November 23, 2000
/Of Arrowe Hill/Yuppie Flu London Highbury Garage
The sound is scratchy, the tunes are negligible, the charisma absolutely non-existent...
The sound is scratchy, the tunes are negligible, the charisma absolutely non-existent. Yuppie Flu are Italy's answer to Pavement, but the wholly underwhelming slacker-garble that they nudge at us tonight suggests just more skinny indie-minnows plugging along in Malkmus' wake. Like so many before them, Yuppie Flu have aced the thrift-store chic, the detuned guitars, the detached urbane vocal. But they lack the alchemic touch to turn these elements into gold.
Tonight proves that it's more important where you take your influences to than where you take them from. Of Arrowe Hill, for example, plug their guitars into the same mind-expanding sonic fog that Mercury Rev got lost in long ago, but instead of locking into identical folk-prog grooves as the Rev, they ricochet between lacerating garage-psyche and surging anthemic guitar pop. Sloppy urchins giddily in love with blown speaker cones, Of Arrowe Hill have the right attitude.
As do Sloan, who sound as if they swallowed '70s guitar pop whole and are spitting every planet-sized harmony, every gasping, chronic chorus back at us, in a fresh order. Some have called them dadrock, but Sloan are far too genuinely in lust with rock'n'roll to be pigeonholed alongside reverent dullards like Ocean Colour Scene.
Over a decade into their forgivably retro rock mission, they're still profoundly buzzed by the thrill of guitar pop, songs like 'Friendship' and 'Marquee & The Moon' so obviously perfect that it seems ludicrous Sloan aren't the huge stars they play like. Unimpeachable hooks and justified, quietly humble swagger, Sloan deserve Oasis' riches. And a
whole lot more.
Stevie Chick
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