Last week, the lovely gents from Enter Shikari braved NME’s headquarters to play an up-close-and-personal acoustic set. There, in the midst of eyes-agog fans, they dusted off a rather spiffing, stripped-down version of Carly Rae-Jepsen’s recent chart behemoth ‘Call Me Maybe’.
As most of you poor souls will no doubt know, ‘Call Me Maybe’ is no mere song: it’s a meticulous, lab-developed ear-worm that will hunker down in your noggin for weeks on a loop, regardless of whether you actually like the bloody thing or not. As aresult, the NME office has delved deep into the recesses of our collective memory banks to proffer some of the most irritatingly catchy songs out there: the type that, even if you can’t stand them, will be churning around in your head for yonks.
Genuinely, I cannot stand Maroon 5: they are purveyors of the worst type of laughably unsexy bollocks imaginable, and in a just world, would be banished from all recording studios or other music-making conduits forthwith. But it’s nigh-on impossible to shake ‘Moves Like Jagger’ and its dubious whistle-friendly, hook-laden charms. It’s a bit like a nasty STD, one could say: whether you like it or not, it’s going to stick with you for a long, long time.
Some choruses are so undeniably brilliant that, given half a chance, you’ll find yourself singing them under your breath with a great big grin on your mug. And then there are the choruses that areundeniably shit, but you’ll occasionally have an irresistible urge to belt them out, anyway, making you hate yourself forever more. Avril Lavinge’s bratty ode to being a homewrecker is undoubtedly the latter. Curse the day it was given unto the world.
Truly, words are redundant when it comes to encapsulating the timeless, torturous appeal of ‘Rhythm Of The Night’. It’s a strange beast, for large swathes of it are instantly forgettable and hum-drum, and I’d gladly give anyone a small cash prize if they could recount any of the lyrics in the verse. But that split-second drop, just before the chorus itself? The labyrinthian (and, let’s be honest, ruddy annoying) refrain itself, which bludgeons you into meek submission? THAT’S an earworm, folks.
Nobody misses The Fratellis, do they? They were fucking appalling. Yet I have witnessed frightening things courtesy of the Scottish troupes: rooms of beered-up boys, leering and bantering, who immediately strike up a synergy of tuneless bellowing whenever they hear that rowdy terrace-chanting. If you’re ever unfortunate to hear it on a night out, then run. Run like the wind, and do not look back.