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Blackstar: Fuck You, Fake Music Lovers

In January this year David Bowie released one of the finest albums of his career. I listened to it once in the far background as I completed my tax return, occasionally stopping to marvel at some ingenious tangent or digression. In this piecemeal read-through, the use of acoustic instruments seemed startling. The welding of jazz clatter to a chorus of multi-tracked funeral singers on the title track held onto your pulsing heart with skeletal fingers and played it like an accordion.

The Next Day, Bowie's surprise album of 2015, was a solid Bowie record. His best since Scary Monsters. It was also, notably, a pastiche; an exercise in self-homage, calculated to remind you of all that you had loved. Blackstar, was something else. An ending filled with so much sap and seed that it also seemed like a beginning.

A couple of days after Blackstar came out, Bowie died.

I slotted in my ear buds and spent three months listening and relistening to nothing but Bowie in forensic, chronological order. It soundtracked every hour and minute that I was not at work. Every step taken on grey and rain splashed pavements. Every tree and smoke stained brick and grass blade that smeared past in transit. I heard Bowie in my dreams. I hoped, at the end, I would be able to listen to Blackstar again. Now, I find myself at the end of this septic year and I still can't do it.

This site has been dedicated to hate; to the vituperative de(con)struction of the worst of popular music, but we did it because of love.

We did it because there are works in the world that mean the very existence of bad art is an insult to human creativity. We accept this shit and distribute it and listen to it and watch it as though it is the same thing and that is a foul travesty. It is a transgression against our collective being.

But, worst of all - the very worst thing of all - is that so very many people cannot tell the difference.

So - here is the difference.

When you listen to that bad music you like, you want to have a little dance, don't you? You remember that time the same song was playing long ago when this happened and that happened and it feels happy or sad. You don't remember loving or even liking it then, but now it's connected to your life somehow and that is its meaning. It is an earthbound, bodily experience appealing to base emotions. To nostalgia and self.

But, when you listen to the collected works of David Bowie, you are privy to the emotional and intellectual becoming of a fucking genius. You are, for a brief time, transported from a plane of existence with no colour or substance to a realm of rhizomically branching possibilities. You on David Bowie is so much more powerful than you on any drug, if you listen. If you really listen.

When I finally play Blackstar again, I will immerse myself in it. I will allow it to take me where it wants to take me; to transcend what I am and who I am. I will scream and wail and laugh in the anti-matter blackness of it and they will be the words and the saxophones and the horns. It will fashion a void from my carcass and I will live in it.

And it will be the last time I ever truly listen to a new record by David Bowie - and that is why I cannot do it.

Not yet.


Twain and I have decided to change up the format at bit. Instead of him trashing US bands and me trashing UK bands we'll now feel free to trash any band we like.

What caused this change you may ask? It's simple - we noticed that U2 and Nickleback are neither from the US or the UK. Then we realized the same can be said about a lot of the human shit stains that tone deaf Fedoraheads listen to. So, now we are going to be Assholes Without Borders.

Which brings me to today's topic - U2.

When a band is born awful I have some sympathy for it. Shit happens. You and your friends suck and are just trying to have a good time and then some record producer on bath salts decides you could be the next big thing and suddenly The Dave Matthews Band exists. That's not your fault and I'd cash the checks too.

But what I do hate are bands that could be good, or at least mediocre, but somehow manage to achieve complete and total mind crime. U2 is a prime example of this.

If one were to go back in time and take a look at Boy or Under A Blood Red Sky one might see the seeds of a truly awesome band. A bunch of guys still learning about stuff and trying to make an  interesting new sound. Had they kept up like this maybe things would have ended up OK.

Instead, starting with The Joshua Tree and ending with My Own Private Irish Tax Haven, each and every U2 album is worse than the one before. And just how shitty these people are becomes ever more clear. Let's take a look at this quartet of cunts.

Bono - His orginal stage name was "Bono Vox." Imagine the level of douchebaggery invovled in naming yourself "Good Voice."  This man is the definition of asshole. I imagine that one day he'll go knocking door to door asking if he can give people some literature about starving gay albinos in Harlem. Pompus, arrogant and full of himself, he is the King Of All Dickheads. Whenever I see a MRA or Nice Guy posting online, I see Bono's face.

