Music blah blah blah

In the line of duty I’ve recently been forced to churn out several dozen 120-word bios on bands that no one’s ever heard much about. Usually for good reason. The majority are a bunch of spoddy charlatans whose lack of creativity is only equalled by their disgustingly disproportionate sense of self-importance. That half these weasel-faced, overstyled public school brats even have the audacity to pick up an instrument is beyond me, but they do.

The vast majority seem to subscribe to the ‘get the right hair cut and the rest will follow’ school of musical endeavour. A school that is notably short on successful alumni. Sadly, the music industry is so greedy, so fearful of ‘missing’ something, so hung up on invisible tailoring that no one ever has the guts to point out the little twerps aren’t wearing any clothes. And of course they’re all egged on by the vain, bitter, insecure, coke-addled cocksuckers who pass for the music press.

People like me. Who say things about bands like:

They have the Nazi-referencing band name (the White Rose Movement was an anti-Nazi student group), the angular haircuts, and slightly distressed facial expressions required of all devout Joy Division followers. However, their interpretation of Ian Curtis’s brooding vision is leavened by a healthy dose of 80s synth pop and noughties throw-away glamour. Which is pretty much what you’d expect of a band who picked up their keyboard player at hip student hangout Trash, and claim to have grown up on a Norfolk commune. Add the fact that they used to run a club night in an East End strip joint (hasn’t everyone?) and they’re almost too cool for school. Luckily they have enough snappy tunes to back up the arch posing.

When what I mean is:

Yet another bunch of utterly pointless, slavish 80s apologists. As if the optimistic Nazi referencing name (White Rose Movement were student insurrectionaries – they wish!) and shit Ian Curtis-alike severe fringes and jerky dancing weren’t bad enough the over-styled muppets don’t even have the decency to rip off the good bits of Joy Division. That would require emotion. The spew out vapid synth pop instead, with just enough overtones of Eurythmics, Human League, et al to give the slobbering journos in the crowd something to grab on to apart from their own stubby cocks. What else do you expect from a band comprised of Jasper, Finn, Ed, Owen and a keyboard player called Taxxi, who they picked up at Trash? Avoid.

See? There’s a fundamental, spirit-sapping ugliness about the whole thing. Trying to pitch these bands is like trying to sell the Tooth Fairy to a bunch of old folks with dentures. It is an audience that doesn’t need this shit, and is old enough to know better.

The only filament of hope holding me above the abyss is the fact that – thank Christ – at least I’m not in PR.