Single Reviews 30/03/09

The clocks have gone forward, the weather is scarily sporadic, even bloody Countryfile is moving slots. Is there no consistency in the world anymore?! Can we rely on nothing?! Well, you can rely on our Single Reviews (most of the time), and, if you read on, you’ll also find that you can rely on the Pussycat Dolls to be talentless trollops.

Given her lack of UK success and supposed spat with US label boss Jay-Z , we were a tad worried we’d seen the last of Lady Sovereign. And yet, here she is, back with a radio-friendly but uncompromising display of personality in the Cure-sampling masterpiece that is So Human. Classically hilarious and adept Sov, but with a 2009 renovation, it’s an easily-bestowed Single of the Week.

Another returning party from the Caucasian rap quarter this week comes in the form of Just Jack, with the outstanding Embers. Tingle-inducing strings and cheeky handclaps provide an exceptional backing for the inimitably frank vocals that rightfully made the nation’s ears prick up, although it seems undiluted, straight-down-the-line singing has overtaken the Home Counties hip-hop leanings as Jack’s calling card.

Bastardising the joyous climax to Slumdog Millionaire are the grotesque Pussycat Dolls, who take a break from spreading venereal disease their paltry R&B to dry-hump the Oscars bandwagon. And while Nicole’s backing scutters provide precisely NO vocals to Jai Ho (You Are My Destiny) whatsoever, the head harlot herself fails to even pronounce the song’s title correctly. As if offences against music and feminism weren’t enough, they’re now guilty for crimes against cinema.

And finally, yet another one-man electrofest to add to the pile, although thankfully Frankmusik is evidently a cut above many of his contemporaries. Most people from Thornton Heath leave a trail of greasy chicken boxes behind them, so the fact alone that he’s amounted to something more than a feral mong on the 109 warrants massive respect, and that’s even before you consider the catchy – if slightly jaded – charms of Better Off As Two. FYI, Calvin Harris, you may want to take note...

Honking Box Review: The Apprentice

If you weren’t aware that the new series of The Apprentice came to BBC One last night, then we’d quite like to know how you manage to switch off from all aspects of popular culture so easily – perhaps it’s some sort of pill you can take to block out certain entities? If so, put us down for a full prescription of forget-Fearne-Cotton-entirely (max strength).

For the rest of you, we’re not even sure why we’re bothering to cover the first episode, given the saturation it’ll already have provoked across the media. But hey, never one to turn down the opportunity to slag off reality contestants,

The first challenge saw the suited smarmfests getting their hands dirty – just like salt-of-the-earth hardworking man’s man Sralan Sugar did back int’day – working as cleaners. Cue the same old blend of blaming, fingerpointing, bitching and whining.

At this stage, it’s hard to determine who we like or don’t like. Actually, strike that – it’s hard to determine who we like, but a piece of piss to pick out the real tosspots. Early fuckwittery comes from the Phillip Taylor, who looks as though he’s made of plasticine and sounds as though he should be voicing a sock puppet; gobby ballcrusher and chronic oldface sufferer Debra Barr; and Noorul Choudhury, who we’re sure is actually a struggling actor who’s created the archetypal Apprentice twat character and is seeing how long he can play him without being rumbled.

Also on our ‘no’ pile would be the gent who uttered the following words on discovering the plush surroundings of the contestants’ penthouse...

“It’s SO feng shui!”
“I feel like Diddy!”
“King of the World!”

Sadly, we didn’t catch the visuals of whose execrable mouth these came out of – we were only provided with the audio, so we cannot attribute such bastardly foolish quotes to a specific cock. However, we did see – repeatedly – Mona Lewis uttering “at the end of the day” to a magnitude only ever reserved for jelly-brained Big Brother housemates, which adds yet another specimen to the cons list.

Not that there aren’t a few likeable characters in there. Kimberley Davis, the seemingly-proficient American with an apparent penchant for honesty; Majid Nagra, who’s already carving himself out as an endearingly hapless buffoon; the marvellously ginger Paula Jones; and Yasmina Siadatan, who looks sort of like a mouldy clone of the lovely Grace Dent, all seem to display a few traits of normalcy, or at least as much as is feasible from an Apprentice contestant.