The Edge. How the fuck do you make an entire careeer out of playing two chords badly? It's simple, just plug your guitar into a machine that will create so much distortion that nobody can here what you are playing anyway.

Adam Clayton. That guy at the bar who wants to tell you about how much he respects you while he's secretly jerking off under the table.

Larry Mullen Jr.  He must be sucking Bono's cock becasue as far as I can tell U2 uses a drum machine and he's just someone who stands behind a drum kit flailing his arms. Rumors suggest he was the inspiration for Milli Vanilli.

These are the four guys who in 2000 annouced they were ""reapplying for the job ... [of] the best band in the world""

If your world is defined as 50 year old dudes still wearing Che Guevera shirts who have broken hearing aids, perhaps that might seem reasonable to you. If not, then fuck off.

The truth is that U2 is simply what happens when Brian Eno and Jann Wenner have a baby.

They are four assholes who fart into microphones so that their flatuence can be sucked into other assholes and impress them.

U2 sucks.


Green Day

When my esteemed colleague Bart and I decided to regenerate Bad Music, I made several new rules for myself. Rule number one was that I would no longer denigrate the work of artists in a knee-jerk fashion. I would begin by listening and learning. I would smother myself in as much back catalogue as my tolerance would allow. I would dig deep into back story. I would try to understand their appeal.

I’m so, so very glad I did that with Green Day.

Before my research, I had scant understanding of their oeuvre. I had heard the tracks American Idiot and Basket Case and the one about Dad cancer. I’d seen them on television looking like geriatric high-schoolers in Sex Pistols fancy dress. That was pretty much the entire basis for my dislike of them.

Now that I’ve given them some time, listening to deeper cuts and reading about their genesis, my opinion has changed.

I used to dislike them. Now I fucking despise them.

I see that I was right all along to judge this plastic book of shit-sticks by its piss spattered cover.

But before I go any further, I want to tell you what I think Green Day means to its fans (to use the American singular). I recognise that, for many, Green Day signifies post-adolescent rebellion. The snarl lipped alternative to square, parental thinking. Green Day is the poster band for a section of society that likes to think of itself as misfit American youth. Even the English kids who like them think of themselves as misfit American youth. The last outpost of punk.

Let’s get this straight. Green Day is not punk.

Green Day is a quarter of a century too late, post-millennial Pro-Tools echo of pseudo punk. It is cut and paste Buzzcocks. It is The Undertones, quantized, sanitised and vapourised. It’s a compressed and commercial construct designed explicitly to appeal to middle-class, middle American wannabe-misfit white kids. An entire army of them.

And that army of fans are not punk either. If they were, they would not be staring back at you coyly on Instagram, oversized phones snatching their dog-lipped pouting in the bathroom mirror. They would not be prancing around in pink tutus and changing their hair colour twice a month. There would not be rows and rows of them staring back at you from the seats of the lecture theatre on liberal arts degrees.

Real punks in the 21st century should and would be crouching in the corner of an urban squat, making unfathomably, glitchy, atonal noisecore using parts of old drum machines and a smashed laptop. They’d be wearing their Grandma’s death soiled clothes with holes cut in them that expose their genitalia. Some would have the word “CUNT” scratched into their foreheads with a rusty compass. They would have AIDs and they would give you AIDs for looking at them funny.

Let us not forget that Sid Vicious - a horrible, thick as pig shit fucktard - stabbed the only thing he ever loved to death. For smoking his last cigarette.

That was punk. And there are none left.

So, when Billie Joe Armstrong, with his hair stolen from Vicious and his stare stolen from Johnny Rotten sings:

I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
When the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk alone

You don’t believe him. You think - no, actually, you walk with all the other mediocre wannabe corporate whores who feed off punk’s zombie corpse. You who are too lazy to invent your own sub-culture and who have been instrumental in punk's sanitisation. You who are The Monkees of punk rock.

