Imagine you’re a cock-rocker. You’ve got the crazy hair, the pout, and most importantly the legs to pull off those sewn-on faux snakeskin trousers. You’ve nailed that look, FUCKING NAILED IT.
However, you find yourself in a difficult situation. You’re passe – a one-trick pony taken out to pasture – and what’s more, by a chunky-looking farmer with one cartridge in his shotgun and a determined look on his face. Your one-hit-and-run-wonder has long been locked away, and possibly executed for Crimes Against Music.
What now? Where’s that market ?-That niche in the musical echelons with your name wedged in it?
Well, Justin Hawkins keeps desperately trying to carve his, with diminishing returns. But what he fails to take into consideration is the harsh process of natural selection. Obviously he was at home with the sniffles and a Lemsip (carefully administered by an over-zealous mummy) when they did Darwin at school.
Yes, that’s right, you heard me – the very existence of Justin Hawkins is contrary to the laws of nature. For, unlike Justin, Mankind has moved on since that hilarious novelty Christmas single. Yes – ‘novelty’. In fact, if this piece were to be boiled down to one cynical word, that word would be it.
Now, the obligatory cursory nod to the atrocity that is this album. Unfortunately, having listened to it three times in order to write this review, it’s got into my bloody head. That doesn’t mean it’s any good, though: it is, of course, mind-numbingly awful. You’re expecting squealing, bombastic classic rock and audio posturing, yes? Spot on. Move along, absolutely nothing to see here.