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Feeder: Renegades

A gramophone

What do you do when a band you’ve been slating for five years makes a rollicking album of unrelenting bombast and guile, harking back to the roots you’ve been yearning for and romanticising over, while also outshining every last one of the new rock acts that you’ve elevated to an undeserved pedestal in the same period?

What do you do, brother, when a band that’s become unfashionable, forgotten about, makes the kind of album that gets glued to your gramophone for a month, before ceasing up, forcing you to buy another copy? Slate it of course.

Well not this reviewer. This is Feeder, a band I’d never heard of before last Monday but whom I have since researched with the same intensity of an Oxford postgraduate on steroids. And now I have a new obsession.

Move over, Jacko, you’re deader than the dodo. Rotting in your grave, you couldn’t even comprehend the viscosity of Feeder’s seventh studio album, Renegades.

“We are not the problem,” insists lead vocalist, guitarist, song-writer and all-round genius Grant Nicholas on the title track. Indeed, they are not.

The music press, who, I discovered in the early hours of this morning, have continually disregarded the greatest song-writer of a generation, the finest exponents of melodic indie-rock since the dawn of time and the best thing to come out of Wales since Charlotte Church; they, dear reader, they are the mother-fucking problem.

Echo Park, Comfort In Sound, Polythene: all great works of their time. Silent Cry, in 2008, somehow welded Feeder’s previously disparate energy levels into one, cohesive masterpiece.

And now, here, Renegades has revived the mid-90s riff-revolutionising hard rock that originally catapulted Feeder into back-of-the-book music mag features in the first place.

And this has bettered it.

But what credit do they get? One star here, two stars there and personally offensive reviews everywhere. I’m not one to talk, but clearly, something’s up here.

Maybe it’s the fact that Feeder are just so talented, their songs so daringly catchy, that were the music press to admit so, it would make redundant all of their other material. There could be no interviews with Paramore, no exclusives on Vampire Weekend, no picture spreads of Brandon Flowers’ arse.

All of it would be made to look like the rotten pile of vomit that it is were they to actually encourage the purchase of a new Feeder album.

Well, fuck you. I like it.




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