Orson - No Tomorrow (Mercury)

Remember the New Radicals? Purveyors of blahmusic for hysterically archetypal middle-class cider-swilling students in rugby jerseys, fronted by a permanently-hatted shaven monkey with a voice that invites ceaseless punching. Said band release the most irksome track ever committed to record, annoys the bejesus out of us for an entire summer and beyond, and goes on to add fuel to the hateful fire of Ronan Keating, before single-handedly leading to the downfall of the wondrous Melanie C.

Well, they’re back, and this time, they’re called Orson.

While it’s far more likely that Orson have never even heard – let alone ape each detail – of the New Radicals, the key components are frightfully consistent. Twat in hat singer? Check. Pseudo-masculine McRock sound, crafted especially for Dad FM? Check. Wearisome lyrics about forgetting tomorrow’s “problems”? Check? An entire lack of personality? Check.

This nondescript, artificial tripe isn’t music. It’s something a U2 fan uses an unwanted HMV gift voucher on. In No Tomorrow, we have an album so parched, so contrived, and so bereft of ideas that you’ll be using the disc as a pizza cutter within a week.