Whooahhh [rubs eyes, shakes head, yawns] I’ve just awakened from a nu-metal nightmare! Dreams of Alien Ant Farm being BACK, BACK, BACK with a new set of songs so abysmally inept and lyrically insipid they made Limp Bizkit sound like Radiohead [shudders].
There was a single entitled “Homage” where, horrifically, singer Dryden Mitchell takes me on a journey through his (pretty mundane) musical influences. “The Stones will keep us rolling with The Eagles we can fly” he tells us, “Purple Rain falls on the Dark Side Of The Moon” – I can’t believe my subconscious has come up with this shit, I gotta stop eating cheese before bed…
But wait, I’m dredging up more horrors from the pits of my memory. There’s a guest rapper on “Our Time”, like IT IS STILL 1998. I don’t want to go back there, Jesus, I didn’t have a beard, my job sucked, I couldn’t get laid…it was nearly as earth-fuckingly horrendous as this song. One track adds insult to injury by conjuring the rhythm of a drooling, lobotomised slug AND naming itself after the very worst Charlatans album. Bugger it, I still haven’t got a clue what “Simpatico” actually means (NOTE TO SELF: Stick a dictionary by the bed at night Steve, in case this shit happens again).
Ever wondered what Katy Perry would sound like fronting Papa Roach? Wonder no more, for my warped mind has produced “Burning”, a song only a special kind of fucktard could love. I think I remember Lars Ulrich really digging it. There are three saccharine love songs in a fucking row, IN A ROW! Each more sickeningly cloying than the last (although the trio opener of “Little Things”gets special mention for its insightful relationship advice that any emotional problems can be fixed with a good drilling. How very macho). Then there’s an abundance of misplaced ego on “Godlike” as Mitchell declares “this is godlike, I know you feel it too”; sorry fella, all I feel is an overwhelming desire to punch you square in your mug.
Meanwhile, I dream up some pre-school Thomas Hardy-esque metaphor on the relationship as weather drudge of “Better Weather”, and a whole bunch of masculine nastiness in the form of “Dirty Bomb”, an odious ode to a dangerously sexy lady (2nd NOTE TO SELF: Read some Sylvia Walby). There’s even a song so obsolete it’s called “Yellow Pages” (‘tis 2015 for fuck’s sake. We’ve had Google for bloody ages – wake up brain). As I drag my body from the sanctity of the duvet, my feet flinching as they touch cold wooden floors, I spot the CD player by the bed still alight, disc spinning worthlessly. I pause nervously before hitting the open button and with chilling apprehension lift out the CD. My eyes scan the glinting disc, straining to focus in the morning light….ALIEN ANT FARM – ALWAYS AND FOREVER.…oh fuck…..
Rating: 0/5