere a little less visible. [They won't mind taking a hit remember, and it might be the only way now that fame has become a purely hereditary issue]. Or of course, you could give 'your music' another go with one more album, toss in another collab with Paloma Faith, or the XX, someone who'll get you back in the Live Lounge with Jo Whiley's pisshole eyes squinting their love your way.
Of course, it'd help, when you were creating your new album, the second record where you can't just be a ditzy purveyor of pastiche, if you actually had a soul, rather than just loving people whom you imagine had a soul a long long time ago. Something to sing about would also help, something beyond the endless cycle and circle of massive privelige and easy access and quirky dilletantism that's been your birthright so far. But you haven't got such a vintage thing as a soul as you imagine, and the right equipment and clothes won't make it grow anytime soon. Best bet is - as a tester, toss out some half-arsed 'soul music' that makes Emile Sande sound like Betty Davis, replete with vague lyrics about being a bit sad sometimes and being in love sometimes that you ripped off a thing you saw on imgur/r/motivational last night, and a hook that a small dull child would find melodically unimaginative. Small dull child Fearne Cotton, your mate, will love it, Rob Da Bank, another mate, will love the shitty obvious remix, mummy and daddy will support you in everything you do and when it tanks in the upper reaches of the top 30 your PR will be round to tell you to tell everyone they've lined up (mainly broadsheets, a few Redtops and Saturday entertainment supplements just in case) about how this album is 'more personal and more grown up' than anything you've done before. You'll appear on Later With Jools Holland and bask in the approval your slick big-band backing will get from the assorted sycophants and liggers who have, and will, always surround you. In discussion with your PR and label you'll decide to forego being grilled by Grimshaw in the morning (who wants to get sucked into that ongoing haemorrage) and instead embark on the second stage of your musical career with Radio 2 firmly in your sights as an eventual playlist home, the ongoing Nike endorsement hopefully backed up by a healthy portfolio of Sainsbury's & Boots No.7 ad-soundtracking, eyes on those disposable-income ABCs, the CDEs picked up on the way merely an unfortunate less-lucrative side-effect of aspiration and blanket-marketing. It's a plan that I hope comes off for Eliza, and 'Let It Rain' is a great, hugely forgettable and sophorriifically dull start to that campaign.
I should also probably mention that I sincerely hope everyone involved in the new plan, from Eliza herself to her label and hard-working streat team, to Whiley, Cotton and Da Bank, Jools, The One Show, the bookers on BBC Breakfast, the project managers synergising marketing strategies and choosing new music to best soundtrack the soon-come autumn/Xmas ads, are able along the way to stop their arseholes being too jealous of all the shit coming out their mouths, the ordure they're letting fall in sloppy moist clods from their permanently faecally-stained lips as their absence of a single iota of worthwhile humanity begins to ferment their reptilian innards - my advice is to fucking stay in London you hobbyhorse cunts where your government will protect you, gather and suppurate your 'creative' mediocrity back and forth to each other under the protective unsheathed wings of your Ozmodyian god Cameron and and keep suckling deep from his brackish, bitter, beach-pinked dugs the acrid milk of your own endlessly smug mutual evil.
Five out of ten, perhaps it's an 'album track'?
There's a moment where the pristine stops being interestingly immobile, starts sounding static and dull. There is one good thing about 'Help Me Lose My Mind' and it's the basic bedrock of it, the low synth sweep that rolls and ebbs underneath the stop-start beats. There is one horrible horrible thing about 'Help Me Lose My Mind' and it's London Grammar's Hannah Reid's none-more-Julia-Fordham vocal. No matter what delicious manipulations it undergoes (and some of the b-vox are peachy) it remains a cold unloveable joyless thing that reveals Disclosure as no less, no more than a Beloved for 2013. Do you really NEED that in your life? I envy your storage space and your ability to prioritise this tedium into your daily commute and I can only dream of a day when I can share in the benificient plenitude of your, and Disclosure & London Grammar's pretty-much unimpeachable taste and lack of vulgarity. Just don't come running to me when they tell you they've seen the light, give you a small brown leather book, insisting that they were right. I'll be in the basement listening to Motorhead and will not be disturbed with such tomtwattery.
