The Greasy Movements: Whisky and Cheese
It's been a slow month for submissions in the music section. Even so, the review copy of Whisky and Cheese that arrived yesterday was about as welcome as a powerful beef fart in a crowded elevator.
Not that The Greasy Movements aren't technically adept. The three musicians (Zak, Jeremy and Wigg) can rock out with the best of them. The production is crisp and clear, and, unlike most of the rock albums I've heard recently, you can actually make out the lyrics.
Which is the problem. Like most rock lyricists, Ainsley Twattle is no poet. In fact on the basis of these solopsistic meanderings, he'd barely cut it writing advertising jingles. Twattles's lyrics are so unbearably self obsessed and angst ridden that you literally want to rip out his intestines and strangle him with them. Indeed, had he been in the room at the time of listening, I would have done just that. On song after song he provides us with cliched and inane imagery, telling us how miserable he feels without bothering to explain why. It's the kind of self indulgent drivel that fills up most blogs and free form poems.
It's obvious that the musicians themselves have potential. It's even more obvious that the only thing holding them back is the singer. My advice is to ditch the self important cocksucker, or distort the vocals so much that you can't tell what he's singing. Either would be an improvement.
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Eric LeCoque |
