ZOMG EPIC FAILzzz

Due to a defective CPU or some such crap, we are temporarily incommunicado [where?]. Hell, we're even using Wii Internet to type this, and frankly, it's like pulling teeth.
We hope to resume a full service in the near future. Apologies! x

Single Reviews 15/06/08

Yes, we’re fully aware that we skipped last week’s Single Reviews. And not out of choice either, given that Feeder would’ve walked it (and frankly, any opportunity to put them on a pedestal is seen as compulsory round these parts). Instead, keep your minces peeled for our upcoming review of their album, and enjoy this week’s singles in the meantime…

It seems that while Hanson are off becoming ministers or having children in spite of them being children themselves, the Jonas Brothers have filled their boots rather nicely. Mind you, bearing in mind these boots are actually stale, sensible Jesus sandals designed for walking in the middle of the All-American road, that’s no good thing. SOS is bland, forgettable airwave wadding.

Next up, Jesse McCartney, who if we’d cared enough about, we’d have already dismissed as a one-man Us 5. Who’d have thought a tweenage fluff rockabilly would transform into Robin Thicke’s very own Mini-Me? While the cash register sound effect is questionable, there’s something highly engaging about Leavin’ – you can almost hear Shayne Ward firing his A&R man from here…

Weezer seem content in quietly being one of the greatest bands on Earth, proving they’re as consistent as they are musically-endowed. The breathtakingly brilliant Pork & Beans also boasts the latest in a lengthy line of outstanding videos, but even when removed from this, you’re still left with a concrete example of kickass Weezer wondrousness. Single of the Week by a mile.

And finally, after the frankly barking yet still considerably dull Touch My Body, Mariah Carey has opted to pluck a number from her “Tried & Tested” pile. The wishy-washy Bye Bye is Mariah at her benchmark dullest, which probably bodes well for her mental health, but not for much else. And while she may never want to return to her power ballad days, watery Ashanti ballads probably aren’t the way forward.

Honking Box Review: Big Brother 9 Launch

We are truly ashamed of ourselves. We had promised ourselves that this year’s Big Brother would be the year we’d boycott it, having gone so far as to consider booking a holiday to coincide with the launch date so as not to get tied up in it. Alas, the car crash element was too much to resist. So there sat the Sloppy Dog television set, tuned to Channel 4 and covered in venomous spittle, accompanied by a slurry of disapproving expletives. And here is the aftermath. Prepare for some bile…

Question: how do the producers get it so monumentally wrong every year? Last year, the house was saturated with starry-eyed vultures who couldn’t lay claim to a single brain cell between the lot of them. And they paid the price for it – the lowest ratings since Big Brother began, and a significant plummet of any pop culture gravitas it still had left after Shilpagate.

To think Endemol promised a diverse mix of characters, only to give us a predictable yet shockingly embarrassing infestation of losers, wannabes and frankly, utter pondscum. A balance between the sex and the sexualities, they teased. One vile, repellent gay was what we got, with a level of campness to make Shahbaz look like 50 Cent. All different ages, they promised. Instead, we’re given a 40-year-old couple dropped amongst an army of immature, zit-flecked brats. The array of promo girls ready and waiting to get their flaps out for Nuts magazine; the geeky virgin character; the gobby fat bird; the numerous brushes with fame prior to entering the house; Anthony Hutton sneaking back in and calling himself Dale.

But of course, mention must be made of Michael, the show’s first blind housemate. As each new housemate made their way through the door, the process for already-induced housemates was generally the same – the renowned look-and-judge, the polite/awkward greeting peppered with “I’m rubbish at names”, before sidling back to glug warm champagne and calculate which magazines to ‘do’ on their inevitable eviction. But the entry of Michael saw something entirely different.

A roomful of imbeciles, all desperate to push whichever tenuous aspects of themselves make them ‘different’, are suddenly confronted with someone who embodies ‘different’, whether he likes it or not. Cue an uncharacteristic silence as the line-up of braindead morons are transfixed by something so far outside of their respective vacuous fame-whore bubbles, they look as though they’re going to cry. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

Meanwhile, the ensuing Big Brother Launch Night Project acted as an advertisement of precisely why not to enter the house. Mind you, it did address some of the greater moments of the show – Nikki’s tantrums, Nadia’s patented drain-cackle, and Dame Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace kissing her teeth and saying “know yourself”, which we desperately want as our new text message alert. While mildly entertaining, quite why Channel 4 would willingly underline how much worse this year’s bunch are by highlighting previous gems is a mystery. Maybe they’ve set up this year’s series to be some sort of taxloss?

