Let's stop pretending to be excited about a band who are obviously just dragging their bone-weary carcasses through the motions, shall we?
Lumbering, plodding, wheezing, staggering, collapsing, dying. Yes, it’s the MSP at Glasto ’99 and… cut to the BBC studio where Jo Whiley or Jamie Theakston or some other interchangeable no balls, no opinions, bland, boring bastard TV glove puppet gasps in awe and informs us that we’ve just seen a defining, seminal, classic Glastonbury moment. No, please, fuck off. Let’s stop this Pretending The Manics Are Still Any Fucking Good palaver, shall we? It’s getting just a tad silly.
Take this ‘Tsunami’ tosh, for starters. It’s alright. It’s not bad. It’s got a nice tune. The wind chimes are very pleasant. And [a]James[/a] sings the word[I] “rapist”[/I]. So it’s a bit political as well. Super. Smashing. Lovely.
Except that it’s hardly the Manic Street Preachers, is it? It’s a bit, um, Celine Dion, isn’t it? A bit Windolene and Sky TV and ‘Queen’s Greatest Hits’ and HP Sauce on kippers and Jeffrey Archer and instant mashed potato. It’s a bit, er, how shall we put this – FUCKING BORING!!!!!!
OK, so the lads (being working class, as they so often remind us) deserve their success. But let’s stop pretending to be excited about a band who are obviously just dragging their bone-weary carcasses through the motions,