Irritating enough to make your skin itch, this is totally evil in its banality.
Postmodernism has cursed us again. Nowadays, with twisted tongue in cheek, even the bands that profess to hate irony do so in an ironic way. At times like these the Americans must be thanking their lucky stars’n’stripes they think the whole concept is something to do with a no smoking sign on your cigarette break.
, or a song called ‘The Nineteen Sixties’ that slags off retro longing while using the crappiest bits of swinging Britpop, they couldn’t possibly believe such pronouncements.
A fantastic wheeze then, but only if you’re deluded fools convinced you’ve got the lyrical sting of prime Jarvis. More than that though, [a]Baxendale[/a] also want to save us from boy bands and middling indie by taking the Eurodisco immediacy of the Pet Shop Boys and watering it down, so songs like ‘Hanging Out With Her’ substitute mood and feeling for a Stephen Hawking vocal and the bright, empty baubles of kitsch while, if the traditional benchmark of meaningless pretension is singing in French, then up pops cooing Eurotrash filler ‘Je Serai Espionne’ right on cue to provide the album’s nadir.
Irritating enough to make your skin itch, this is totally evil in its banality. Unlike them, we really do mean it.