3 Jul 2015

You Don't Need To Listen To The Album To Review It / vol.2 - What's in the charts

I looked at the UK charts earlier today, because apparently, that is still a thing. Who knows why? Does anyone really look at them? Or give a shit about them? Probably not.
Anyway, apparently they exist, and they seem to show some popular albums, a few of which I'm going to review. Now. For your reading pleasure. Aren't you lucky?

As per usual I will not listen to these albums - like here, in this post. Call me a cynic, please it's the only thing at gives my life meaning, but I suspect all of this will sound fundamentally the same. It's in the charts after all.

Before This World – James Taylor

First off, nice to see the England batsmen broadening his horizons since he can't get into the England squad. He's a nice little man, a great wit and a fantastic batsmen, so it's a shame his album is shit.

Before This World. BEFORE THIS WORLD. A load of pretentious drivel. This album does NOT accurately reflect  the times before the World. No empty void. No swirling gas nebulas and Aliens with poetry used to torture (now that's a great reference). Frankly this album is sham and a lie and a lie and a sham.


Wilder Mind – Mumford and Sons

NO. NO. Kill me. Shoot me dead.
If Mumford and Sons had a face I'd punch it. If Wilder Mind had a face I'd punch it.

Nice to see they've ditched the banjos and tweed. They looked and sounded like camp Somerset farmers but less intelligent, and more boring.

Now, instead of being farmers and boring, now they're just generic and boring. Is that an improvement? Hard to tell really. The songs all meld into one amorphous blob of mediocrity. They've discovered distortion, which is nice. I suppose. 40 years late.

So maybe they haven't moved past their Somerset farmer roots after all. Somerset, a land permanently stuck in the past, about 40-50 years behind sanity and the rest of the world. Mumford and Sons would fit right in.

Posh Bastards, with their money and fame and influence and power and money and welsh and money. Bastards.


x – Ed Sheeran 

Gingers! We love them. Really we do! I can name, oh I don't know, 4 I really like.

Ed Sheeran is not one. He is a lovely man, I'm told, by the voices of reason inside my head. But I continue to ignore them, they're so reasonable, it's infuriating. Anyway. X, a thoroughly mediocre album.
Incredibly eXpendable?
Insultingly eXpensive?
Horribly eXcruciatingly bad?
The musical equivalent of eXcrement?

And just think about it, I spent more effort on those admirably terrible puns than Eddie probably spent on that whole album. My cat makes nicer noises when sneezing. Screeching and whiney vocals and guitar tones the sonic equivalent of a wet fart lost in the wind.

X, an album which is essentially a xanthochroic, xanthocomic xanthippe suffering from xanthoma.
Google it.

Drones – Muse

Resist the urge to make a crass joke about phallic cover. Resist the urge. Resist the urge. Resist the urge to subtly imply the the cover looks like a poundland version Big Brother gripping a penis. Resist the urge. RESIST DAMN IT.

Damn. I failed. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

Shoot me I've failed my sacred duty and no I'm not drunk mother. I only had one glass of chardonnay, or two, or three.