The rest, we’re yet to come to a conclusion on, or are too boring to suss out at this particular point in the game. Of course, Nick Hewer and Margaret Mountford remain the true stars of the show, and we await Margaret’s cutting eye-rolls and Nick’s outstanding expressions of bafflement with genuine excitement. Sralan, miraculously, comes across as significantly less cunty than in previous series, although just one episode in, we’re sure that’ll change.

But overall, one of the most interesting aspects of The Apprentice last night was the reminder of just how unbelievably stressful it is to watch. The backstabbing, the weaselry, the accusations... it’s a solid hour of televised office politics, and it’s far from entertaining. And sure, it’s always been a key component of the show, but it reaches a point where it begins to grate, and heavily at that. We’re sure that there’ll be another moment of comedy gold, a la Simon Ambrose’s accidental trampoline wank, or Tre Azam’s killer one-liners, but we’re unlikely to reach it before we’ve been prompted to report the entire series to HR for unprofessionalism and gross misconduct.

Single Reviews 23/03/09

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Honking Box Preview: American Idol

Hello! We’re back from our wee jaunt across the pond, and while we don’t have any gems to bring you from the six-song playlist of XL 106.7 this time around, we’ve not neglected you completely. On our trip, we visited the American Idol Experience at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, completely for research purposes, of course.

Although toe-curlingly embarrassing at points (hello, Jordin Sparks’ horrifying interval video), the whole thing was actually very well executed. And if the winning act, a band-camp balladeer named Cara Something, does the business on next year’s show, we’re claiming we discovered her. We’ll just brush over the fact we actually voted for someone else...

But that’s a whole year away. For now, let’s focus on the high-gloss live finals, which kicked off last week. We had actually wanted to bring you a full recap of all twelve finalists, but bizarre scheduling meant the Wild Card show was randomly slotted in a week early, not to mention the additional thirteenth finalist throwing proceedings into further disarray. So you’ll have to make do with our rundown of the remaining eleven...

Kris Allen

Ah, you gotta love these filler contestants – the ones that pad out the live shows until we’re only left with the artists that people actually care about (see also: Scott Bruton, Chikezie, Gospel Simone out of Fame Academy, anyone in I’d Do Anything who wasn’t Jodie Prenger). Although now we’ve said that, he’ll probably reach the final. A killer voice but largely beige on any other level, all Kris brings to the party is his wholesome Christian schtick and the fact he resembles a shrunken Nick Lachey.

Danny Gokey

Effectively the US version of The X Factor’s Daniel Evans (i.e. they’re both called Daniel, and each are prompted to talk about their recently-deceased wives at every given opportunity), except this Danny actually has the pipes to handle the live shows. Looks a bit like Danny Wallace, who incidentally is another Daniel, although his wife is alive. A strong contender for the finals, Danny’s impressive vocals coupled with his backstory and his strong Christian values (another one!?) could see him go all the way.

Alexis Grace

It would appear pint-sized Alexis is the perennial rock contestant, although how she’d fare in a moshpit alongside Amanda Overmyer or Constantine Maroulis can only conjure up images of a veritable bloodbath. Alexis is one of those singers whose physical size prompts people to comment on the enormity of her voice – and yet, no-one batted an eyelid when the gigantic Michelle McManus somehow won Pop Idol with a reedy, tuneless cough.

Allison Iraheta

16-going-on-40, she may not look quite like a teenager, but Allison’s tremendous take on Heart’s Alone proved she doesn’t sound like one either, securing her a place in the Top 13 (at that point, merely a pedestrian, everyday Top 12). A far more convincing rock voice than Alexis, Allison boasts a powerhouse vocal that her co-wannabes should be very, very afraid of. And a scarlet hairdo that Idol stylists are probably very, very afraid of.

