The Futureheads

Is anyone out there not bored of retro yet? Garage-rock is coiled in a shrivelled heap at our feet, its mangy tail tucked between its crippled legs, dying a wretched, whimpering death. And then Franz Ferdinand get onstage and begin to beat out a new-wave racket that, fuck me, sounds like a skewed, creepy Supertramp. Alas, alack, they lose concentration after two songs, revert to type and spend the rest of their precious stage time aping the Buzzcocks.

Little did the Strokes know the second sight that lurked behind the name of their debut. Is this really it??? Is there no-one out there with the courage to be cool in their own era? No fucking about; rock 'n' roll's about cool. It's about playing rebel. And we want our heroes to be like the kids at school that bled 'cool' from every grubby pore, swaggered around and crunched ciggy ends beneath belligerent toes in full view of the teachers and did things BEFORE the rest of us, not thirty years later; we, the undersigned, want something to admire, to imitate, and finally to hate with the passion that only envy can inspire. And yet it's just another Wednesday night, the Monarch is rammed right round that infernal corner at the back of the room, the assembled persons straining for a fleeting glimpse at this new bunch of hopefuls, and Christ, it's the fucking Buzzcocks. Again. And The Futureheads prove themselves to be merely another flock of would-be black sheep, alike in their obsession with the past. Their name is surely ironic, a knowing meeja wink, a cocked thumb pointed towards the regurgitated retro schtick they spew at us for forty minutes.

And now that garage-rock's swaying on its knees, and The Stooges are no longer a valid reference point for any self-respecting, wanna-be-adored rocker, they've gone for the seemingly next best thing; new wave, the Ramones and the FUCKING Buzzcocks. These are the people they pin their hopes to. Dead people. Retired people. People who gave way to something new TWENTY YEARS AGO. And note for note, it's a total, indiscriminate rehash. If garage-rock is a flea-bitten, dying dog, then this sorry subsequent charade is a knackered, strung-out old nag waiting impatiently in line for some kind soul to punch a bullet right through its frontal lobe and end its misery.

Those with the courage of their own convictions are trickling downstairs back into the night in twos and threes, but the rest of the stripy-t-shirted, assymetrically-coiffed throng gapes vacantly. And you can't even hate it; all you can do is gaze in stupefied dismay at the ignoble, pitiful spectacle before you. This brand of rock 'n' roll is dead. Move along, folks; there's nothing more to see here.