Arctic Monkeys: Humbug
Those fine gentleman at The Taxman were so delighted with my considered tribute to Michael Jackson that they asked me to write some more long-player reviews for them.
Who am I to argue with that? Well, I told them to go shove it at first, but after an hour of shock therapy I came round.
Arctic Monkeys! Humbug! What a pile of shit. I mean, seriously, ironically, psychologically, hysterically, this album is rubbish on every level.
It’s clear to me that Alex Turner just wishes he was someone else. It’s written across his smug, northern face, and it’s all over his lyrics like swine flu is all over the new school term.
Infectious, yes, but utterly sickening.
So just who is it that Mr Turner is determined to imitate? I was trying to put my finger on it this morning.
Chickens, dickheads. Of course! That moron thinks he’s Michael Jackson singing Earth Song! It’s obvious.
Humbug indeed, I’m going to write that cheeky monkey a letter. Doesn’t he know, you can’t go around imitating the Great One when he’s only been buried for five minutes. At least wait until the sixth minute.
Oh well, at least the Arctic Polar Bears, or whatever they’re called, rocked Reading the other week harder than those other lame headliners they had on.
Talk about crying lightning, those old cronies on Sunday night sucked big time. Who the hell were they?
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