Anoop Desai

Flying the flag for geeks the world over, Anoop’s consistently impressive vocals prompted Simon to spontaneously create the thirteenth spot in the live finals. Not that it was pre-arranged with Fox and the entire production team or anything, oh no. Although the first live show put the self-styled ‘Noop Dogg in the bottom two, his hefty online following should see him progress pretty far.

Michael Sarver

Perhaps the most archetypal All-American contestant that Idol has ever seen, Michael is a Texan redneck (like, whoever thought that was a proper job title? Apparently, his proper role is ‘oil rig worker’, but far be it from us to contest the Idol producers), a devout Christian, and family man complete with two kiddies. Surely a walk-through on paper, but with three active God-botherers in this year’s finals, the fundie vote could be split.

Scott Macintyre
To quote the hapless moron that is Louis Walsh, “the poor guy’s blind, Simon!” – yes, Idol’s first visually-impaired finalist (a whole five series after 2 To Go on The X Factor), it’ll be interesting to see whether they choose to focus on (a) his striking voice, likeable nature, and remarkable piano skills, or (b) the fact that he has a disability. Either way, a place in the finals is almost a given.

Megan Joy Corkrey

This year’s official Vote For The Worst contestant, and rightly so – we can’t find a single reason this tuneless harpy even made it past the initial auditions. Particular mention must go to her weak, discordant honk butchering Put Your Records On (which she also bollocksed up the lyrics to, inadvertently creating a lesbianthem). However, her Rockin’ Robin was truly a sight to behold, possibly going down as the worst performance in Idol history.

Matt Giraud

Matt is a duelling piano player from Kalamazoo – a sentence which makes little sense to presumably 95% of the American Idol viewership, but sounds utterly fucking amazing. Looking like a touched-by-the-hand-of-God Justin Timberlake and peddling his own brand of white boy soul, Matt seems to have a lot going for him, and yet screams 10th place.

Lil Rounds

Already pre-equipped with a rapper name, surely stardom is a dead cert for mother-of-three Lil. Perhaps this year’s best female vocalist along from Allison, but her slightly generic quality makes her appear, at this stage anyway, a tad Fantasia-lite. Get yer personality out, love. Mind you, not having one at all didn’t stop Jordin Sparks winning...

Adam Lambert

A former star of Wicked and our current favourite in the absence of the awesome Jackie Tohn, it’s hard to pin Adam’s style down. A touch emo, a tad rockabilly, and a dash of glittery eye-shadow, he’s sorta like a gay David Cook. And although the overpronounced dramatics and Lloyd-Webber leanings detract ever so slightly, it’s hard not to notice Adam’s commercial relevance or, more importantly, the most impressive voice in the competition.

Single Reviews 02/03/09

We’re fully aware it’s been a rather patchy year thus far update-wise, but sadly, after today’s Single Reviews, we’re shutting up shop once again to get us some holiday merriment. Rest assured, we’ll return with tales of newborn pop culture rarities currently gleaming brightly in the exotic mystique of... erm... America. And bear in mind, last time round, we came back singing the praises of FloRida. Yikes.

The Saturdays get us off to a decidedly average start with this year’s Comic Relief offering. While it’s certainly no Who Do You Think You Are or All About You, their update of Just Can’t Get Enough is a faithful enough take on the Depeche Mode standard, albeit laced with enough cheeky winks to simultaneously keep the kids and the dirty mac brigade happy.

Next up, a woman we have little time for even when she’s halfway bearable. However, Kelly Clarkson seems determined to up that to full-on hatred, reintroducing herself as a sell-out identipop fuck-muppet via My Life Would Suck Without You. Apparently this is monstrosity is already scaling the uppermost echelons of the midweeks, but when an artist on her fourth album sounds like a Farmfoods mimic of Miley Cyrus, there has to be something wrong. Take note, record buyers!

