It certainly would be the end of the world if you spelt either of the words in your band name correctly, or if your dealer died or something, or if your daddy took away your trust fund so you couldn’t afford all of your oh-so-grungy vices, or if someone else picked up the last copy of VICE, or if American Apparel stopped selling flouro bras for your to play onstage in, or if there was smashed glass and man sweat and probably some blood on the floor of that stage and you stood in it because you refuse to “open up your heart/and let love shine in” any other way but barefooted.
‘End of The World’ is actually an alright tune, and it’s a good riff, but it’s so fuelled by IT-girl mantra’d, I’m-so-hipster-I-can’t-afford-a-lighter-so-I’ll-use-a-toaster-to-light-my-joint, pretentiousness that it grates far too much to be taken seriously. People might say that I’m just jealous, but they really don’t look that cool to me, nor, seemingly, to most of the crowd in their official video, who only look slightly entertained because it’s comprised mostly of 17 boys and there a girls in bras in front of them. If you like those raucous, everyone’s so fucked up that they can’t even tell who they’re being sick on parties, then you’ll probably go nuts for this, but I think drugs are stupid, so I’m going to go and listen to some early White Stripes, as anything by Jack White is a lot better than this inevitable flash in the pan.
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By Alex Throssell
Dance Yrself Clean
