Combining the qualities of late Coldplay with Brother Beyond in their mid-eighties C&A pomp, Two Door Cinema Club are probably the worst group the British Isles have produced in recent years.
The material on their debut ‘Tourist History’ declines headlong into follow up, the disasterously misnamed ‘Beacon’ (cover art belying the dross inside by indicating female genitalia as the pinnacle of human achievement.)
The island of Ireland has produced alot of fantastic music – The Pogues, The Virgin Prunes, Stiff Little Fingers, The Undertones, Ash, The Boomtown Rats, Wingmen, The Dubliners, early-U2, to name but a few – but Two Door Cinema Club are not one of these – despite, or rather because of, the efforts of their management, stylists and presumably record company.
It’s not entirely fair to blame the kids in the band themselves, though they did presumably sign the relevant contracts (how they must be crying into their pillows about THAT now), even if they do come across like a halls of residence pyjama party of the Young Conservatives. Singer Alex Trimble is the spitting image of a 16 year old David Cameron, which wouldn’t be so bad if this dubious achievement weren’t perfectly reflected in his bands music.
An A&R man walks into his boss’ office one morning: ‘Check these guys out Gavin, they’re great. So full of energy and positivity! The tunes are pretty decent too. They’re a bit like a more predictable Vampire Weekend, with that guitar bit from Coldplay’s ‘Strawberry Swing’ on every fucking song, bundled up as Deep Blue Something, forever!’
The best thing about Two Door Cinema Club is their name, which itself is already so self-conscious it hurts your balls. They encapsulate the cynicism and lack of adventure or imagination behind James Blunt, Tom Odell, Adele, Ben Howard, Ed Sheeran, Gotye and their terrifyingly relentless ilk, in an only-just post-pubescent band. It happened to Kings Of Leon – after a great start – in front of our eyes. Keane and 20 Seconds To Mars were ready-fucked versions.
It is the hand of the industry shaping somehow saleable effluence as instantly smooth, inoffensive indie-pop. Any edge of interest or any kind of life is ruthlessly scrubbed away as a potential sales blip – and the team (lets bundle band and company into that term) seem barely aware that it is only those mistakes can give their music any importance at all – because christ knows it’s not in any memorable tunes.
Smooth, baby-faced skin? Check. Semblance of something like a guitar? Check. Radio-friendly repetition of inanity? Check. Vague, sub-Gallagherian lyrics? Check. Stylised, spiky-without-being-threatening Tony & Guy haitcuts? Check. (Sub-)Standardised songwriting formulae? Check. Nondescript vocals, mixing and overall sound? Check, check and checked.
The worlds of ‘pop’ and ‘indie’ can be brilliantly combined with soul, intelligence, grace and magic: Joy Division ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart‘, The Cure ‘Just Like Heaven’, Blur ‘For Tomorrow’, MGMT ‘Weekend Wars’, Beck ‘Sexxlaws’, Outkast ‘Hey Yaa‘, pretty much everything The Smiths wrote, to name just a handful. Two Door Cinema Club are in the Jesus Jones drawer, minus the memorability. Good writing surely doesn’t always need to come from pain or experience, but clearly this band need SOMETHING.
But the band themselves shouldn’t be held responsible for not being able to produce interesting songs. That is true for most bands. Blame a desperate, dying, soulless, unimaginative, reactionary industry. Please, allow me a cliche: you can’t polish a turd.
