The XX is shit.
The XX is shit. Boring boring bland bland bland boring iPhone shit. Shit that drones and whines and whines because it thinks it’s smart and soulful to do so, instead of just being droney whiney whiney shit. Shit that makes me wish for the heady envelope-pushing days of James Blunt and Sam Shit, I mean Smith. The XX is shit. Music made to soundtrack the aspirational dreams of ad men and women and other shit beasts, their aspirations amounting to buying a ticket for next year’s Glastonbury. Shit that makes you wish for the nervy, boundary-pushing days of the second Coldplay album. You don’t need to be knowledgeable to know this, you don’t need to hold an opinion. You don’t need to be a puppet. The XX is shit. Pop music is about escapism sure, but why would you want to escape from one train carriage full of beige into another precisely the same? The XX is shit. Whisper into your lover’s face, scream it on production lines, snort it down the back of toilet seats. All those ‘soothing’ electronic effects designed to be formulaic, to not unsettle. The end-result of decades spent thinking that 50 Shades of Grey is somehow fucking “cutting edge”. The voice one long tedious loop of nothing backed by nothing. Whiny nothing. The XX is shit. Music designed to be forgotten before you’ve started listening. Their music is airport cock, driveway drivel, shopping mall malfeasance. The XX sing like they’ve been straining for the Big One for days now. They sing like turtles fart. The XX is shit. Don’t be cowed by sheep. Don’t be bowed by dunderheaded DJs. The XX is shit. Each time they creep out another vocal it makes me want to punch a tree. The XX is shit. Slow does not equal emotional does not equate with soul. It just means you’re playing something slow. The XX is shit. As genuine as toothpaste, a swirl of big ass noodly nothing snoring politely into a microphone, snoozing politely through 2017. A sad sack of shitty-edged shit, without the edge. A perfume ad without the smell.
I eat meat on a stick. I drink lager Shandies. I DO NOT FREQUENT FUCKING WAREHOUSE CLOTHING STORES. The XX is shit.
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