And sticking with a theme of bile-drenched negativity, putting herself forward as a genuinely serious nominee for Worst Cover Version EVER is Annie Lennox, whose entirely obsolete butchering of the Ash masterpiece Shining Light is bereft of soul, originality, relevance and any discernible talent. We’d have expected someone of her experience to know not to tamper with such a classic, and yet, it’s on a par with the slurry churned out by Clock in the mid-90s. Truly disgusting stuff, this.

Finally, Chris Cornell takes a well-deserved Single of the Week with the inventive Part of Me, a Timbaland jobby with bleeps and squelches in all the right places, which, somewhat miraculously, blend with a grizzled rock vocal rather nicely. Tim himself jumps on decent backing duties, a thankful progression from his usual Chewbacca noises. Meanwhile, the undiluted vitriol on display in the chorus is refreshingly frank, and also makes us feel as though we’re in good company, given the last two reviews...

Single Reviews 23/02/09

Finally, we’ve gotten around to writing something. Not only do you lucky buggers get our Brits blog, but we’ve actually managed to do some Single Reviews this week. Don’t get too excited though - it’s holiday time in a couple of weeks so there’ll be another big ol’ block of time without one measly update. Until then, enjoy...

Perhaps the most unlikely comeback this week – nay, this decade – arrives in the form of Amy Studt, last seen spectacularly failing when her label decided to mould her into a UK Avril Lavigne at the last minute. And even though five years have passed, Nice Boys isn’t too far removed from her first-stab material, all iffy Kate Bush leanings and playground chants. And yet, it’s hard not to feel she’s capable of so much better. Despite the fact we’ve never seen evidence of this.

A band who inexplicably fell short of Travis/Coldplay-level commercial crossover magnitude, Starsailor have instead become a solid, endowed, consistent band more than capable of peddling a killer tune or three. Tell Me It’s Not Over is no different, boasting up-tempo splendour and confident riffs. Sadly though, it’s not the big push they deserve, so they’ll have to suffice with being our Single of the Week.

The wealth of talent in last year’s American Idol means we’ll likely be seeing plenty of releases from the finalists. No, it’s not Carly, or Brooke, or Syesha, or Michael, or him with the dreads. It’s David Archuleta. Sorry. In fairness, Crush is a far more impressive offering than Cowell’s attempts to shape him into a one-man High School Musical would’ve suggested, a melody-heavy airwave-hogger that actually suits him rather well. But above anything else, it underlines that David Cook was, by far, the deserving winner.

And bringing this week’s reviews to a close are Plain White Ts. Initial exposure might imply that Natural Disaster is actually something resembling acceptable, carrying a heavier, energetic sound. However, the cliché soon shines through, with the clumsy lyrics following shortly behind, cementing it as forgettable middle-school non-rock. The best thing we can say about it? It’s not Hey There Delilah.

Sloppy Dog Live Blog: The Brit Awards 2009

Right, bear with us in case this all goes horribly wrong - it's our first attempt at liveblogging. Mind you, given the consistently shambolic nature of the Brit Awards, it's safe to say the show itself is even more likely to go tits-up than our coverage will. But hey, welcome all the same! Keep hitting refresh if you're one of the two people joining us this evening.

With the nominations already looking pretty ropey, we're not off to a good start. The Red Carpet show, however, looked slightly more promising - Sara Cox being ace; Katy Perry looking as though she'd fallen into a skip out the back of Claire's Accessories; Kylie Minogue politely pretending to laugh at Mel Blatt's bizarre impression of Katie from the Ting Tings; and fucking Gok Wan essentially threatening to rape Kanye West. Bring on the main event!

20:02 - U2 open the show with a few strains of Rule Britannia. Or was it God Save The Queen? If they were real rock stars, they'd have torn up a picture of The Queen (or alternatively, National Treasure Cheryl Cole™) and launched into a post-hardcore version of Amhrán na bhFiann.
Good God, Bono. Grow old with dignity.

20:08 - After a largely meh opening from Kylie, James Corden and Matthew Horne, it's on with the awards. Best British Female is the first one up - Beth Rowley?! M.I.A!??! Who chooses these things? Where the jiggins is Alesha!?