And that’s before we even get to how banal and cliched and middle of the road the music actually is. “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”. Really? Could you come up with anything more trite? Anything more knee-jerk, lowest common denominator and off the top of your head?

Punk should be raw youth energy and chaos and creation, but when I listen to these songs, I don’t want to smash shit up or remake the world. I don’t feel compelled to buy a guitar or feel inspired to reinvent popular music (as did so many who saw the Sex Pistols in ‘76).

I think instead of suburbia and mashed potatoes with gravy and high school rom coms. I think of all those perky movie soundtracks filled with Green Day. Or something like Green Day; bands even more fake than Green Day because their template is Green Day.

There are hundreds of them.

Green Day has been going for 25 years. TWENTY FIVE YEARS. In that time they have secreted a slug trail of pop punk imitators. A dozen Good Charlottes. A hundred Sum 41s. A billion Busteds and McFlys.

They have crawled into the ear of popular culture and died.

This is what is left of punk after five generations of major label corporate America has forced its bands to suck cock. It is the distended stomach of punk, filled to bursting with cigar tainted executive jizz.

Green Day formed in 1987, released their first record in 1989 and sold out to the majors in 1994. And yet, you can sample tracks from any album from then until now and, without a Green Day anorak’s inside out knowledge of every track, be utterly and completely convinced that every song was recorded in the same week.

Every song is a four chord Ritalin buzzsaw of flattened affect. A blank string of major progressions. Four verses of high school poetry and a break. "Ah," says the breaking voice of a Green Day fan from the back of the class, pausing before he Instagrams a picture of his new tattoo,"They're not all the same, you dumbass. They do ballads".

And, for that final quantum of proof that Green Day suck the big fat dick of the bourgeoisie, I thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I offer you Wake Me Up When September Ends.

This is a huge and mucus veined dog turd of a song.

A punk band that does acoustic, ballads? What kind of twisted, record company bullshit is that? Because, let’s be clear here, we’re not talking about a Nirvana-style, minor key dirge like Polly or Something in the Way. This is no Love Will Tear Us Apart.

We’re talking major chord arpeggios, twinkly keyboard bits, auto-tuned vocals, lighters held aloft and everyone swaying with their shared experience of stadium banality. Everyone is wearing eyeliner and brand new Doctor Martens. Everyone has a bit of their head shaved and another bit dyed purple. Everyone is a bit sad but the future's gonna be OK, because we've got each other. Everyone has dead, shark eyes.

It is the most saccharine, sentimental and downright manipulative song ever committed to disc. And yes, I have heard Mull of Kintyre. Many, many times. Somehow, it sums them up better than anything else in their back catalogue. It shows them up for the butt-fucked-by-capitalism phonies they are.

Green Day. Truly the Paul McCartney and Wings of punk rock.

Choose My Weapon

TODAY Bad Music woke from its slumber, launched Spotify and saw that the world is STILL full of shit music.

It's still full of pop stars who should have been on the Titanic when it sank. It's full of preening rock cocktards shredding out the same tired blues scale shit people have been shredding out for 47 years, only faster and with less passion. There are still RnB blowhounds who can't finish a song before the band. There are children with beards singing close harmony while someone in the background apathetically bums a zither. I'm looking at you, Grizzly Bear.

There is still Daryl Hall. There is still John Oates.

So - it's time to put a stop to that. That's what Bad Music does.

And we're going to begin with an American giant. It has to be that way because, to be frank, it's my turn. I'm Twain and together with my colleague in criticism bart_calendar we are Bad Music. I expose the evils of the US music scene, he sets his sights on the UK. It's America vs Britain. Yanks vs Limeys.

And here are my first choices. Choose my weapon:

Bob Dylan
Green Day
Lou Reed
The Pussycat Dolls

Pick one. We'll add 'em up and whoever gets most votes, gets it. Go my pretties.



Given that this weekend is Montpellier Gay Pride it seems fitting to write my little nasty essay about Queen - since they are a bunch of fucking faggots.

Now, don't accuse me of being homophobic. Don't accuse me of hating gay musicians. Don't even accuse me of hating gay British musicians.

