A follow up to the Jeff Wayne classic? Sadly not.
Music has a profound psychological effect on us all. It can annoy, soothe, excite, inspire, depress or upset with undeniable ease (I always experience the last two emotions mentioned whenever I hear anything by Joe Longthorne) and we should cherish that fact every single day.
I beg you to keep the above at the forefront of your mind as you read the following review. Ostensibly, I was to write a review of "Eve Of The Battle" by The Isles, but I was having a bad day. I'm willing to bet that this review won't get on the Room Thirteen website in its original form and I'll get told to redo it. That said, maybe they'll post it word for word to call my bluff and try to make me look stupid. You don't need to make an effort guys - just get me a beer and a karaoke machine and I'll do the job perfectly well on my own...
And so you find me sat in a freezing cold kitchen at 3:30pm on a freezing cold Sunday afternoon, nursing a tour-de-force of a hangover, smoking cigarettes two at a time and working my way through a bottle of Baileys. I have had a shit week. I pray that you will forgive me for taking up your valuable time with the narcissistic ranting that follows.
Last weekend, my landlord told me that he had sold the house and I had got a month to move out. This wasn't unexpected and as my life is usually beset by such inconveniences, I thought nothing of it. However, I then endured perhaps the worst week of my working life, (to give you a inkling of how bad it was, I ended up drinking quite a bit of red wine, lager and Black Sambuca mixed with Guinness just to dull the pain) and I awoke the next day with a sore head and a far sorer wallet. Oh, and my amplifier blew up. I was fuming. However, I must concede, that this last catastrophe was purely of my own manufacture: I was watching The A Team at the time and my beautiful slab of black power probably took matters into its own hands in a valiant attempt to preserve its owner's sanity. Needless to say, I gave it a thorough dressing down, i.e. a good kicking. That'll learn it.
And then things got worse. After getting in at 4am this morning stinking of takeaway, I prised myself from between my ketchup-drenched sheets to take a look at a couple of new rooms in the area. It was a complete waste of time. One house sheltered a man called Colin who, when I entered the domicile from hell, was re-wiring the telephone junction box whilst wearing open-toed sandals and listing to Christian rock. Amused though thoroughly disappointed, I swiftly departed and journeyed to another nearby abode where I learned, much to my chagrin that I would be expected to pay an extra £100 a month to cover extraneous bills. How rude. By now I was riddled with exasperation, beset by fatigue and in possession of an unquenchable thirst...I headed straight to the pub.
I was deeply saddened. Although the pub was open, I realised just before stepping through the door that it is one of the dodgiest public houses in London and due to the way I looked and in particular, smelled, I probably wouldn't make it out alive. By now I was on the verge of ripping off all my clothes, walking out into the road and screaming at bus drivers to "Do me a favour and run me the fuck over!" However, I realised - just in time - that I live in South-East London and the local bus drivers would probably consider that sort of behaviour to be fair game and also a bit of a challenge. So, instead of pursuing such a foolish course of action, I went to the supermarket, bought a shit-load of booze and fags, got the bus home and hoped that The Isles could unwrinkle my furrowed brow. I should have known better.
Hailing from either Manchester or New York, (I wouldn't be able to decipher the publicity blurb even if I had an Enigma machine - and by the way guys, this is how you spell bugle), The Isles are a four-piece who draw on the influence of The Beatles, The Smiths, Blur, Echo & The Bunnymen, The Strokes, Guided By Voices and Neil Young...apparently. All I could hear was the musical equivalent of a mangled and unkempt poodle owned by David Gray - though I'm still unsure if it is legal for Thunderbirds puppets to keep pets.
Beginning with a melodic, thudding baseline, guitar and drums and blossoming into a bland tapestry of romantic indie tinged with Americana (ever since my brother became a trenchant fan of Collective Soul, I find it impossible to restrain myself from wheeling them out when a comparison is required), "Eve Of The Battle" immediately evokes the malevolent spirit of Coldplay, The Bluetones and Keane and makes you wonder what sort of battle this would be: Handkerchiefs at dawn? Braveheart with Flumps? Jesus.
Lyrically it is as simplistic as building a large Lego brick out of small Lego bricks (amorous, self-referential twaddling) and the colourlessness of Andrew Geller's voice is such that someone should immediately propose him for the job of Leader of the Liberal Democrats.
The flipside track, "Flying Under Cheap Kites" is equally as bad and can be summed up by the preposterous lyric: "There's no-one knocking at my door/I don't know what the doorknob's for". Have you ever been out of your house? Or do you emulate Bo and Luke Duke and slide out of your kitchen window when you need to go to the shops? Get some friends for God's sake.
So, I'm in no better mood than when I started this review - if you can call it such a thing - and plan to neck the Baileys, crack open the whisky and use The Isles's CD as a coaster. Hopefully you'll do the same if you get one.
Anyone got any Joe Longthorne...?