Oh. My. God.
This album is totally offending my lobes. Every note is, to paraphrase Bill Hicks, like a turd falling into my drink. This is the sound of a high-velocity band that have crashed at top speed into a brick wall, and yet are still trying to put-put their way out of the scrapyard, and leaving a cloud of noxious black smoke everywhere they go. Difficult second album? In a way. In that it's difficult to listen to it without smashing your CD player to make it stop.
With this record Electric Six have completely worn out their welcome and revealed themselves as the sub-standard rock 'n' roll pastiche/ cabaret act we all hoped they weren't. The songs are tired and half-finished, with none of the virulently catchy greatness of the earlier singles. The sounds are cliched and basic. The jokes aren't funny at all. The vocal is bombastic and brash, shouting loud but saying nothing, and it's making me want to take this CD out of the player and throw it out of the window.
So that's exactly what I'll do. If you're walking around Dalston and you see it on the pavement, try not to get any on your shoes.
1John Brainlove's Score