Elton John's early catalog is filled with some wonderful songs. The first two Culture Club albums are awesome. Sure, Wham! sucked, but then George Michael grew up and created "I Want Your Sex", "Faith" and that cool song where he keeps screaming about "Freedom!"

When I call them fucking faggots I do so in the same way that many gays use the term to describe the type of self loathing gay man who hits every glory hole he can find and then comes into work and talks about all the women he fucked.

To put it to a point: They wrote flamboyant show tunes and then claimed they were rock stars. Rock and roll was their beard. They are the musical equivalent of Tom Cruise with Brian May playing the role of Katie Holmes.

At the end of the day, I have nothing against show tunes, but if your most profound musical influences are Steven Sondheim and Andrew Llyod Webber, please don't announce that you are going to rock me.

You won't and you never will.

It will always astound me that this group - who understood rock about as well as the producers of Beatlemania! - managed to have 18 number one albums, 18 number one singles, and 10 number one DVDs.

It makes me think that number of closeted cock suckers and fag hags must me much larger than previously reported.

Or that the deaf purchase albums in record numbers.

What's worse is that these aren't the type of gays who are gay because they love cock, they are the type of gays who are gay because they hate women. Have any of you ever listened to the lyrics of "Another One Bites The Dust?" It's a fucking celebration of killing women simply because they are women.

I don't even know what to say about "Bohemian Rhapsody" except that it is to musical theater majors what "Stairway to Heaven" is to people who wear Metallica T-shirts and go to vocational-technical schools.

I'd love to talk about their musical ability or charisma, but what is there to say? Their lack of cohesiveness speaks for itself. They make Hall & Oates look like musical geniuses. In comparison they make Bon Jovi appear to be the most ethical and non-corporate rock band in the world.

In short: Queen sucks.



The paradox of the execrable Coldplay is that, on paper, they should be brilliant. This is a band who declare a shared lineage with Radiohead and Jeff Buckley. They cite Echo and the Bunnymen and Kate Bush as inspiration. And yet, they are the musical equivalent of that last bit of turd that cannot be removed from one's sphincter. You know what I mean. You think you've got it all out, you pull up your pants and saunter off. Ten minutes later you start feeling sticky. That is exactly what it's like to have your otherwise perfect day interrupted by Coldplay.

And the chances of that happening are astronomically high. You're more likely to hear a Coldplay song during an average evening of TV watching than you are to get leukaemia after a decade sleeping on a bed made of uranium.

A triumph against adversity montage at the end of ER, Law and Order or CSI: Miwaukee - The tedious thud of Clocks comes on.

A scene in which estranged lovers unite over shared misfortune - Fix You blares out as the tears fall.

It's as welcome as finding a used, crap encrusted Trojan in your girlfriend's bed - when you only use Durex.

You simply cannot escape the fuckers. The problem is, while the producers of these dramas are attempting to twang and tweak my heartstrings with their soundtrack choice - they only succeed in, to use a term from narrative theory, "waking the dreamer". Here's how it goes: narrative fiction is like a dream. You go along with it. Suspend your disbelief. You put up with just about any crap in the name of being entertained. Unless it means putting up with Coldplay.

Until Clocks kicked in, I was probably on the side of the character facing jail time for stealing food to feed his children. Now I want to see him fry in the chair until he looks like jerky, the dirty thief. And "Fix You" just makes me want Dr. House to switch off the little girl's life support machine. Two minutes ago I was rooting for her. Now I want to see her die screaming, with oxygenated bile bubbling from every orifice. In short, TV producers - you've failed. You've fucked up. And it's all Coldplay's fault.

Why doesn't the same thing happen when the choice is more eclectic? When Brian Eno or Nick Drake tunes soundtrack the sad montage moment? My considered opinion is that Eno and Drake were artists of integrity and emotion. Coldplay are just a bunch of maudlin, talentless pricks who have just been very, very fucking lucky.

