‘Moving To New York’, however, is where they get the balance exactly right. However, its chorus – “If this is a rom-com, kill the director” with “This is no! Bridget Jones!” repeated to infinity – ensures feet are kept from dancing by the fact that toes are too curled from the cringeworthy lyrics to allow any kind of movement. Full of exhilarating punk-funk derived from Dan ‘The Rat’ Haggis’ octopus-limbed drumming, a chest-burst chorus and plenty of singalong “whoo-oo, whoo-oo”s, the song should be an absolute treat. The fact that their frenetic, thumping indie package appears to be gurningly stupid and painted with the kind of lyrics normally found on the inside covers of GCSE notebooks is both a blessing and a curse for the Liverpool-based trio.įirst off, it totally ruins what is potentially their best song, ‘Kill The Director’. If you think this intro is some kind of laboured drum-roll to justify the fact that The Wombats make lobotomy rock about as serious and considered as Jade Goody’s post-Celebrity Big Brother trip to India, you’re wrong. Razorlight, Hard-Fi, The Killers – these are the chief churners of our dancefloor hits and, Jesus, where’s the fun? You’ve drunkenly shuffled to ‘Cash Machine’ but can you honestly spray Stella joyously as Richard Archer spews his ditch-water social commentary about the struggles of living on the Staines breadline? Can you manically groove to ‘America’ while Borrell’s godlier-than-thou global observations retch from his gob? Do you really think Brandon Flowers – a man who sports the kind of moustache only usually spied in the pages of The Chap magazine without a whisker of irony – celebrated recording ‘Mr Brightside’ by chugging back a can of beer, loosening his contraceptive neck tie and moonwalking to the bar for a refill? They were rewarded with worldwide adulation and the unchallenged consensus that they were amazing – not simply four men who could write a sweet tune about quite fancying someone.įast-forward to your average indie club circa 2007 and our staple booty-wigglers seem rather more po-faced than the beloved perma-grinning Scousers originally intended pop music to be. Back in the day, The Beatles used to get away with structuring choruses no more complicated than repeating the word “yeah” over and over, or extolling the virtues of grasping a girl’s hand over three glorious pop-filled minutes. What a very… serious musical age we live in today.
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