20:10 - Oh, Duffy's won it. Fair enough. Bless her, she's crying before she's even reached the podium. Possibly because Adele tried to eat her.

20:14 - Ooh, it's International Female.

20:15 - SHUT THE FUCK UP!? Katy Perry??!?

20:19 - Girls Aloud are performing The Promise, heavily influenced by the Spice Girls' updated take on Too Much from the Return of the Spice Girls tour. Namely, a total rip-off. Still, Sarah and Nicola sound pretty good. Can someone turn Nadine's mic down? Her ad-libs are hideous.

20:20 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:27 - Mathew Horne is channelling Brian Molko. How does he manage to look considerably worse than his clinically obese pal? Sticking with the theme of skinny people looking bad, it's Alex James to announce Best British Newcomer. And it's another one for Duffy! Clearly, the listeners of Radio 1 aren't that stupid after all. So why do they continue to listen to Chris Moyles?

20:31 - Coldplay have come dressed as The Wiggles. You'd think we'd be bored to tears by Viva La Vida by now, but it still sounds fan-frickin'-tastic. Surely Best British Single is a certainty? Assuming the manic Girls Aloud fans have died from chronic texter's thumb, of course.

20:35 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:43 - I'm nostalgic for when Natalie Imbruglia was relevant. The nominees for International Group are predictably pretentious, but let's thank our lucky stars the Pussycat Dolls evaded a nod - between them and Katy Perry, the whole of Earls Court would have had crabs by the end of the night. And Kings of Leon nail the award!

20:46 - Jamies Oliver and Cullum are here to announce Best British Male. We'd have given this to Gavin Rossdale, but his omission is fair enough, given that Wanderlust sold all of four copies. Anyway, as expected, Paul Weller's won. For some reason, his acceptance VT features Adele. Hopefully, that's the last we'll see of her tonight. And as if to prove the point, here's Duffy to perform Warwick Avenue. Christ, she does look remarkably like Daniella Westbrook, doesn't she?

20:50 - Bloody Nora, this is dull. Couldn't she have done Rain On Your Parade instead?

20:51 - Fuck off, Fearne Cotton.

20:59 - A painful skit courtesy of James Corden and Joe Calzaghe precedes International Album, which is identical nominee-wise to International Group, a point proven by the fact Kings of Leon win for the second time. Oo-er, faux pas o'clock - they thank 'England'. Way to get the T In The Park crowds all moist, lads.

21:04 - It's Take That! On a flying saucer! In some sort of Joe 90 get-up! Bored now.

21:07 - WHO did Scouting For Girls have to sleep with to get a nomination for Best Live Act? WHY aren't the Spice Girls nominated? WHAT can we say about Iron Maiden that's remotely interesting? Best acceptance speech of the night, perhaps?

21:10 - Do people not realise there's not enough irony in the world to excuse the presence of The Hoff anymore? He's here to announce the Best British Group, who inexplicably, are Elbow. Coldplay look suitably miffed. Everyone else looks suitably confused. Except Ashley Cole, who looks suitably bored.

21:13 - Seriously, FUCK OFF, Fearne Cotton!

21:17 - Grrr, Caleb Followill. Why couldn't they have done Sex On Fire? Are Number Ones suddenly passé?

21:18 - Ugh, The Hoff is trying to stick it in Fearne Cotton. This is deeply, deeply unpleasant stuff.

21:24 - Kylie's finally back, for what feels like only her second link of the night. Lazy cow. Ooh, Florence & The Machine have (has?) been dipped. Is she making naughty swears? That's not big, or clever. Fucking fuckwit.

21:26 - Why does Gok Wan exist? What is he for? When will it finally be revealed that he's not a real person, but another Sacha Baron Cohen character?

21:28 - Best International Male is Kanye West! Good choice. But sadly, he's not here to collect it in person, possibly as a result of hearing Gok Wan wanted to get on him.

