It was a bad performance overall, made somewhat worse by that moment, and – for us – the pain was doubled by the fact that we watched the match in the presence of Americans, Italians, Germans and – worst of all – Scottishes.
This meant that it felt exactly like watching a re-run of Bambi with your parents when, just after the little critter begins to walk (our goal), the film is suddenly, inexplicably, replaced by Hardcore Passions Volume Two: Hairy Potter And The Prisoner Of Ass-caban (their ‘goal’).
Ah well, it’s Monday, and that means it’s time for shirking work by discussing whether David James should be the next man to flop uselessly around in goal, and by sweating underneath a feebly-spinning fan while wearing a nylon replica of John Terry‘s shirt. It’s also time for…
YOUR MANGO!
Can we get a ‘whoot’?
Firstly, American Slang, The Gaslight Anthem. These guys seem to delight in deliberately crippling themselves.
Not content with giving themselves a completely turd name, they have their publicists describe the music as “soul-inflected punk“. That’s ridiculous. American Slang has as much soul as Simon Cowell, and as much punk as Green Day‘s stamp collection.
If only they were more honest with potential listeners, they could do so much better. Perhaps future releases should be described as “mostly sound like The Jam, but sometimes they also do those bouncy pop songs like what Barenaked Ladies are so fond of“.
Okay, so we have generously recategorised them. But what about this album’s actual content?
It’s not bad. American Slang is a nice, high-tempo rocker to open with. Stay Lucky continues the fast-paced theme, but track three – Bring It On – is an attempt at a semi-balladic anthem which should have been dumped quicker than a girlfriend who makes duplicates of your keys after two dates.
After that, things pick back up again: in particular, The Diamond Church Street Choir could really generate some interest as a single, and The Queen Of Lower Chelsea is as good a take-off of Modest Mouse as we’ve heard for some time.
So this is a curate’s egg of an album. Good in parts. Here’s its thought:
So…I’m supposed to be full of punky anger? Yeah, screw the system and…oh no, wait… now it’s a touching paean to…ah, screw it.
Next.
I like punk music, happy music, indie music, college music…damnit, what the hell is this album? Take me to American Slang right now so I may find out.
Secondly, Thank Me Later, Drake. Aubrey Drake Graham is half black, half white-Jewish, and totally a nice boy from Canada.
That would be a superbly convenient hook to hang this review on if Drake were to engage all aspects of his upbrigning. Sadly (for us, and also for you), Drake merely provides a terrible, derivative, people-buy-this-sort-of-music-so-I-will do the same-thing album of hip-hop cliches.
Gods, this is really tedious. Drake’s voice is bland, toneless and tuneless.
His writing is the same: it’s like he knows that he has to be misogynistic and swear a bit, but – being a nice guy, essentially – isn’t able to work out how to do it convincingly. For example, one of the terrible lines from Shut It Down: “Put those fucking pants on and work it, girl“.
Good christ, that would embarrass even our nephew’s high school hip-hop collective (next performance: the front playground, Wednesday, 12.30).
Here’s its thought:
Okay, new hip-hop album going on here, getting great reviews, must be something really speci…WTF? Dawg, this joint is lame. Stephen Hawking‘s computer could spit better rhymes than this guy.
Pffft.
I must be some kind of rap masochist (a rapochist, perhaps?), but I’d actually quite like to go and listen to Thank Me Later.
Thirdly, Various, Now That’s What I Call The USA: The Patriotic Country Collection. You’ve got to hand it to America: they really know how to pat themselves on their collective, fat-riddled backs.
Can you imagine the great UK bands of our time releasing an album called Our Kingdom United Through Self Love And A Shared Hatred Of All That Foreign Stuff? They’d be strung up from lampposts by Polly Toynbee before they got out the first line.
Well, either that or else elf ‘n’ safety/diversity-integration Nazis would come along and order them to disband under the Poofs ‘N’ Immigrants Act, 2005 (? Richard Littlejohn).
Anyways, is this hyper-patriotic American album any good, from an independent standpoint?
No.
We can’t think of any better way to convince you than listing some of the song titles: Courtesy Of The Red White And Blue, All-American Girl, Fast Cars And Freedom, All American Country Boy, and, our favourite because of its titular wankishness and its lyrical arrogance, Bumper Of My SUV.
So, this album will not sell outside of America. And that should worry us, because those guys can flame the rest of us out of existence with the press of a button. The fact that many of their inhabitants will find this kind of thing to be inspirational should be a worrying message to all the rest of us: they are out there, they have the means, and now they just need the support.
Here’s it’s thought:
U – S – A. U – S -? A. Yeah! Oh man, we rock so hard it’s painful!!! The rest of the world’s countries (Ireland, France, Europe, Africa, Asia, and all those other lameass countries) can suck our dick! U – S – A!!!!!!!!!!!
Dude, I love the US and would willingly sacrifice my tiny (almost inconsequential) penis for her victory. I demand you take me to Now That’s What I Call the USA: The Patriotic Country Collection.
Farewell for a week.
If you are a music company PR person, please feel free to fling your music here: thegibbo[at]gmail.com
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