So, all in all, a series we’d written off altogether based solely on the launch show. That is, until the appearance of the lone saving grace in the form of the batshit hilarious Kathreya, a Thai cookie fiend and seemingly the secret lovechild of Nancy Lam and Iggle-Piggle. Fingers crossed she’s voted out first so we’re not required to watch for the inexplicable 93-day shitfest that promises to pollute summer screens to an even greater extent than last year’s catastrophe. In short, we’re sort of boycotting. For now. Until Kathreya goes. But we DO officially hate it. Oh, fuck off, the lot of you.

The Zutons – You Can Do Anything (SonyBMG)

That whole ‘curse of the second album’ thing is just an urban myth, you know. Sure, there are a deluge of examples to give the theory sufficient weight, but take the Zutons. An above-par debut album, far outshined by its successor. See, the Zutons have waited til album three to let things go tits-up.

In fairness, You Can Do Anything is far more impressive than the above paragraph gives it credit for. It all comes down to what the listener considers their key pleasure within the Zutons (and no, that’s not a smutty Zoo-style reference to Abi’s legs). If it’s the exceptional melodies, you’re all good. If it’s the cheeky parps of sax, there’s nothing to worry about. However, if it’s the congenial Scouse buoyancy, this is where your luck runs out.

Take the very ordinary Give Me A Reason or the slightly oafish Family of Leechs (we were going to insert a [sic] but that wouldn’t be enough to highlight our grammatical disgust). Not bad tracks by anyone’s standards, but just lacking a certain upbeat oomph that the Zutons have come to define as their key facet. Thankfully, the more direct charm of You Could Make The 4 Walls Cry or lead single Always Right Behind You easily counteract such minor shortcomings.

Perhaps it’s down to the departure of Boyan Chowdhury, which, while not as directly evident as a Dave or Abi deficiency would be, underlines that he’s categorically more than just one of the Jims. Could the murkier tones be an aural epitaph, or has he upped and left taking every last gram of twinkle with him?

Or maybe the band are just resting on their laurels as they revel in the Valerie royalties? While Mark Ronson chokes on his comedy trombone and Winehouse chokes on her own vomit, the Zutons are swimming around in their money vault, Scrooge McDuck style, unwittingly divorced from their own musical worth.

Either way, nowhere near enough damage has been done to You Can Do Anything to prevent it from being a decent record. It’s merely lacking the immediacy found in Tired of Hanging Around, and the fresh-from-the-student-union charisma of Who Killed The Zutons?, and sadly, suffers slightly for it. Overall, however, it seems that You Can Do Anything’s bad points are mere footnotes, and are only as evident as they are due to the bar being set so astronomically high. The best kind of disappointing.

Single Reviews 31/05/08

Following on from our unprecedented success in our support of David Cook in the recent American Idol finals, we’d like to draw your attention to the same backing of the unspeakably ace Jodie in the finale of I’d Do Anything. Fingers crossed we can make it two for two – God forbid the hateful, smug Jessie ever succeeds at anything. Go Jodie, woo, etc. Now, on the Weekly Soapbox, some Single Reviews…

The vile Joe Lean & The Jing Jang Jong curse us with another hot air filled dollop of pretentiousness in the misshapen form of Where Do You Go. About as appealing as the musteline face of Joe ‘Lean’ himself, and carrying about as much relevance as the 1997 No Mercy song of the same name, we suggest you piss off back to polluting The Tudors (although the historical accuracy of the show is doing a fine job of that by itself).

Somewhere between Natasha Bedingfield and Vanessa Carlton – therefore unlikely to win many a fan round these parts – Sara Bareilles brings approximately diddly-squat to the proverbial table. Sure, she has pipes and can tickle a piano to decent effect, but Love Song is little more than an aural shoulder-shrug inducer, destined for a Track 21 placing on a 3CD All Woman compilation.

OneRepublic prove their multiplicity further with Say (All I Need), a soaring ballad that makes way for a smooth, placid chorus rather than the obvious choice of building up to a Celine-style sweeper. A worthy recipient of our Single of the Week. Mind you, it’s hard not to hear Only You by the Flying Pickets during the intro.

