MICHELLE WILLIAMS' INDIE CLUB!!!
Pete Doherty's secret fashion influence is revealed...
"Hi, I’m Michelle Ingrid Williams II. I like many things: acting, flavoured mineral water, hunky Australian actors. But most of all, I love indie-pop music. So here are my reviews of the latest cool indie bands heading to a medium sized venue in your University town!"
The Kooks – Eddie’s Gun.
I love the smell of drainpipe jeans and stripy t-shirts in the morning. It’s the smell of… shockingly average indie. Robert Duvall didn’t say that. But if he did, it’s a good bet he’d be talking about the Kooks from (where else?) Brighton. Certain to be bothering the top 32 any time soon, ‘Eddie’s Gun’ is about erectile dysfunction which, having worked on Lassie 2: the new generation, I know all about. Critics are calling The Kooks “the new Supergrass” and I confidently predict a couple of good singles with ‘wacky’ videos before they become fat and old and indulge in affairs with the likes of Sienna Miller and that bird from ‘Make me a Model’.
Hard-Fi – Stars of CCTV
“The sound of working class Britain!” scream the NME. Obviously, growing up a simple farm girl in rural nowheresville, Montana, I know fuck all about the British working classes. But I reckon that your average chav would rather listen to 50 Cent than a wank Clash tribute band who add in ‘disco beats’ for added urban authenticity. Still, a career soundtracking late night soccer highlights on Anglia TV awaits them.
James Blunt – You’re Beautiful
“You’re beautiful,” sings James. “You’re beautiful,” he continues. “You’re beautiful, it’s true.” But why do I want a scrawny kid from Norfolk to tell me that when I have various famous film stars and movie moguls? Apparently Mr. Blunt spent time in the army, but probably saw about as much action as Katie Holmes on the pull. Maybe, if I lived in Norwich and read the Independent, I may give a shit. But until that day, James Blunt, I frankly don’t give a barrel of monkey spunk.
Arctic Monkeys – Live in Sheffield.
Apparently Arctic Monkeys have the most ardent fan base since Joshua Jackson. This is simply untrue. A few people from Sheffield University like them because they sound like The Libertines with a Yorkshire accent. “You’re not from L.A, you’re not from Rotherham” the front-man sings. I’ve never been to Rotherham, but if everybody’s like the Chuckle Brothers, I’d rather eat my own pancreas.
Editors – Blood
I wish Ian Curtis hadn’t killed himself. Because then we wouldn’t have so many god-awful, post-punky wank-groups like The Departure, The Stills and now Editors with their substandard Joy Division/ Cure/ Bunnymen shit-rock. All you need to know is that Editors are from Birmingham and are about as interesting as The Land of Plenty.
Oasis – The Importance of Being Idle
Really, who actually gives a toss anymore? I heard this heroically bad Kinks-raping song on the radio and thought “The only thing that could make this worse is a dreadful video with Rhys Ifans in it.” And lo and behold, there the Welsh fuckwit is, prancing about like Ginger fucking Rogers after she’s drunk too much Vodka and Red Bull. Maybe, once, Oasis may have been borderline average, but now they’re just sad middle aged twats living on Primrose Hill who occasionally provide comic relief with their ridiculous parodies of Mancuinans.
Brakes – Give Blood
Now this is more like it! ‘Give Blood’ is what debut albums should be like: 16 tracks of 2 minute pop-punk nuggets featuring lines like “coked up arsehole” and “shut the fuck up I’m just trying to watch the band.” This is the aural equivalent of Pear Harbour, which can only ever be a good thing. Brakes consist of members of British Sea Power, Electric Soft Parade and The Tenderfoot, and if this stupendously great album gets to number 1, I promise to do another lezzie film with Chloe Sevigny.
Nine Black Alps – their rubbish debut album.
Nine Black Alps will probably be delighted I’m reviewing their album, as they sound like they’ve watched one too many dodgy American teen-dramas. Ooh, check out the fuzzy, grungy guitars. Look at the way his fringe flops moodily over his face. You gotta love the bass player. He has a beard like a 14 year old who’s just discovered shaving, and wears a trucker’s hat, which anyone from Camden will tell you is just soooo 2003. The songs are all fucking dreadful, and deserve absolutely no comment at all.
Kaiser Chiefs – Everyday I Love You Less and Less
If my boyfriend sang this vile shit-pop to me, I’d love him less and less. Even if he did look like “Adrian” Heath Ledger. This truly is toss of the highest order. Liam Gallagher called them “a bad Blur” which is pretty impressive considering he once said he hoped Damon Albarn would catch AIDS. While I don’t wish a fatal disease on them, I wouldn’t mind seeing them hung from a tree by their obviously miniscule genitalia.
