May 23, 2001

Travis : Sing

A characterless mandolin dirge that twangles away in the background like the drone of a vaguely tuneful dishwasher

Slagging Travis is a bit like hammering nails into koala bears' eyeballs - extremely satisfying at the time but you wake up with a nagging sense of inadequacy and even the most mercenary fur trader won't buy their skin off you to make ornamental car seat covers. Innocent and well-meaning, Travis sit at the head of the National Association Of Lovely Blokes smiling benignly upon a chart clogged with dreary 'alternative' acoustic bollocks that's been created in their image. So in a rare moment of benevolence induced by bad booze, your correspondent here notes that, cheers lads, it's been a hell of a ride, but this bus is non-stop to Tradsville and 'Sing' - a characterless mandolin dirge that twangles away in the background like the drone of a vaguely tuneful dishwasher - is where this particular fare-jumper with a loudhailer gets off. Sniff.

Mark Beaumont

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