"Domestic badasses are usually pretty one-dimensional. From the musclebound Joe Weider plank snapper to the wizened loose-cannon drunk or the free-swinging pro athlete, they're just different versions of the same uninteresting dolt. That's why English louts often seen more interesting to us Americans than our homegrown ones. Buoyed by football, illicit drugs, and lager-- or the remnants of mid-90s lad culture in general-- these types often take an elemental approach to bad behavior. They integrate torrents of entertaining drunk speak into fistfights both won and lost; they're boastful, prideful, or just plain full. They're going to live fast and die young, but not until after the kebab shops close."
This is the first paragraph for a review of an album which contains lyrics completely lacking in any reference to real-life situations.
This isn't assessing a record on its musical merits. This is making judgements based on misplaced prejudices. And you know what? I don't like it.