(Dirtee Skank Records)
Christ. Don't watch the video unless you actually like those 'Keep Calm And . . . ' posters. Dizzee goes yet further out of his way (as if those Robbie/Will.I.am toss-offs weren't bad enough) to antagonize and alienate those of us who love him with this horribly objectionable paean to whatever town you live in with your 79ps just give him your 79ps please you tasteless undiscerning fucks give him your 79ps he loves your town and you. He can still rhyme on point when prodded, but the backing to this - the kind of revoltingly by-rote club-friendly acoustic/autotuned euphoria that makes modern life so maximally unbearable - is just awful, the chorus so vile an enforced Eurodance singalong slop of objectionable ear-slurry it's difficult to even register his flow amid the shitnami. Rap music for Boris Johnson. Think about those early singles again. Think about 'Fix Up', 'I Love U'. 'Jus A Rascal'. Earthquakes in your day. Ten years ago now. I hate it when artists 'progress'. Wish they'd just focus on 'staying good'.
(Island) They have no right to do this to me.How dare they make me feel this bad? What rotters. What meanies. What a perfectly beastly song in every way. The kind of song you want to punch in the face, repeatedly, finding the weak point in the facial structure, and then punching that spot over and over, again and again with increasing force and fury, preferably with a heavy-gauge ball bearing in your palm, until little shards of the song's nose-bone are embedded in your knuckles. Shut UP shut UP shut UP.
|Some badly dressed turds, yesterday|
|Goulding with arch shitbag Jo Whiley|
TOO many outlets in and out. Of course, I should have massive problems with everyone involved here but 'Titanium' keeps on nagging away at me as a damn good reason not to fully condemn DG (if only he could and of course, like anyone else, I LOVED 'Stay', still Rihanna's only truly salvageable moment. Happy to report though that this is absolutely vile, like Chris Martin, Bono and Thom Yorke all frantically spunked on to a biscuit and then fed the soggy detritus through Logic Pro via a midi cable. Vocals - horrible, production - ghastly, concept- foul. The video, which seeks to somehow bat away the none-more-whiteness of the track and give it some kind of political message it really can't sustain by randomly splicing in footage of smiling Africans whenever it can, is perhaps one of the most revolting artefacts 2013 will give us. Hell, I know I should be critically schtum cos this is all for the United Nations or something but fuck the United Nations if enabling pop as terrible as this has now swum within their remit. Only fair that we consider marching Guetta, Ekko, and the smiling Africans as well, to the edge of a volcanic crater and push them all in, just to be firm but fair. A luncheon of lava will learn them not to foist poo on innocent pop fans and no mistake.
I bet you are you pink fucknuckle. Despite what musicians and their sycophants might have you believe, music is never just about the music. When Cameron met Haim people pointing out that this is what happens when posh airheads completely colonise indie pop were batted away with the usual whining from their equally posh equally airheaded defenders in the press - 'no, it's just what happens on the Andrew Marr show', 'no they're just young and not political' or even more pitifully 'but they're American'. Azalia Banks got the same soft-treatment when she showed twitter-love for SamCam - defended to the hilt by reactionary apprentice Daily Mail columnists endlessly self-piteously bleating about their ignorance and how there's nothing they can do about it. Dunno bout you but when I was 15 I knew (cos, y'know, I was a live sentient being) which side of my buttered bread Thatch AND Reagan were shitting on - this idea that people can get to their MID-20s and still NOT KNOW that they're pallying up to someone evil, someone committed to destroying the lives of a whole social class is simply dumb avoidance and stupidity proudly celebrated, an ignorance that has never had to question or change itself. Then again, we're often talking about the kind of people who write shit like THIS and then 'don't understand' why they get picked up on it. Oops, giggle, hey, was I racist there? Hey, can't we all just relax and celebrate what's great?
