Pop Record Iz Grate: by a Generic Arthouse Pop Journo

I toked up on a spliff of fresh Hi-Strengf Weasel Skunk Stoat weed and weaved into the Airy Fairy Studios where new rock sensations, The Four Twats, were tuning up. In the engineers room I just saw buttons, knobs and sliders, acres of the malignant little imps staring up at me each with their evil little mono-eye.

I bashed the side of my head twice, willing my eyes to bring all four images into focus and accepted, twice, a cup of double strength Kenco, The first one had a life of its own. Steve the engineer screamed at me as I screamed at Ken and Co. “That coffee’s bloody alive,” I raged, “its jumped outta my hand and fucked up my cords.” He said something about my yelling doing the same for the band.

Plangent drone and caffeine (super strength) knocked some sense into my hazy brain. “Fuck me Dave, I’m well Jeezed. Thank fuckety dooh fucking dah for Maxwell fucking Café or I’d be climbing the fucking walls.” The engineer shushed me, “Stop shouting, and bloody sober up. The band are out in a minute. And it’s not Dave, it’s Steve.” Fucking ooooh-lala.

The band were laying down an industrial wasteland of badly tuned guitar noise. None of them could play and that was their cache. Neo-neo. This was pop eating it’s own fucking arse. I was down to base camp and found we had a vending machine at our disposal. I mashed the living hell out of two cans of Red Bull and fucking added a Lucozade Sport to ramp up the strength. “I’m touring on planet Taurine, MoFo Stevie babe.” He looked at me. Said fuck all. “Cat got your arsing rock and roll tongue? You must be on some one-hell of a stuff,” I impressed upon him.

I’d been bouncing around that studio for a hour, and Steve said, “This is the worst band I ever had the misfortune to record. But that’s the lot of a one-man-band so to speak studio and these rich kids dads think they are all gifted musicians when the drummer was trained on saucepans by the butler, the bassist is a specky physicist who thinks strings are something to do with space and the guitarist got chucked out of recorder lesson at the age of eight.” Rock and Roll. Cooler than Kelvin. Give the Twats a hotel room and they wouldn’t so much as smash up the room as demolish the whole damned establishment, I reck-on. “Yeh,” says Steve, “and get their dads to put up a Waitrose on it.”

The Twats are so counter-establishment-revolutionarianism I never did speak to Aston Bender the flop-haired vocalist; but if I’d had, I’d have asked, “What makes you cooler than a well fridged cucumber sarnie? Is it coz you’s downloads only?” And he’d have bound to replied, “Because you spotty little oik are going to write the best review of us ever.”

I tell you what? The Twats are going to be massive. Ginormously Huge-ific. If they ever get a record together. Jeez I’m hungry. I need another super strength Kestrel and a KFC and I need it now. Ah, fuck it, a bucket. One way or another, or another.