What’s the chart going to be like this week? Stupid boring music for twats. That’s what it’s going to be, because I seem to have a more attuned grasp of pattern recognition than everyone else. Last week was really the death knell of both the chart and this column, with only one ‘new’ song in the chart, and that song being utterly creatively bankrupt. The prevailing consensus around chart music, from anyone who matters, is that it is rubbish, so I renew my requests for ‘who buys this crap?’ genuinely, who buys it and propels Calvin Harris to the top of the chart because it isn’t anyone I know with a functioning motor cortex. Every week I watch the live counter on the charts website tick down like the timer on the world’s shittest and most boring bomb ready to explode ineffectual samey pop music across these united isles for another week.
#14 Foxes – Holding Onto Heaven
STOP BUYING DROOLING BALLDY BULLSHIT YOU FUCKING CUNTS! If this keeps up I’m just going to fill this column with resentful random keyboard slaps (when did you start doing that? ha ha ha you unfunny fucks, you). The XFactorisation of all things continues, TONE IS NOT SINGING ABILITY! All Xfactor winners have had tone and can’t sing for shit. Bob Dylan sounds like he rented out his voicebox as a pub carpet and is one of the best singers of all time because he has timing and character and articulation. I utterly despise this latest trend with people singing with the same awful passion one might employ to take a machinegun nest or throw yourself in front of a bus to protect a child. Partly because in a post 9/11 world, I distance myself from anyone exhibiting raw passion on the off chance they decide to detonate themselves and partially because it’s really offputting, I feel like I’m witnessing them orgasming or forcing out a really difficult shit. Those moments should be kept private. Childish observance of Foxes is that the singer has eyes so wide she can see through time.
#6 Pitbull featuring G.R.L. – Wild Wild Love
There is some deep irony of singing ‘wild wild love’ in the grounds of the Playboy Mansion if anyone can be arsed to dig deep for it. I believe I referred to Pitbull as a leery potato once upon a time, and I feel anything else I write about him will be less spot on. Songs transitioning from (fairly crap) rapping to over-passionate singing is like rallycross, half of it on a smooth (if slightly sugary) track and the other half rolling over rough terrain, shaking your fillings loose. Childish observance of G.R.L. is they sound like a Soviet splinter faction trying to overthrow Chairman Brezhnev in a Fredrick Forsyth novel.
And that’s it, again. I’m going to pretend that the total lack of new tracks in the top twenty is because of this column making brits at large not buy stupid chart music and buy the stuff I recommend instead. In that case, you should all go out and buy every Siouxsie and the Banshees record that exists, especially if you have a daughter. Instead of filling her head with this misogynistic chart waffle that tells women they can’t do anything without a rapping twat of a man to keep them going, teach her that women rock. I’ve written three articles in the last three days, one on the chart, one on Eurovision and one on Pig Destroyer’s discography. Which do you think was the hardest?
Written under duress by Steven.