If only whiny James from Starsailor had sucked on Phil Spector’s gun in the same, voracious way that he does on the cock of corporate indie tunefulness; then, instead of us having to write some somnambulant bollocks about an ultimately pointless four minutes of pseudo-soulful bullshit, we could be busy scraping his skull off of the floor of an LA mansion and selling it back to the beige-ridden fools who buy into the Wigan four-piece’s admittedly perfected brand of middle-class miserablism.

So… yes. Nothing wrong with Starsailor per se. Just not really my cup of tea.