Wednesday, May 28, 2003
I'll be writing a much more in-depth (if it's possible to get anymore in-depth) piece about this turgid piece of shit for Stylus later today. In the meantime this is the piece for the uni rag.
Birds Of Prey
Live’s sixth album has about it the whiff of desperate men. They may claim that it is an evolution, a spiritual turning point, but the truth is more down to earth than that. Birds Of Prey is the sound of old rockers working in fear of mortgage payments, happily married men with children and sensible coats. In an age of hyped-up teenage definite-article bands (The Thrills, The Libertines) and acclaimed, sonically fresh and open electronic music (Four Tet, Manitoba) Live are a complete anachronism. Four-square rock abounds as if Pearl Jam never got past Ten, while Ed Kowalcyk spouts directionless spiritual platitudes and cheesy ham about his baby daughter left, right and centre (“I don't need no one to tell me about heaven/I look at my daughter and I believe”). With a track listing conceived as a structured ‘life- journey’, Birds Of Prey is embarrassing for so many reasons, and forgettable for so many more.
5/28/2003 09:20:00 am