The Raveonettes – Pretty in Black
What a fucking clever title. Not. The Raveonettes like to write rubbish songs that sound like they’re from 1963 and star in Film-Noir esque videos which allows wanker journalists from the NME put their 2:2 in Film studies to good use as they talk bollocks about the band being influenced by David Lynch and The Big Sleep.
Dogs – Selfish Ways
I may describe this as “Shit Hot!” But only if I were to remove the word Hot. Dogs are mates with Kate Moss, Pete Doherty, Sadie Frost and all those other knob-rags that probably go over each others house and masturbate over pictures of Sid Vicious while making hilariously ‘ironic’ album covers featuring Nazi imagery. Meanwhile, little old Williams here has to juggle a career starring in thoughtful indie flicks with being pregnant and taping the ashes for me bloke. I would cheer on England, but if the country is populated with mockney twats like these boys, forget it.
The Subways – Rock ‘n’ Roll Queen
The Subways consist of a very young singer, his girlfriend on bass, and his brother on drums. The whole thing is like an episode of Dawson’s Creek set in Norfolk. Which, incidentally, is on the cards. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Queen’ is about Elton John and is exactly 14 times shitter than a man with diarrhea forced to drink lots of beer and eat nothing but Weetabix for seven weeks.
The Others – Lackey
“Don’t wanna be a lackey in a crap job” sings Dominic Masters. And to be honest, neither do I. But then at least I’d be able to afford decent albums rather than buying this toss from the bargain bin in St Albans’ WH Smiths. Yet another graduate from the Pete Doherty school of ‘shambolic’ (read: crap) indie, The Others like to play ‘guerilla gigs’. One of these gigs was on a tube train in London, which just about excuses the actions of religious extremists.
Bloc Party – The Pioneers
Yawn. Bloc Party are so dull they make running a couscous shop in Middlesbrough seem like an excitingly rock ‘n’ roll career move. They allow chin-stroking cretins from up market men’s magazines to drag out the same old clichés about ‘angular’ and ‘arty’ guitar rock, which leaves enough space for the 23 page article on Scarlet Johansson.
Joy Zipper - 1
Ah yes, this is lovely. This perfect slice of bubble-grunge recalls the best moments of the Breeders and early Teenage Fanclub, which is always good. ‘1’ is the song beautiful film stars listen to while having perfect sex on the veranda of their mansion, overlooking the pacific. Although me and Heath actually prefer ‘Happy Mondays – the best of’. Plus the girl singer has spectacular breasts, although not quite as spectacular as a heavily pregnant Midwestern girl at a film premiere.
The Rakes - Capture/ Release
Well this is all well and good, but really, who gives a flying monkey fuck? The Rakes sing about the working class and have a picture of London on their album cover, even though they’re all probably from Suffolk and went to Eaton. Or they could be Scandinavian. Everybody’s fucking Scandinavian these days.
Yeti - Never Lose Your Sense of Wonder
I have listened to this roughly 17,000 times now and I’m still not sure if it’s the best thing since sliced Ledger or the biggest pile of wank since Halloween H20. I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt, purely because the singer used to be in the Libertines and this song is much better than anything that fuckwit Doherty is currently producing. In case you’re wondering, it sounds like the early Stone Roses covering George Harrison, although not quite as good.
Coldplay - Fix You
Fuck off. Now. Oh dear god this is awful. Even compared to the utter wankery of Coldplay’s previous mondeo-rock releases, this is drivel, and makes you understand completely why the NME champions crack-addled freaks when this is the alternative. Apparently this song is about Gwinnie’s dad, which explains the lyric: Ooh your Dad is dead/ so come over here and give me head/ then go and put Apple to bed.
The Coral - Something Inside of Me
Oh dear. The Coral’s eponymous debut was the second greatest album of all time (after Clinic’s Internal Wrangler) and ‘In the Morning’ was the best pop song ever written, but this is poor. It’s the equivalent of Me Without You, sure it contains all the right musical references, and it’s pleasant enough. But you just know it could be so much better. And Anna Friel is scouse, too. Having said all that, James Skelly is still the coolest man in rock, purely because he has a bowl haircut and sounds like he’s on the playstation whilst stoned.
The Arcade Fire - Rebellion (Lies)
It builds ever so slowly. A driving rhythm section straight from The Joshua Tree, then a simple yet utterly wondrous piano riff, and suddenly someone starts playing a violin. Sometimes you just want to stop being all clever and ironic and writing satirical music reviews and just scream “Yes”, and jump around the room and thank the lord that a song like this actually exists. This is how U2 would sound, if they had grown up in Minnesota and were actually quite good. This is the tune God whistles when he’s watching the sun rise over a shuttle launch in Florida. How a band can write a song that is simultaneously the most uplifting thing ever produced, yet also so emotionally draining, is beyond me. The album is called ‘Funeral’, and I want this song played at mine. In fact, I want this song to be played at every funeral from now until the end of the world. I want this song to be taken up as the national anthem for every country, and to be played constantly on a giant radio placed on the moon.
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