I mean - Clocks is just three chords. Three fucking arpeggios played in descending progression. For five full minutes. There's not a single change there at all. It starts, it goes on for five minutes, it vomits in my head and makes me want to punch Chris Martin in the cock until the resulting mess looks like a melted strawberry ice-cream - and then it ends. What a cunt.

And, really, that brings us to the crux of it. Coldplay isn't really Coldplay - the band. It's Chris Martin - the annoying new age hippy twat. Even U2 - from whom Coldplay have stolen so many of their tunes, posturing and sonic textures  - even they have recognisable members. There's Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and the drumming guy. Coldplay? There's Chris Martin... and, um, the bulldog looking one. Then there are band members 3 and 4. I think those are their actual names.

So, when I say Coldplay are the shit on a stick when what you wanted was a tasty corn-dog, what  I really mean is that Chris Martin is that shit. And that Chris Martin is a shit.

Have you ever heard him being interviewed? As a talk show guest, he makes Lou Reed sound like Tom Hanks. When promoting the last CD - you know, the one no one bought - he famously walked out of a radio studio saying that he wasn't "really enjoying this" because the interviewer was asking him probing, cutting questions like "what are your influences?" and "would you call this your best work?". Well, Chris, now you know how it feels for most people to have to listen to your music. You cunt.

Truth be told, this misunderstood genius bullshit is a little disingenuous coming from a man who wrote a song where every second line is "It was all yellow".

The real problem, for Coldplay, is that Coldplay are indie-lite. They are the diet version of alternative rock. But they don't know it. So, while we hear Coldplay and think of Travis and Keane and a bunch of other mediocre, tearful bed-wetters, Chris Martin hears Neil Young, The Flaming Lips and Radiohead. People who take chances. Smart people. Real musicians.

HA HA! HA HA HA! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha!

And that's where Coldplay fuck up. If they just accepted that they were a moderately talented, not very smart guitar band that makes musical wallpaper for 40 year old yuppies to swap keys to before they pair off and have missionary position sex in red brick suburbia - they'd be fine. But they don't get that. They think they can do good work, contribute to the betterment of our musical heritage. They think they can "make a difference".

And they can make a difference. They can fuck off.


Hall & Oates - The American Attack

Hello all you fellow music freaks, haters, snarkers and friends. A special greeting is in order for all of the anonymous people who have taken the time over the months to tell twain and I what a bunch of dickweasles we are.

Sorry we've been gone for a bit. Despite the Global Economic Crisis both Twain and I have been bogged down in work. And, since it keeps us off the breadlines, it had to be done.

But, I've got an essentially free day today and Twain and I have agreed to alter the rules slightly. While normally I'm only allowed to trash shitty UK bands (Mr. Gabriel, you know who you are) and he's only allowed to piss on US bands (hence why Nikki Sixx is right now trembling in his urine soaked chaps) we are mixing things up a little bit.

I get to trash Hall & Oates - and in return he gets to trash Coldplay. This is fine by me, because just typing the word Coldplay into this blog makes my skin crawl. (True story, I saw a kid wearing a Coldplay shirt the other day and said to Rome Girl: "Why not just wear a shirt that reads 'I have no taste.'")

Of course, Twain has rather infamously trashed Hall & Oates before, but why let that stop me? After all Twain was wrong about them.

His basic argument boiled down to "They are a couple gay white men pretending to be straight black dudes."

Here lies the rub. The problem isn't that they are gay. The problem is that they are not gay.

If they were gay, they might have undergone some struggle in their lives and developed some soul. They might have been immersed in cultural activities that would have allowed them to understand art at some basic level. They might have through exposure to the creative genius that was gay culture in the 1970s actually come up with some interesting ideas or styles.

But, they weren't. Instead they are the whitest straightest most vanilla dudes in the world. If Hall & Oates were sex, they would be three minutes of missionary position with your wife on the day of the month most likely to make a baby.

In other words they take something that should be spontaneous, fun and climactic and instead turn it into something short and completely utilitarian.

The only purpose of Hall & Oates is that they allow you to not think at all for three to five minutes at a time. They are like meditation without the hippy dude lecturing you about finding your mantra.