No. Fuck Haim forever for this, and fuck this tedious rerub from Mr. Moroder as well. They could get sliced & diced by Premo into a 20 minute megamix with Diana Ross on backing-vocals and I'd still hate them. Don't you get it you simpering chortling fucks? Shit like what's in this photo is UNFORGIVABLE. This man is planning me and my families and my friends DESTRUCTION and you're lining up with that cunt and then expecting me to give you a 'fair hearing'? Shes that toucheth pitch shall be defiled. Shame on all of you.
OK. End of the night and have to admit I'm getting fractious. What? An 'even more epic Killers'?
No, sorry, that's it. The shutters are up. Your parking will not be validated. Get outta here you bloated flatulent fuckers: there's enough shitty, orotund windybollocks rock music in the world right now, we don't need you cramming more in. Thank you . . . . . . . . hold on, what are you doing still mooching round here, staring at yr shoes? You're here to get your single reviewed? No, sorry, I'm knocking off for the night now - this IS your single reviewed. I mean it. Pack up all your equipment and fuck off out of it. Go home and just be quiet, very very quiet, fingers on lips. Stop looking at me with those cow eyes. I have nothing to say about your music except that everything you are doing is bad. Yes, everything, I'm not exaggerating. Everything you are doing is bad. Your music is as terrible as you should feel. I want you to know this. Yes, all of it - that's what 'everything' means. It's all bad. There is not a single redeeming feature to it. No, this isn't a joke. I'm not over-reacting. You are adding nothing but shit to the world. If you were 3000 times better than you are you'd still be fucking awful. Hey, lads, no need to get angry, I'm just being honest with you. No-one else will be . . .
OK, I think they've gone. By the way - next month I shall use this review again word for word for the purposes of reviewing the ever-enshittened increasingly enshittening Queens Of The Stone Age thus ensuring that my carbon footprint remains balletic. Hey, don't thank me, I just love my planet is all.
The video to this sums up her problems - as she passes by (and wafts her nose at the fakery) of the 'hipster' party she spies through a keyhole she instead crashes the room next door, full of fashionably bearded 'rockers' (all wearing high-fashion leathers and 300quid haircuts). Trouble is she also takes it upon herself to do some air-guitar, the kind of misplaced shit air-guitaring (too low, too wide) you'd ordinarily expect only from a supermodel or piss-taking townie-at-the-rock-club. Please, JumboJobbie, enjoy your life, it IS your party, just don't get so annoyed when people suss you as the fucking appallingly mediocre and unjustifiably arrogant human being you clearly are, let alone get so huffy and defencive when we quite reasonably engage in fervent daily prayers that you fail in every aspect of your life ahead. It's nothing personal. You're just a wanker. Just a thought.
How can we dance when the world it turning? How can we sleep when our beds are burning? Lots & lots of words here achieving the special trick of meaning sweet fanny adams, rotating the same (yawn) "anthemic" motifs the rest of schmindie-shmock seems to have their Converse mired in at the moment but desperately shoving Casiotone Dixons pissabouts, badbad prog-poesy and horribly chirpy Christian-rawk into the chunder-swirl as well. Get to fuck you grotesquely professional pricks ya. Motivational-speaker music.
"Speaking to Zane Lowe, Followill said of the song: "I think if people don't appreciate 'Beautiful War', then they can't appreciate anything! Read more at http://www.nme.com". Oh fuck, that's me telt. A song so pleased with what it finds (a kind of innoffensive country-rock pulse the Hothouse Flowers would've been proud of) it just kind of stays there doing absolutely nothing of interest, staring you out with its monobrowed glassy godbothering eyes until you move away. Of course, that's just opinion, here's some appreciation - it certainly does last six minutes long and is in the 'pop/rock' style'. Instruments that feature include guitars, bass and drums. The guitars play both chords and single notes, or 'solos'. Intermittently, the singer open his mouth and words come out.Sometimes the singer sings loudly. Sometimes he sings less loudly. It is mainly in the key of A, with occassional movements to the chords of D and E. Can I go interview Haim now?
