This screams, shouts, demands, implores and downright stamps its feet in beseeching you (yeah, you, brain-dead tech-sap) to think ‘Wow, this girl’s an ARTIST, man’. With one eye firmly on breaking into the post-Weinstein filmscape, Twigsy puts her entire self under undue stresses to illustrate the pain and no gain of being an ARTISTE in today’s showbiz addled society. Twigsu learnt how to pole-dance ESPECIALLY for this promo-video, all the more to capture the ups and downs of life’s greasy poles and slippery slopes back down to anonymity. Twigsx needs your acquiescence (via monetary and psychic consumption) to continue her ascent to the next rung, her trailing stiletto will catch you full in the fizzog if you think of following in her steps.
Taking inspiration and faking perspiration from the esteemed techniques of Lee Strasberg’s ‘Method’ acting, Twigso lays her body on the line that only diverts the attention away from the paucity of potency: absence makes its presence felt. Lupine obscurantism in Ovis gladrags.
The ‘song’ itself is a run of the mill, Kate Bush mush-gush, all gargled grunts and oh-so-(in)sincere soul-striving that falls on its arse from a great height.
The message: like Greek wing-man Icarus, don’t fly too close to the sun or for that matter any heat, yeah, maintain a healthy distance from the naked flame on the cooker, that’s what oven gloves are for. Handle with care.
This soars as high as an ostrich with its head in its posterior instead of the sandy earth.
N.B. Only in 2019 would this be considered listenable. Must be viewed and ear-endured on smartphones only, all other forms of dispersal will only highlight the gaping vacuum that seeps throughout.
The spectre of unmissed Yorkshire yodeller Corinne Bailey-Rae haunts this lamentable, acrid aria. Destined to soundtrack Christian Sabbath mornings round Betsina’s Daddy-funded box-pad it seeks to be mellow and good mood-inducing yet instigates the opposite emotions. Gargling like a needy infant desperate for the maternal teet, its faux emotion is cloying and gluey on the state of being. Immobilised by the breakdown of imagination and non-starting pistol of ingenuity the listener is caught in a bind, studs in the turf, torn taste ligaments a serious hazard.
Composed of the now obligatory warbled whining workout, that particularly peculiar catch-throat theatrical treatise so beloved of all budding ‘artists’ nowadays. Is it meant to suggest sincerity and lived experience? Or just more copycat cat-calling chintz mince? Delete as and when appropriate.
Instant coffee table music for the decaffeinated denizens of Drudgery Village West, London, USA.
It’s all here, the metaphoric generator is alive and kicking: ‘floating’, ‘learning to fly’, ‘can’t let myself fall’, ‘all shook up’ superlative triteisms that all add up to our zero being ‘too hung up’ on ‘it’. We have to assume the ‘it’ is an-other, the vagaries of vicarious love-valves fluctuating and faltering as Mr Inept digs his heels in, buries his feelings deep within, he’s trapped in his own emotional cage, a prisoner of insincere iterations that are designed to connect with all and sundry.
In reality Arch’s milky blubberings fall flat at the first curdle, his apparent heartfelt hankerings proving to be nothing more than a scripted song sheet of worn tropes and forlorn hopes.
Archibald, for Faulks sake, take the hint, ‘she’s hung up and gone ex-directory.
Apparently this is ‘avant-garde’. Obviously, the need to hit the internet and get the definition of this term is too tempting. *hits Internet*
new and experimental ideas and methods in art, music, or literature.
“he has been called a promoter of the avant-garde”
favouring or introducing new and experimental ideas and methods.
“a controversial avant-garde composer”
||innovative, advanced, innovatory, original, experimental, inventive, ahead of the times, new, forward-looking, futuristic, modern, ultra-modern, state-of-the-art, trendsetting, pioneering, progressive, groundbreaking, trailblazing, revolutionary;
Now I don”t know about you and your ear-sensibilities and budding taste-pads, but, Tempura pawn here does not even scratch the surface of these terms. A generic warble akin to Rita Ora’s stage-school strangulations, poperatic over-emoting bereft of feeling and heart. A clinical and sterililsed sonic crap-trap, machine manufactured to ensnare the jung-kinder’s attention aerials.
There is NOTHING new, different, fresh, catching about this gloop, another in a long line of tech-treacle tat. A Tempura pillow is fortunately at hand to rest this weary cranium down on.