They are Mona Lisa without her smile, a bag of cocaine that is entirely baby laxative, a smokeless cigarette, a lion without claws and non-alcoholic beer all wrapped up into one shiny package.

Seriously, how was it possible to have 34 hits on the Billboard charts without one of them being somewhat daring or challenging? Shit, a broken watch is right twice. Even Rod Stewart managed to write Maggie May and redeem himself for all the other boring crap he came up with over the years.

But Hall & Oates never had that one hit that would make them interesting or shed light on anything else they did. Instead they cranked out formula pop songs one after another all of them designed to be equally friendly on white stations, black stations and elevators.

It's enough to make me wish at least one of them had taken it up the ass at some point.

They might have learned from the experience.

Sir Paul McCartney

Once again, sorry for the delay. I hate it when paying gigs get in the way of taking a dump on the musical taste of Her Satanic Majesty's Subjects.

That said the wait has given Daryl Hall and John Oates plenty of time to comment on the blog and explain that they are not, in fact, fat middle aged women in Omaha.

Keep telling yourselves that boys!

But enough of that. Let's get down to business you hep cats, cool kids, bad babes and boy toys. It's time to shoot the shit.

When last you came to this blog my esteemed co-blogger, Twain, was giving Madonna the high hard one – and, really, who hasn't? If her bush had an odometer on it, it would have turned over at least twice by now.

Which isn't to say that Ms. Cicconne isn't beautiful, talented and important. People forget but back when Madonna started out it still wasn't cool for young women to express their sexuality openly. Men were still looked at as the ones who wanted sex and girls who wanted sex were either seen as powerless insecure victims, sluts, or both.

Madonna changed all that and taught a generation of young women that you could be sexual and still powerful. She encouraged them to use their sexuality to their advantage – as she did herself – and not be victims.

The Material Girl is and has been many things, but she's always been in charge and strong. Beyond that she brought gay culture to mainstream America, which had a huge impact on the gay civil rights agenda.

Did some of her later music suck? Sure. But I'm willing to listen to “Ray of Light” in honor of the light she shed on an entire generation of women. And she has never rested on her laurels, unlike the real subject of today's blog:

Sir Paul “Cute Beatle” McCartney.

Here we have a cheap git stump humper who is still adored by millions of people across the world whenever they've sipped a little too much chardonnay before driving home in their Volvos to their comfy McMansions.

This is a man who only sells records because of his accomplishments in his early 20s. If he had not been in the Beatles all of his solo songs would have been laughed to the bottom of the charts as the cheap pop drek that they so obviously are.

Twain will argue that Sir Paul is a fine tune smith and I'll agree with him. He would do a great job writing advertising jingles. He could craft tunes for up and coming boy bands. If Britney Spears wants to do a ballad on her next album, he'd be a great pick to write it.

But, none of that means that he should be creating rock and roll on his own. The man has no taste whatsoever. Worse, he has no soul.

While it's true that I'm no great fan of the Beatles, I can at least respect the sense of irony and the heart and soul that went into many of their songs. Sadly, it now seems that all that intellectual talent came from John and not from Paul.

Rock and Roll is nothing if it doesn't have a sense of challenge, introspection, humor and rebellion. This is why that even though John “Don't Call Me Rotten” Lydon can't write a tune or sing that he will always be 10 times the artist that Sir Paul could ever be.

When you go through Paul's catalog you get a lot of pretty tunes that simply lack any and all substance or depth. Just think of “Band on the Run” or “No More Lonely Nights.” Like Patrick Batemen in “American Psycho” you just get a sense that while the surface is fine underneath there is nothing there.

As a human being he is beyond a pile of shit. This is a man who tried to change the writing credits on Beatles songs after his best friend was murdered. It's not like he needed the money. It's not like he needed any more fame. His ego just wanted to say “Hey, now that this guy is dead and can't argue with me, I'm going to take credit for his work.”

Worse was his reaction when told that John had been shot. He said, and I shit you not, “It's a drag isn't it?”

You insensitive fuckwit bastard. Fuck you, Paul.