An inimitable stylist brings his unique self-regard to bear on one of Lou's sweetest songs and manages to infect it with his usual belligerence - there's a really telling bit where instead of 'I love to watch things on TV' he sings 'I can not stand the TV' (personally I don't trust anyone who doesn't love telly). He separates the words like that, deliberately fluffs the flow, it's a lumpy moment, doesn't quite scan right, crucially it starts to stick out, burden the song with a pettiness that doesn't suit it. Eventually it turns into 'I cannot stand George Alagiah' and you're left there with this mess all over your front thinking - for fucks sake, WHY would you think that would be a good idea to sing unless you were Richard Digance, Richard Digance on tour supporting rubber-faced comedy-free zone Phil Cool? And also, what the fuck are WE meant to think about his loathing of Alagiah (I've always liked George myself, face like a nice friendly lion)? Amused? Confused? I guess it doesn't matter, "Weird Al" Morrisey got it out of his system but my god, it does perform an effective distraction to the way he can't quite cope with the melodies in the chorus. Floundering like Alan Bennett forced to croon a version of Bewlay Brothers - this rather sloppy cover seems an odd way to pay tribute to Lou, who even in his darkest moments, never smirked when talking about love. For fans only? No, for tragic obsessive completists only. The big old twat.
Gosh, he's certainly not someone you can sit on the fence about! Hats off to him! Haven’t had such a strong response to music in a while (Al Pacino voice) whooahh!
Sometimes it takes time to really get into stuff or figure out a response but have to say there’s no such umming or ahhing with fresh new privately-educated, signed to Lily Allen's label, albinoesque talent Tom Odell. Within merely 3 seconds exposure, in fact before he'd even made a noise, I wanted to drive red-hot ingots into his eyes, the stout hammering of medieval molten agony to his pasty phizog reaffirmed as reasonable response with only the most cursory scan of the overwhelmingly positive youtube comments this slab of sloppy effluent has attracted. Comments as enlightened, Australian-interrogative and entirely non-loathsome as this . . .
(Elevator Lady Ltd., under exclusive license to Vertigo/Capitol, a division of Universal Music GmbH)
PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTINGNIGHT MAIL (Testcard Recordings)
POUR IT UP (Island)
God, this song is sooo about my life it's not true. Checkitout, RiRi might have come a long way from her roots as market-stall barker and crackhead's daughter but she hasn't forgotten the struggle, or how things are for the vast majority of us great unwashed.
“Throw it up, throw it up/Watch it all fall out/Pour it up, pour it up/That's how we ball out/Strip clubs and dollar bills I still got more money/Patron shots can I get a refill?/I still got more money/ Strippers goin' up and down that pole And I still got more money/ Four o'clock and we ain't going home Cause I still got more money /Money make the world go round I still got more money /Bands make your girl go down I still got more money/ Lot more where that came from/I still got more money/All I see is signs All I see is dollar signs/Money on my mind Money, money on my mind/I still got more money Who cares how you haters feel And I still got more money Call Jay up and close a deal I still got more money My fragrance on and they love my smell I still got more money So who cares about what I spend I still got more money My pocket's deep, and they never end I still got more money I'm going dumb with all my friends I still got more money”.
"I need a Ryan Gosling, I need a Robert Pattinson
Somebody I can take to Mama, I need to find my Obama
I need a Jonas Brother and, how about a Denzel Washington?
I need a Kellen Lutz, and a Channing Tatum, throw 'em my way, I'll date 'em
I need a Drake, I need a Ludacris, I need a Wheezy, I don't care who he is
Heard 'em say I need a Kanye, he ain't a gentleman, but I'll have him anyway
George Clooney, Lamar Odom, Larry King, I like 'em older
All the gentleman from all around the world, holla".
Can you imagine how bad that sounds coming out of The Saturdays' posh gobs? They can just fuck off with this flailing shit (you can sense that cos none of them have a voice that's interesting they can't settle on a sound that works for them and are starting to sound as Desperate as the Housewives they so witlessly ape in the video). Psy's 'Gentleman' is the only 'Gentleman' yr little ones need, Little Mix are already better than them and Stooshe are titanically better than any of these saps. The Saturdays are the male Projekt Weekend and need to become UNfamous soon as.