21:32 - It's the perennial Brits collaboration, this year courtesy of Estelle and the Ting Tings, up there with time-honoured team-ups including Dave Stewart & Shola Ama, Daniel & Natasha Bedingfield, the hideous Abba tribute performed by Steps, Billie Piper, B*Witched and Cleopatra, gatecrashed by Tina Cousins. Ooooh, this is a tad hurty on the ears. Poor Estelle.

21:35 - Best British Single is... Girls Aloud! Mind the debris from the exploding Popjustice messageboard. It's a long-deserved triumph, in all fairness, but it's a shame it wasn't for one of their better efforts. Kimberley is sweet, Sarah is hammered, Nadine is incomprehensible, Cheryl has the crowd frothing at the genitals, and Nicola doesn't get to speak. All in all, a perfectly normal day for Girls Aloud, then.

21:39 - So, it's the supposed 'big one'. Surely Coldplay have it in the bag? Oh, apparently not - Duffy makes it three in a row. Does this now mean they're one of those successful, reliable British bands that have passed the plateau of credibility beyond which the Brits do not exist? See also: Keane, Oasis, Stereophonics, Manic Street Preachers.

21:41 - Did you not hear us the first time, Fearne Cotton? And now you're daring to tease us with the threat of Lady GaGa?! Seriously, first person to chuck a bucket of holy water over this execrable creature gets a tenner.

21:49 - SHUT UP, Brandon Flowers. Jesus wept, this man can talk. It feels like yesterday this segment begun. Oh thank fuck, he's reeling it in. The Pet Shop Boys!

21:50 - A shot of Louis Walsh watching the Pet Shop Boys do Suburbia. Is he hoping he'll get a chance afterwards to tell them they're like a young Aretha Franklin, and that all of Newcastle ought to vote for them?

21:53 - And the medley segues into Go West - ironically, given the last comment, it'll never be a patch on the hilarious Rhydian adaptation. Oh sweet Jesus, what has Lady GaGa come as?

21:54 - Oh, is that it from her? Thank heavens for small mercies.

21:56 - And Brandon Flowers is back, thankfully singing this time.

21:58 - We spoke too soon - it's bloody Lady GaGa again. She looks like a willow pattern crockery set. Still, amusing shot of Janet Street Porter soaking in the Pet Shop goodness.

21:59 - And we are done! Didn't that just fly by? Apart from Brandon Flowers' month-long monologue, that is. Overall, this year's event turned out to be a marginally less shite offering than we had been expecting. But then, we've come to expect horrific things from the Brit Awards, so anything less than genocide is a welcome relief. Nighty-night! x

Single Reviews 02/02/09

As is the case with the tiniest hint of extreme conditions in the UK, we’ve decided to hole ourselves up in the Sloppy Dog bunker with a year’s supply of tinned food, more duvets than we know what to do with, and a refusal to set foot outside lest we be gored by a woolly mammoth. So make yourself comfortable – cos you’re probably not going anywhere anytime soon – and enjoy the Single Reviews...

The parade kicks off with Arts & Crafts, another fine effort from Red Light Company, who seem to grab our attention just a little bit more with each release. Grand riffs and robust vocals successfully add to inspired melodies, acting as a further viral advertisement for what promises to be a particularly exciting debut album. Now hurry up and release the sodding thing.

We heart Alesha Dixon round these parts, so it’ll come as little surprise to learn she’s nabbed Single of the Week. It’s a relief to know the novelty hogwash of The Boy Does Nothing was merely a head-turner to announce her arrival – the truly exquisite Breathe Slow is classy, intelligent and fresh, and with any luck, heralds the a long and productive music career from a woman more than capable of exchanging her status as a celebrity for recognition as an artist.

We’re sick to the back teeth of anything Ronson-related, be it Mark’s tiresome twiddlage and endless parps of brass cliché, or his mule-faced sister warranting headlines for precisely nothing. Which doesn’t bode well for Daniel Merriweather and his debut solo single Change, although thankfully his impressive vocals manage to carry a largely bland song.