When he got tired of his one legged wife he dragged her through a ridiculous expensive and nasty divorce – even though he has more money than the Queen of England. At one point he threatened to have his crippled ex-wife arrested for “stealing” cleaning products from their home.

It made me want to mail him a box of Tide.

Can you imagine Mick Jagger treating Jerry Hall or Bianca this way? I can't.

At the end of the day Paul McCartney is a slimy little man who got lucky by starting a band with an actually talented dude in the early 1960s.

Beyond that there is nothing there. He is the Wizard of Oz, the Emperor's New Clothes and the empty soul of the American Psycho all wrapped up in one pretty package.

Worse Than Madge

By hitting Madonna, twain had put me in a conundrum. There are so many, many egomaniacal pieces of pop trash that came over from the British Isles that it's impossible for me to pick one.

Do I want to go with 80s shit, 90s shit or something worse. My first instinct was to go with Victoria Beckham who is the UK version of Madonna, but she hasn't done anything really interesting musically so I'd have to attack her as the Skeletor clone that she is. That said, I have really nothing against writing a Posh 'N Becks post, but there are other options.

Elton John is of course the more feminine version of Madonna and then there is the shit storm of awful that is Robbie Williams.

Of course if you want to talk about someone who has managed to remain famous and popular despite releasing 30 years of bad material (much like Madonna) Sir Paul is the first face that comes to mind, but I don't know if trashing his solo career is really necessary since his crap speaks for itself.

So, I'm throwing this out to the readers.

Let me know who you want kicked to the gutter.

I'm lacing up my steel toed boots as you read this.

Poll #1330325 The British Madonna

Who Is Worse Than Madonna

Robbie Williams
Elton John
Posh Spice - As A Human Being In General
The Spice Girls
George Michael
Duran Duran
Sir Paul McCartney - Post Beatles
Hall & Oates


Oh, this is not good.  My heart's so not in it.

I have two feature articles to turn in by Monday, 5,000 words of novel to have in a publishable state by Friday and a tax return to finish. And, I think I'm starting with flu.

But, fuck all that really.  My heart's not in it because I wanted to do Elvis.  I even voted twice when the poll was neck and neck - but Bart changed his vote to Madonna, putting her back ahead.  Thanks Bart.

It's not that Madonna doesn't give me plenty to work with.  I mean, in some ways she epitomises the ugliest of America.  She's intellectually vacuous but ignorantly vociferous.  She has that "can do" spirit - but most of the time she can't  (see, for example, every acting role she's ever had, every record she's made since "Ray of Light"). 

If American taste has a defining trait though, it's fakeness - and Madonna has it oozing out of her arse like old person's mucus.

Madonna's entire career has been one desperate round of mask wearing after another.  One long Christmas afternoon where she's the exuberant, gap toothed six year old fresh from her first six weeks of dance school, doing her whole routine for the Aunties and Uncles.  And they applaud politely at first - but after the ballet demonstration and a rendition of  that song from "Annie", you just want the child to get out of the way so you can watch the telly for a bit.  That's when they come back in wearing tap shoes and do "Me and My Shadow".

Madge's version of that is "Here's me in a video and I'M KISSING JESUS" and "Here are some pictures of me WITH MY FADGE OUT".  And so on.  It's never "Here's me making a really great album that stands on its own musical merits".

No - the reason my heart's not in is that I think Madonna these days and I think "so what?".  How much more of a joke can you make of a woman who spent the first part of her career fucking herself with a crucifix on MTV, yet now bounces aimlessly from one New Age teat to the next in search of fulfillment-milk?  How much exaggerated snark can you fling at a person who, while married to her English husband, spent five years pretending to be English? She adopted a mockney accent, drank "pints" down the local and - God fuck me with his big Jewish cock - went pheasant hunting.  Her off-duty uniform in these unpleasant years appeared to be a tweed jacket and cloth cap.

What. A. Cunt.

So, I'm curtailing this entry so that I can do some real work - and not have to spend the rest of my morning seeing Madonna's wirey face, her big chin and shark eyes in my mind.  And next time, fuck the polls.  The King is dead.