On one level it possibly counts as progress; the posters for Peter Frampton’s forthcoming live performance of Frampton Comes Alive – in all it’s mind-numbing, fucking entirety – are no longer plastered all over the subway station as if my part of the world is home to some secret colony of freaky fretwork fetishists; not only is the continued existence of classic rock disturbing enough, but the promotional material was focused around the same photograph that adorned the album cover back in 1956, or whenever that particular affront to the ears was released, triggering much speculation in the LGM bolt-hole that Frampton has either discovered the fountain of eternal youth, or looks so god-damn disturbing in 2011 that no-one would dare purchase tickets – lest his grinning cadaver features take a starring role in all future nightmares.
Yet on another level it grows so, so much worse; from where Frampton once stared down at us with all the panache and allure of a local TV weatherman’s listless orgasm, passengers are now greeted with an advertisement for another forthcoming gig. Another album performed in all it’s mind-numbing, fucking entirety. Except that this is a Britpop band. The most turgid and embarrassing Britpop band imaginable – I can’t even bring myself to sully my typing with the band’s name, such is their soul-sucking level of awfulness. A band that appealed solely to those unable to appreciate or assimilate music. A band who had the gall to treat their risible aesthetic with an utmost seriousness, as if witless pastiches of Paul Weller b-sides were high art.
Luckily the denizens of my fair city are in total agreement with my views; the posters proclaim that the first night is sold out, thus night two has been especially added… oh.
Ah, the joys of comedy misanthropy… and you thought I was a nice genial wordsmith. Reasons behind the above are two-fold; tomorrow’s entry in the Fucked-Up Festive Fifty is a British indie record from the mid-nineties, and thus frequently (and erroneously) associated with all that was moribund with Britpop (or “fucking Britpop”, as it will henceforth be known). It’s a decent record, mind – trust me.
And reason two: the fine chap behind said tune published a memoir a few years back, exposing the fucking Britpop era for the marketing-led sham it was – a tome so filled with delightfully savage put-downs that I can’t help but execute my own witless pastiche. I’ll even give you a clue as to the memoir’s author – beneath the words and all that…
Black Box Recorder / The Art Of Driving