And rounding things off this week is another track boasting nods to the 80s, albeit far more transparent than OneRepublic’s allusion. Mystery Jets opt for plinky synth fun and a snifter of horns to encourage dad-dancing nationwide, in the insanely catchy Two Doors Down. That said, it’s hard to find the words to praise anyone who’s intentionally collaborated with Kate Nash. Bad, bad Three Doors Down.

Single Reviews 26/05/08

Well, no angry ‘Ump column this week – mahoosive Sloppy Dog congratulations to David Cook on being the first Cowellised talent show winner with the slightest hint of musicianship or integrity. Still, grrr to Raef being turfed off The Apprentice, and a half-arsed insignificant grumbling relating to Chelsea’s defeat. Oh, and just to pre-empt tonight’s Eurovision – that’s what you get for sending a Malteser-looking binman to represent you, you silly Brits. Right then, Single Reviews…

Equal parts glitter-glue and cuntishness, Alphabeat are first on the agenda. Fascination proved to be fun for all of ten minutes, but the gimmick has well and truly died a death. 10,000 Nights is so chirpy and day-glo and brimming with Prozac, even Same Difference would have refused it. But it’s fine for Alphabeat, because they write their own stuff!!! And have INSTRUMENTS!!!! Oh, that’s alright, then! That makes them PROPER!!! Do fuck off, you insufferable Euro-sewage-peddling tosspots.

Taio Cruz follows up the ghastly Come On Girl with something significantly more pleasant, and not just as a result of the distinct lack of Luciana. The far superior I Can Be is a gentle electro-ballad with serious magnetism, although we personally find the Estelle remix an even greater delight. Still, the question remains, how much longer can he sustain a career off the back of the fact he heard Umbrella before the rest of us?

Inexplicably, the once-almighty Alanis Morissette has seemingly morphed into her wet, willowy countryman (or woman? What’s the correct term there?) Sarah McLachlan, with the uncharacteristically drippy Underneath. Love, the world prefers the angry tales of women scorned, Catholic guilt, and things that aren’t actually irony. Sure, you’re ace, but you’re far acer with a bee in your bonnet.

Finally, Single of the Week is given to The Zutons, whose return is marked by the superb Always Right Behind You. It’s not quite as rich in their patented brand of congenial Scousery as previous efforts, owing more to classic, straight-down-the-line rock ‘n’ roll, but the jangly fun is present in spades all the same. And why wouldn’t they be in a good mood after all those additional Valerie royalties?

Honking Box Preview: American Idol

It feels like all of two minutes ago that we were tearing strips off the final twelve of American Idol, and yet, somehow, here we are at the finale. To be honest, we didn’t think we’d even stick with it (see also: Big Brother 8, Castaway, any news programme lasting more than one minute), but it’s actually thrown up a veritable mezze of entertainment gold.

We’ve seen Ryan Seacrest defending Paula’s garbled gin-psychosis; Danny Noriega pwning Cowell with the single snap of a neck; Ramiele Malubay’s snot-waterfall; Teri Hatcher singing country and western, and let’s not forget the classic torrent of atrocious over-patriotic group performances. And quite how we’ve made it this far without putting a fist through the TV at the Chicago Town sponsorship bumpers is a mystery.

Much as we’d have loved a Brooke/Carly final, we certainly can’t complain about the presence of the awesome David Cook, who could well be the most deserving winner since Carrie Underwood. Not that we have anything against Jordin Sparks, but at the end of the day, she’s effectively just Leona Lewis with a bit more meat and a LOT more personality.

Of course, this is assuming he can fight off the intense competition from tweenage robo-throb David Archuleta, who in spite of an impressive voice, looks like he should be gracing the front of a Play Doh Fun Factory box. Yes, we’ve got an All-David final, as was predicted by many early on in the contest (just to clarify, this does not include he-lap-dancer and severe victim of gayface, David Hernandez). So we’ve picked each finalist apart for you to make an informed decision. It’s completely impartial, as you’ll see…

Looking at each finalist’s credentials, it’s hard not to think of the first ever Pop Idol final, and the showdown between Will Young and Gareth Gates. Sure, David Cook isn’t a snotty, middle-class, fudge-packing, arrogant Marxist spunkbubble with a voice that could sink a cargo ship, but in terms of it being Musician vs Pop Puppet, there are certainly parallels.

