The Eternal Teenager with ADHD: Recycled Musical Musings

Lazy? Me? Question mark at the end of a sentence? Anyway, here for posterity more than anything are some music reviews I did ages ago from my soon-to-be-deleted MySpace account. For all I know every music artist contained therein has now retired, died or worst of all, released a "Best Of".

Jason Mraz ‘Make It Mine’

Mraz, proving that Jay Kay's not
the only hat-wearing twat in showbiz

Lighter than helium and breezy as a wind tunnel, Mraz’s sub-calypso jazz bollocks is ineffectual wine-tasting accompaniment; a dumb three minute paean to enforced jollity and 1970’s white-teethed US cheeseball movies. At least when Belle & Sebastian do it, they tell a good story. Despite Mraz’s blander-than-Ryvita vocals, I can just about make out some feel-good sloganeering that’s best left to self-help books and office posters rather than a recording studio. And take that fucking hat off indoors.

Drums of Death ‘Got Yr Things’

Oh nadgers, it started off so well. Until precisely the point at which the MC spews forth such witless blah he might as well be wiping his penis against the microphone. Which, for all the casual misogyny and priapic boasting, he probably is. File under “Vocalist, Lose the”.

Little Comets planning a lovely Sunday roast, probably.

Little Comets ‘Adultery’

Rumour has it, Little Comets have never heard of XTC, Orange Juice or The Futureheads. I’m being a twat of course, the Comets follow the strong line of jaunty angular spike that’s developed little since it first splintered happily away from punk’s limited remit some thirty years ago. They might possess all the originality of a permanent marker-drawn penis graffitied onto a toilet door yet they’re still as pleasurable and reassuring as seeing one, dotted spunk line and all.

Phoenix ‘Consolation Prizes’

I can’t blame an act for trying to entertain, can I? ‘Consolation Prizes’ rattles through sunbeam by-the-numbers on autopilot, a soundtrack to a mobile phone network fresh from the mixing desk. It might spark the deeply unattractive cynical catalyst in me but the tune’s artificial zesty brio outshines my natural ‘hate mode’ before I get a chance to protest. Plus I never could resist the unmistakable ringing chime of a Telecaster. These Stepford songsters will get us all in the end…