Monday, May 05, 2003
Here are some singles reviews destined for publication in Exeter University's student newspaper...
Singles reviews 5.5.03
I Can’t Read You
Everyone’s favourite over-weight genre-hopping date-rapist returns (shagging a reality TV girl group near you soon!) with a track off his debut album that’s been re-recorded with guitars to make it more ‘rock’. Oh yes. That’s ‘rock’ as in Coldplay or Travis, you understand. Bedingfield heaves and ho’s and even has a quiet bit in the middle where he tries to hit notes half an octave too high for his voice just to prove how sensitive he is. There’s a Todd Edwards remix of James Dean (I Wanna Know) on the b-side; why? Todd Edwards is a genius, what’s he doing associating with this shag-bag?
Price To Pay
Grungetastic! It’s nearly 10 years since Kurt Cobain used a shotgun and his own brain to stencil his garage wall a la Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen, and we’re STILL being sold this miserable, self-obsessed, relentless Nazi-sludge rock by hoary sand-throated wankers with ‘issues’. At least it’s not a sensitive acoustic ballad like that one that went massive. Oh no. It’s noisier. “We fail to see how destructive we can be” sings the, ahem, singer. By ‘destructive’ he means ‘shite’. Damn you! Damn you all to heck!
Currently being touted as being both ‘innovative’ and ‘challenging’ by the world’s desperate heavy rock media, the only thing challenging about this record is whether you can listen to the comedy rhyming dictionary lyrics without laughing. Witness ‘air’ being rhymed with ‘electric chair’; ‘behind’ with ‘mind’; and ‘crawling on all fours’ with ‘falling through trapdoors’. At least, unlike half the album this is taken from, it doesn’t attempt to be a ‘soundscape’, so we’re saved the four-minutes of flatulent train noises they normally tack on after the last chorus to show how ‘visionary’ they are.
The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster
Brighton’s finest Psychosexual Narcotic Garage Rock Freak Show™ continue their relentless assault on, well, everything, with yet another sub-3-minute slice of screaming, clattering, Oedipal lunacy. The singer looks like Richard Ashcroft when he was mad (as opposed to just a wanker) and the band make a racket something akin to The Nation Of Ulysses if they’d grown up in Britain’s Gayest Town™. One of the b-sides features the lyric “I want to fuck / and fuck / and fuck you in the face.” Dylan is shamed!
5/05/2003 11:30:00 am