U2 have sold more records than Prince.
If there’s a more damning and depressing indictment of humanity, I don’t think I want to know it.
In a forty year career U2 have had three good songs, five more passable songs and a dearth of noise, punctuated by lyrics that are neither poignant, nor inventive. But it’s not for this reason that I harbour all this rage.
Hundreds of successful, completely talentless bands like Coldplay and Muse sell music to hundreds of thousands of cretinous bores, and it’s no skin off my nose.
Society has to pay a price for the sheer majesty of, say, Tracks of My Tears; and that price is Ellie Goulding.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, but there we have it.
There’s a general consensus that music is a subjective art form and one man’s Richard is another man’s Judy, and to a certain extent – fair enough.
Is it a sudden unpleasant jolt, when you’re standing in a supermarket queue and James Blunt’s Beautiful comes on? Well, yeah a bit. And is it even more depressing when the fit fella handling his mangoes on the opposite checkout starts humming along? Definitely.
“What’s your wedding song?” you ask a colleague you’ve always had a laugh with at coffee break.
“Will Young, Evergreen” they beam.
‘Oh, just let me drown. Let me die right where I’m stood at the sheer fucking pointlessness of other fucking people and their shitty fucking opinions and their fucking doomed marriages if the best borrowed musical embodiment of their love is Will fucking Young taking this night (just this night?) and making it fucking Evergreen (what?!)’ you think.
“Aww, lovely,” you mumble, because, as I previously outlined we all like different music. And all the terrible shite is the price you pay for your own personal (in my case, correct) musical tastes.
That being said, U2 aren’t playing ball. They’re not content with me spying one of their albums on a fella’s iPod and never phoning him again, or tutting when one of their tunes comes on in the background of a café scene in Corrie.
Like a desperate ex or James Corden, they’re everywhere. Trying to escape them is as futile as Wayne Rooney’s hair transplant.
If it’s not smug-stern faced Bono meeting the pope in giant sunglasses on the channel 4 news, it’s this new iTunes advert for their new album entitled Songs of Innocence. Apple tried to give the shitty album away for free, and of course most people with adequate hearing were outraged…
How are four 60 year old men allowed to shoehorn themselves into leather kecks, do that fist pump, rocking around the microphone and making it lean to one side, wearing shades whilst doing that guitar solo intense stare thing in a great big fucking beanie hat without someone, somewhere having the balls to say,
“Here, lads. It’s time to pack this shit in. Cut your hair. This power-rock, faux-yank, having-a-shit vocals, crop top, silly headwear, winkle picker, stonewash shite your peddling has had its day. You appeal only to Top Gear fans who work in IT, and the only reason you’re successful is because these people have access to bank accounts and no girlfriends.” ?
It’s not that they’re old, though. Old is often better. It’s that they’re oppressively shit and they’re intruding on my time.
The ego on Bono is well documented, but can you imagine the four of them together? One of them insists on being called The Edge, for Christ’s sake. Making that video consisted of Bono only being shot from a certain angle and runners being obliged to ask “Mr Edge” if he wanted a drink. You know it, I know it.
Remember when Bono covered his own song One with Mary J. Blige who out sang him so magnificently that he had to shout over her? Apparently when they reissued Feed the World (awful song) he wouldn’t let someone else sing his line because they sounded better. I bet there’s a giant picture of Bono on Bono’s bedroom ceiling.
We’re always hearing about the strops on Mariah Carey and Diana Ross, but these four twats surpass it. You only need hear them speak in interviews. They do that Irish-with-an-American twang thing and change pretty to “priddy” – “We wanted to do an album that was priddy different to our other stuff” Well, you haven’t, you boring old cunt. You’ve done another terrible album for the same terrible people to buy.
The white male ego knows no bounds. They’ve earned their corn. They could easily afford to retire to Malibu, slip the girdles off, donate the Stetsons , beanies and gigantic shades to charity, start eating wheat again and live off the royalties. But they won’t. They’ll continue making shit music and what’s worse is that they’ll continue intruding on my time, like travelling salesmen and my mother.