EXTREMELY reminiscent for me of Bridges, the band the Enemy could gave been before they got their music airbrushed and their egos sphincter-locked on to airhoses. Would probably enjoy them live if stumbled across, pissed. See absolutely no reason on earth to listen to their music through choice, sober. Neither heavy enough to be enjoyable nor nuanced enough to do anything but make you yearn for Bo's magic and heat, The Strypes should still be safe, armed as they are with plenty of jaded pre-emptive apologists, ready with arguments about how 'energy' and 'fun' is all that matters, conning themselves that they're not essentially engaged in the same kind of vintage 'thrills'/sloppy seconds as yer Michael Buble or Jamie Cullum fans. Hope the shtick holds for 'em, and if it doesn't, someone throw a cordon around them before Warners come knocking with silly money, shit sportswear and a load of cack 'anthems' about the mean streets of Cavan. They're only bairns. Leave 'em be you preverts (sic) & monsters.
TAYLOR SWIFT ft. GARY LIGHTBODY
GIVE IT TO YOU
My god, can you imagine how tiny Robin Thicke's dick is? Judging by his over-compensation it must be Clarkson small, Gervais small, with a couple of tiny balls looking like Murun Buchstansanger. I mean, if you feel the need in a video to surround yourselves with pre-pubescent fantasies of 'girls' all of whom have bodies like little boys, then actually have your name with 'has a big dick' spelled out in balloons after it, whilst the editor remains under brutally strict instructions to cut out all those moments where your little trouser-maggot spooged its thimble-load and you looked prone & vulnerable rather than just repellently arrogant, you've got to have some serious issues possibly not adequately addressed by the innumerable air-pump and L'arginine-tablet offers you've been so hoodwinked by in the past. Seriously Mr. Thicke, go see a counsellor, speak to someone about it cos these shitty derivative singles about how your massive member is going to fuck everyone in the world simply aren't working and your schtick as a kind of rude Michael Buble will run out of steam soon. Counselling will help. Yes it might require remembering those embarassing moments in the changing rooms where your classmates roared with laughter at your miniscule bait'n'tackle, yes it might mean reliving those horrible tweezer-poised moments of spunk-drenched self-loathing all over again and yeah you look even uglier when you cry but it's time to face up to the fact that God blessed you with an atrophied acorn in the cock department and move on. Once those lies that have sustained you (like size not mattering) have been stripped away, and those hometruths driven home (You can't make butter with a toothpick) if counselling means eventually coming to terms with your lifetime of enforced celibacy it'll be worth it, and save you lots of potentially dangerous quack-treatment and uncomfortable implants down the line. Jude Law, Mick Jagger and Enrique Inglesias have all taken that first step. I hope you can too shrimpy.
TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB
TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB
What a horrible horrible sound, such four-square lumpen 'danceyness', such gag-worthily correct textures but there comes a point where you have to admit that some music just isn't for you, was never for you, never had your demographic on the drawing board. 'Handshake' isn't made for human beings. It's made for silhouettes against a beach-sun, spinning, dancing, holding slimline devices. It's made for lightly-bearded men and floral-dressed women holding on to each other against a backdrop of lit-up skyscrapers (preferably Japanese - the skyscrapers that is), all holding slimline devices. It's for the geographically estranged young couple, separated by their lucrative and exciting jobs in the creative sector but united by technology's abilities to allow them to share instagrams of their meals across continents and add it all to their eco-fashion blogs, all holding slimline devices. It's for the rock audience listening to rock music at the rock show, bouncing as one, glowsticks and ipads held aloft, everyone looking clean and fresh and on-brand, everyone having an unforgettable time, everyone gaining maximum leverage value, everyone holding slimline devices. It's for small photogenic kids to be doing something outdoorsy and memorable with their comfortably well-off parents, on holiday but with an ever-present connectivity, all holding slimline devices. It's for the ITV or Sky TV trailer for their new seasons of drama, moments of tears and sadness and emotional content-provision, every single moment retrievable so long as you're holding slimline devices. It's for the daytime DJ, punching the playlist-B bed and proudly intoning the title with heavy pregnant pauses between each word, sending it out to the world, listeners and players all holding slimline devices. All holding slimline devices. All holding slimline. All holding. All.