So, in short, we’re Team Cook all the way. The results will be aired on ITV2 this Friday, but you’ll have to avoid the ENTIRE internet from Wednesday if you don’t want to find out before then. Ever the pessimists though, we’re sure Archuleta will walk it, so be sure to check back later this week for a bile-heavy ‘Ump column. Grrr, snarl, etc.

Single Reviews - 19/05/08

Yikes. Looks like the Single Reviews are late again. Now, we’ve already blamed the good weather recently, and given it’s turned to shit this week, we certainly can’t use that as a valid excuse again. Let’s see… does “the dog got it” still cut it these days?

Well, well, well. Look who’s had the cheek to show her pasty face once again. Clearly we didn’t damn Sandi Thom to the fiery bowels of Hell quite hard enough, so it’s poignant that her comeback single is entitled The Devil’s Beat. She’s dropped the wholefood café observational folk cuntery, and has replaced it with a sixth-form take on KT Tunstall. A vast improvement, though frankly she’d need to come up with a cure for cancer before we can excuse I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker.

Andy Abraham somehow returns from warranted obscurity with Even If, though if there were any justice we’d be reviewing Michelle Gayle’s far superior Woo (You Got Me) in its place. Gayest music rant EVER out of the way, Even If is a melange of anaemic disco twaddle and sticky soul endeavours, which is likely to go down like Fearne Cotton behind the John Peel Stage in next weekend’s Eurovision. Eastern Bloc, start your pwnage…

The highly-coveted (no, really, the industry loves our shit) Single of the Week title is awarded with little competition to Justice, for the second time. Their refrigerated neo-house quirkfest DVNO is a step-by-step guide as to why Justice are snapping at Daft Punk’s heels. Still, please tell us we’re only seeing the cream of French dance exported, and that there’s a pile of Ultrabeat-style twaddle clogging up their charts as well. God forbid they do something THIS MUCH better than the Brits…

And closing the reviews is the nightmarish pairing of Nelly & Fergie. Can we really handle so much class in just one record? Cluttered, bothersome and unoriginal, although special mention must go to Nelly’s mile-a-minute caffeine chatterings, specifically the fact they’re replacing the sloppy stoner drawl that made the bulk of his material so yawnworthy. But overall, Party People is the aural equivalent of a particularly stroppy gaggle of geese. With loudspeakers. And drum kits. And unsightly gold hoop earrings, just for good measure.

Honking Box Review: Gladiators

You know, this whole Nineties revival thing hasn’t turned out too bad. Sure, the Spice Girls reunion could have been managed by a basset hound and turned out better, yet the concerts themselves were impossible to fault. And while we’re not exactly Take That devotees, the squeeing housewives across Britain speak for themselves.

So imagine our disappointment to see that Gladiators – back on fucking Sky One for a 21st Century overhaul – hasn’t made the transition particularly well. Clearly, this is at the ropey end of the Nineties spectrum with the return of All Saints. The floor space has been quartered, making Powerball resemble a stroll around a vase stand at The Pier; sob stories of dead relatives (a la X Factor) have found themselves an awkward new home here; Hit & Run’s gigantic silver globes have been replaced by small, baggy sacks that you’d see in the doorway of a Sue Ryder Care shop after a Bank Holiday; and a swimming pool has been shoehorned in, with similar dimensions to the sort usually reserved for bodily fluids and shame during the more drunken nights of Big Brother.

Aside from the skimpy budgets and comparatively miniscule set, the main problem with all-new Gladiators appears to be that it takes itself far too seriously. Constantly in character without a hint of personality, the Gladiators are like jobbing actors given their break as pantomime baddies, reaching new levels of cringe-inducing overacting while remaining steadfastly dead-eyed throughout.

Oblivion’s desperation to cement himself as the villain character is utterly shameless, completely tenuous and impossible to buy into given that he looks like a bouncy castle with the head of an emu, and carries all the threat of a passive-aggressive remark about Lauren’s strappy sandals in an episode of The Hills.

