Iglu & Hartly

Are Iglu & Hartly for real? Are they a pretend-gay, LA surf-rock in-joke? Nothing more than Andrew WK and the Chuckle Brothers smeared in baby oil, jacked up to the eyeballs on amyl nitrate doing Scissor Sisters karaoke? Frankly, the truth will become apparent in a couple of years when they’re either a) gak-fried shells of men whimpering in rehab, Justin Hawkins-style or b) laughing all the way to the bank with piles of filthy rap-rock lucre.

Until then, one thing is very clear: these bare-chested electro-funksters have birthed an abomination of a debut album, informed by all the most disgusting musical faux pas of the past 20 years. Thought embarrassing white rap-rock had died with Fred Durst’s career? Then check out ‘Violent And Young’, where I&H exhume the corpse of early ’00s clowns Crazy Town. Elsewhere, lolloping Red Hot Chili Peppers bozo-funk bounds into view on ‘Whatever We Like’, while stupid synth nods to the incidental music from Knight Rider and Miami Vice permeate throughout.

‘And Then Boom’ is the moment the ironic ’80s electro revival finally manages to jump the shark. On a giant Filofax. With Margaret Thatcher. The important question: are you grasping your arms around chief rap goon Jarvis Anderson’s baby-oiled six-pack, the jaws of credibility snapping at your feet, or tuning out in utter revulsion? If you don’t want to look as much of a chump as either Iglu or Hartly in six months’ time, make sure it’s the latter, for fuck’s sake.

Rick Martin

2 out of 10