Single Reviews 26/02/07

Dear trampy tabloid ‘journalists’ scouring the internet for stories to steal: please leave Britney alone. Aside from the fact she’s clearly unwell, she also provided us with Before The Goodbye and therefore can be forgiven anything. Plus, as luck would have it, she actually looks quite good bald, and can certainly pull off hair loss better than Will Young. Thanking you kindly, love from The Sloppy Dog. Meanwhile, to all nice people here to enjoy the Single Reviews: voila...

It’s not much of a competition over in Resurgence World this week. Though Rocksteady gave the impression of immense comeback victory, only 12 people agreed. The final nail in All Saints’ coffin is the ungainly Chick Fit, an anaemic dub jumble establishing there is no correlation between the amount of oafish drums and quality. Wiping the 90’s themed floor with the Saints are Take That, who follow the omnipresent Patience with the Britpop-meets-Broadway jollity of Shine, although the crass vaudeville video is pretty much on a par with Chick Fit’s thruppenny cheapfest.

Also bearing the cross of Nineties success not translating into 21st Century cyber-splendour are The Bluetones, although rather inexplicably. Surrendered displays the heartwarming melodies that made If... one of the best songs of ALL EFFING TIME, whilst being inventive enough to verify it’s anything but trading on past glories. An undisputable Single of the Week.

Charlotte Hatherley makes the most of her departure from Ash with I Want You To Know. Chequered floor boppery gets into a satisfying scuffle with robust riffs, all stamped with Char’s brand of she-balls and flammable glamour. Nice.

Amidst a bevy of wearisome woo-hoos courtesy of Akon, The Sweet Escape sees Gwen Stefani trilling her desire to leggit, a sentiment we echo on prolonged exposure. Sounding not unlike an overproduced skipping rhyme, it’s further evidence of the clichéd second album curse.

Lastly, after the odious Sheena Is A Parasite, it’s good news that The Horrors can only go uphill. That’s no compliment, mind – the mixture of inane hollering and hi-NRG Casio-clouting psychosis make Gloves an aural interpretation of being stuck on a Waltzer because the toothless gypsy has fallen asleep at the controls. The opening bars alone almost invoke the stench of candyfloss, petrol fumes and sibling-vomit.