The watery blood concerned is the reddish urine this kind of infection-confection induces in my bladder-sacks.
Yet more spoofonomics in the form of a Spike Jonze (nee Adam Spiegel) arch-angled retinal screen skew-spew, this time in the form of a Blind Dating show, yeah, because that’s really relevant in today’s swipe-screen brush-off society innit?
Oh wait, maybe the ‘guys’ are another in a seemingly endless line of conveyor-belt melts who have decided that deconstructing the whims and predilections of the globe’s gadget-gazing drones in the form of an antiquated televisual-notion about the rules of love is the way to get that ‘message’ across? Yeah, maaan.
The ‘guys’ laugh, lampoon and live it up in their various characters , these crazy ‘guys’ go the full gamut in terms of criss-cross dressing up from the outfit casket, the human will has its limits and ours has been stretched beyond snapping-point.
A whole two minutes is expended on
enjoying enduring the ‘guys’ mirth-packed antics. Then, and then, the action kicks in, but, what the heck on Planet Earth could possibly match that optic-feast?
In a nut-shell, Nu-metal screeching and shouting of inanities that would have sounded screechy and inane way back during the Chemical Korn Valentine Bizkit Park wars in the early Millennium times. There were no winners
God Bless America, maaaan. You were interesting once.
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery then watch one of these copycat clowns shoot up the brown* soon in emulation of The 1975’s curly-haired fop-sop smack-sap Matt Healy. The sound is in the vein of said numeral-epoch titled popstrels, they too attempt to delineate the travails of being ‘online’ and the negative effects/affects of technonanism, it’s as if Marshall McLuhan’s got a job lot of his books going dirt cheap and the gang have read the back-blurb.
To wit: ‘Oh, Pop, the world is so terrifying, I’m expected to operate on so many levels and perform as so many selves, but, the internal psychic damage is surmounting to the point where I just need to unplug and go out dancing like them gits did in that that olde tymes’
Look closely enough and front-bottom of this rabble even has the same tresses as thesp-couple Tim ‘Pet’ Healy and ‘Natalie ‘Loose’ Welch, coming across like John Power’s lovechild with Sideshow Bob. Imagine the gestation period on that one.
Verdict? Far from perfick, Ma Larkin. This lot will be peddling their new ‘edgy’ direction (The Quietus) replete with new costumes and scalp-dos this time next year.
*sugar, but, demerara
Finally, the culprit behind the mangled weasel-throttling rendition of Olive’s ‘You’re not alone’ is revealed. Taking the corporate shilling and butchering a 90s dancefloor ANTHEM for the Christmas debt-hordes she symbolically nailed the culture-chasm we all currently float aimlessly in. And, shudder me timbers, she’s been permitted to crank out another serving of sap-sop-pop-pap.
Where to begin …?
- TIPPED IN THE SUN’S ‘SOUND OF 2019’ LIST screams the PR gush-push. Just read that through again. The Sun, no less, Rupert Murdoch’s grot-rag zombie-zine for dead-headed drool-fools. Music to tap mobile phones by.
- ‘… the video paints a stark picture of the realities of homelessness, and negates the anonymity associated with it to highlight a pressing and pandemic social issue’ Who knew? Like the bastard offspring of George Michael’s ‘Praying for Time’ and Phil Collins’s ‘Another day in Paradise’ only nowhere near as good as that might, would or could be. Over to you, laptop genre-blenders and your plundering emulsion echoes of drip-dry disco-beats.
Where Brian Eno devised ‘Music for Airports’ and Music for Films’ as a J.G. Ballardian look at the banality and emptyness of said plane-brain-drain hellholes and at the background noise-effects that are used to denote and connote emotions and feelings for the film spectator’s benefit this type of muzak is clearly a group-think gloop-stink under the nowt so edgy label ‘Music for Advertising’. Lukewarm and tepid syrup, that pallid preserve of the Archon boarding school culture-lacking cross-breeds who parasitically dilute and pilfer acts of art rendering it a damp dishcloth.
Meanwhile, over on the Youtube platform of endless content designed to curdle any semblance of memory or comprehension of what anything actually means, we find this fella struggling to contain his unconscious urges, he just gotta get it out:
6 days ago
Its always nice to start my day with your angelic voice resonating in my head.looking forwards to hearing more from you , respectively yours craig x
Youse got it baaaad, Craigy. Does your Mother know?