Elsewhere, one would imagine a Gladiator given the name of Spartan (which, in the company of Battleaxe, is most certainly one of the long straws) would have no trouble miming his moniker. Drawing his mighty sword, perhaps? Charging headlong into battle? Or even just some gormless flexing? Oh no, not Spartan. Someone’s obviously told him ‘Spartan’ means ‘RADA reject’, hence the cringe-inducing ham party he unveils each time he’s introduced, resembling something like Quentin Crisp attempting tai-chi minutes after leaving a full-body cast. However, the most jaw-dropping aspect of this came courtesy of the end credits, which inexplicably listed a choreographer as part of the show. So Spartan was TOLD to do that shit? And AGREED?!

Having seen the revamped American Gladiators while on a Sloppy Dog recreational in Florida earlier this year, it was interesting that the new series paid more of a homage to the UK take on Gladiators rather than its original US incarnation – pyrotechnics, incidental music, and a sense of fun rather than fierce competition. However, the Sky One adaptation evidently takes its lead from Ice Warriors (for those of you not familiar, a toe-curlingly diabolical Gladiators-on-ice catastrophe which lasted one season, and will forever be imprinted in our minds thanks to the ill-chosen line supposedly extolling the might and mystique of ‘warrior’ Marax The Vixen - “raised by beasts of the snow”).

And yet, there wasn’t a total freeze-out on references harking back to the original series. Kirsty Gallacher, for example, who came in costume as the 1990s, complete with iffy waistcoat and a poofy Silvikrin-sponsored bob, supposedly as some sort of tribute to original host Ulrika Jonsson. Wisely, Kirsty opted not to go the whole hog and act as in-house cum-receptacle for every male Gladiator. And contender. And crew member. And audience member.

Elsewhere, 90s Glad veteran Panther found her name recycled and bestowed upon what appears to be Dame Kelly Holmes (complete with charisma deficiency), while Hunter was seemingly cryogenically frozen, thawed out and renamed Atlas. Once again, with a grave absence of personality. We’re noticing a pattern here.

We won’t give up on it just yet (although its presence on the inaccessible Sky One might be the deciding factor) – one episode is just one episode, after all. And hey – if Inferno can manage to walk upright whilst carrying those ridiculously huge baps, then she deserves our respect if nothing else.

And yet, in spite of all the above, which cements the new series of Gladiators thus far as a putrid pile of horse-shit, we’re fully aware that the Gladiators themselves could beat the bejesus out of us without breaking the slightest hint of a sweat. So we’ll sign off here, call Oblivion a nobber while his back is turned, and quite frankly, leggit.

Single Reviews 12/05/08

So, yet another week passes without us writing a single thing. Let’s see what the excuse can be this time… London mayoral elections… Bank Holiday bandwidth sluggishness… bloody Thatcher, maybe? Oh, bollocks to it. It’s nice outside, is that not reason enough!? Either way, we’re very sorry, and have made this week’s Single Reviews extra wonderful by way of apology.

Ashlee Simpson heads up the offerings this week, with the Stars In Their Eyes take on Gwen Stefani’s entire solo catalogue, Outta My Head (Ay Ya Ya). Although it’s positive to see some form of envelope-pushing (within her own sphere at least), it sounds like Timbaland threw this together on the tour bus using his Blackberry. A step in an interesting direction, if not necessarily the right direction.

Single of the Week is awarded to the magnificent Ladytron, who continue their quiet supremacy with Ghosts, a space-age, vodka-drenched nursery rhyme with riffs and squelches in all the right places. Managing a peculiar yet admirable balance of prominent humanness and detached sci-fi psychosis, it’s the perfect advertisement for a band worthy of the kind of hard sell reserved for the Ting Tings. Oh, look who’s next…

Having been gushed over by eternal bandwagon shareholders Radio 1 and the NME for what feels like a decade, it’d be fair to have developed a loathing for the Ting Tings already. However, they’re not as dire as the hype they may have been contaminated by would suggest. Sounding like a cross between Shampoo and M.I.A. (roughly as transitory as the former, and significantly less cunty than the latter), That’s Not My Name is fresh, fun and fucking annoying.

Finally – and this isn’t an aspect of popular culture that we ever thought we’d be addressing in a musical context – comes Chanelle Hayes with a paradigm of sweaty desperation in the form of a recording career. While she provided one of the lone high(er) points in a catastrophic series of Big Brother, and while she may miraculously possess a semi-decent voice, I Want It is cordially invited to rot alongside Sandi Thom in the bowels of Hell. Speaking of, guess who’s back in next week’s Single Reviews… *evil grin*