Sum 41 : London Wembley Arena
Canuck gonk-punks prove all filler and no killer
Sum 41 are young, dumb and fulla cum. They’re kinda cute – but are they punk? The bassist, Cone, has got Sid down pat. But sadly all their songs are crap.
Can a cattle shed fill of screaming nu-metaloid punka teens really be wrong? The answer’s yes.
Let’s compare Sum 41 with stroppy chart toppers Tatu. Both bands are as cute as lickle baby Jesus. But Tatu deliver perfect pop. While Sum puke up tasteless slop. Tatu pass 3 billion volts of raw shock/horror/outrage through the smoking brain cages of the Daily Mail-reading walking corpses of Middle England in TRUE Sex Pistols style. While all Sum 41 do is bring a wry, patronising smile to the faces of mums and dads with vaguely punky pasts everywhere.
And no, you idiot, this is NOT to dumbly hiss, diss and take the piss out of the taste of an entire generation. It’s just that, now and then, for some strange reason, a band who epitomise bland mediocrity suddenly snowball into mega-status. This is training bra pop. For those for whom your manufactured boy bands are too obviously twee – but are not quite ready for the rough and genuinely sexy likes of Ikara Colt or The Distillers.