And finally, the award for most futile sample of the century goes to Kardinal Offishall and Keri Hilson, whose dire Number 1 violently rapes The Tide Is High, although seemingly takes its lead from the Atomic Kitten cover of the Billie Piper cover as opposed to the Blondie masterpiece. Oddly though, it’s the irksome rhymes of Kardinal Offishall and the backing track which sounds like bullfrogs mating on a kettle drum that really grates.

Single Reviews 26/01/09

Yes, yes, we know. Delays, lack of updates, yadda yadda yadda. However, be assured this is all part of the immense preenfest The Sloppy Dog shall be undertaking in the coming months, so shut your whining. Also, while we’re here – fucking Ulrika Jonsson?! Seriously?!? To think there are people still shocked at the thought of a black US president – surely a washed-up tramp-bag winning Celebrity Big Brother is even less fathomable? Rant over. Single Reviews?

Our opening number comes courtesy of Pink, whose primarily-tepid Funhouse has rather proved itself to be a good little grower. While second single release Sober may not be the pick of the crop, it’s a nice reminder of Pink’s abundant dark side, which frankly required a revisit after the playground chant of So What.

Jordin Sparks temporarily suspends her campaign to be a one-woman Atomic Kitten by instead adopting the role of a female Ne*Yo. The bland R&B stammer of One Step at a Time virtually annuls any opinion you might initially form – good or bad – by its sheer nothingness. Ah well, we’re long over her triumph anyway, it’s all about David Cook these days. Or until Adam Lambert or Lenicia Young nail it, at least.

Single of the Week is bestowed upon the perpetually-brilliant Franz Ferdinand, who continue their admirable refusal to rest on their laurels with the filthy funk of Ulysses. Managing an unlikely mash-up of casual and chaotic, the gritty charms set the anticipation for third album Tonight: Franz Ferdinand a couple of notches higher.

Lastly, The Fear marks a comeback and a refreshing change in sound from Lily Allen. The ear for a killer melody is still there, albeit dressed up in a more twiddled milieu. It’s interesting to see that, on the eve of a single release, suddenly the angry blogs, the inter-celebrity skirmish and the paparazzi-courting shots start up again, because on the strength of The Fear, she’s talented enough to succeed without being a tabloid-fellating media scumwhore.

Single Reviews 12/01/09

It’s 2009! Granted, it was 2009 a week ago, but we’ve been enjoying a post-Christmas lull since then. With any luck, we’ll get off our battycreases and do something a tad more interesting with The Sloppy Dog this year, but we’re not going to make it a full-on resolution, as frankly, we don’t want to disappoint. But hey, the Single Reviews we can deliver...

This week’s – and in fact, this year’s – first single to go under the Sloppy Dog microscope is Dancing Choose, a request to don your near-titular proverbial disco footwear from TV On The Radio. A bumble bee trapped in an air conditioner provides the backing for a disciplined rap diatribe, later making way for a heavy dose of hyperactive jazz blastery. In short, we like.

While it seems fruitless to award Single of the Week to a band constantly on the lips of everyone with half an opinion, Girls Aloud more than warrant it with The Loving Kind, one of approximately three songs on Out of Control worth listening to. Particular props must go to the overdue let-up on the Nadine monopoly, as we finally get to hear the other voices – Sarah in particular – shine brightly. No doubt Coyle will be sodding off back to her candle shop with the ’ump as a result.

After the understandable success of Up, it’s unfortunately a return to the pedestrian beigefest of If This Is Love for The Saturdays. The dreary, mid-Atlantic shuffle-along Issues could have been recorded by any shrug-inducer from Fergie to O-Town, suddenly giving the Sugababes a fighting chance out of the girl group doldrums.

And lastly, Razorlight continue to fail in the ignition of any form of interest in their recent material with the limited edition release Hostage Of Love. In fairness, it’s the best thing they’ve unveiled since Somewhere Else, a simple yet effective strum-and-hum combo busting into a semi-acoustic thumper. But with Borrell’s tiresome customs hogging all focus, they’ll need something outstanding to prick up the nation’s ears. This isn’t it.