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Things are simple in the low-octane, neatly coiffured, hard-graft world of Feeder. Like lyrics, for example. "He's got a brand new car/Looks like a Jaguar" that'd be, er, a Jaguar then. We shouldn't mock, really, because theirs is a sound that strives so hard to please. This is what Gay Dad sounded like before they came back with their high-concept rock in tatters, all tight programmed drums and fizzing guitars. But, essentially, it's just scuzzed, twisted Bon Jovi for the 20th century's indie hangover, and means nothing in this age of strident sci-fi R&B, ballistic hip-hop and post-Aphex skitter-breaks. Thom Yorke laughs at guitars and his method may be off-kilter but his heart's in the right place; Feeder's rawk just comes on sounding so tired and anachronistic. That they have to tour eight days a week as a way of forcing this shit into our consciousness is testament to the fact that no-one's listening.


Christian Ward

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