Opinion : I made war on Indie as a joke - it just got Personal: an attack on Skint and Demoralised

Disclaimer: This post is long, angry and has a tendency to ramble, for a clear concise and short summary on the article scroll to the bottom and read the footnote marked '**'

Ladies and Gentlemen, you find me in a distressed mood.

Not even mad, or angry or pissed off... I am distressed. I am more distressed than I was when Jacko's untimely (I say untimely because it was a long time coming) death eclipsed the Iranian situation and when Mrs Goody managed to pull off the biggest scam (dwarfing the one by Bernard Madoff ) by fooling the more gullible citizens of our great nation, that by exploiting her death for money, she was providing for her kids, rather than being the press-hungry, attention seeking ladette she always had been. In fact I am even more distressed than the time when my Mother threw my last Cadbury's Cream Egg out of the window, which I had been saving for two months because I wouldn't let her have a bite.

Before fully indulging in my distress, allow me to dangle the rope above your feline claws and explain about my oscillating relationship with Indie. Just like RnB, I love Indie. For me Indie started when the Kinks provided a fresh alternative to those who despised the brainless gene-carriers who screamed after the Beatles, and who in time reproduced children and grand-children who would one day sympathise with the aforementioned Goody and her plight. The genre experimented on a broad spectrum in various ways, entertaining the likes of Velvet Underground, the Clash and perhaps even Pink Flloyd in it's alternative umbrella before finally deciding to settle down in the mind of a well read boy with a prominent chin residing in the streets of Hulme, Manchester who went under the moniker of Steven Patrick Morrissey at the exact point when a young upstart rebel by the name of Marr simultaneously knocked on his door suggesting that they make music together. This duo, then decided to go against the current trend of over-complicated band names such as Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark and settled on an ordinary name of The Smiths. And as history would have it, Morrissey and Marr, joined by Rourke and Joyce, went on to create modern indie as we know it, influencing the likes of The Stone Roses, Oasis, Pulp, Libertines, Arctic Monkeys etc. Then it all became a little bit commercial and the offspring of those who had been listening to ABBA in the late 70's, decided to step into a different pair of jeans with drastically thinner legs and form bands such as The Cribs, The Holloways, The Guilemotts, The Fratellies etc etc who all have three things in common with each other:

a) their names begin in 'The'

b) At any one time on stage the following items of clothing will be sported; skinny jeans, horizontally striped shirts - probably in back and white or red and white - checkered shirts, Converse trainers, some sort of hat and/or RayBan's

c) they all have no artistic integrity.

Similarly RnB produced some wonderful music back in the day, which has now ultimately cumulated in a shit formula that Flobots have down to a cue - thusly take a repetitive 80's hit and add:

1) distortion,

2) scantily clad girls,

3)bling,

4) a muscular black guy who when rapping looks like he's having a stroke entirely centred down his right arm, *

5) high pitched women singers who certainly aren't the scantily clad 6 stone, small boy resembling, rib protruding walking vagina's prancing around upstage who were mentioned in number two,

and finally, rap over it.

I feel I just got a little carried away... back to Indie music

Now, I didn't mind about these new (or should that be nu - one should always strive to be street) Indie kids cashing in on a lucrative market. I was only mildly annoyed when frequenting my local night club to brave the waves of modern Indie in the vain hope of an odd Joy Division or Cure song, that I saw a dance floor full of identical looking teenagers in which my first thoughts were that there had been a huge fancy dress kerfuffle and everybody had came in the same lumberjack-meets-hair mousse costume - after all how could I be angry when I still had my Smiths (thanks Mark Ronson) sweetly serenading me.

But now, Indie has gone too far. And reader, it honestly pains me to carry on. Because, as you can tell, by these short, fragmented utterances, I am distressed. Very distressed.

And what worries me more is that I know that when I mention the name of this... (well, lets say the word cunt doesn't give him justice), some of you will look him up on Youtube or whatever, inadvertently making his hit rates higher and hence making him look more popular. Can I implore you to counter this by hurling abuse and rating 0 stars on this foul satanous beast? Because, Ladies and Gentleman, because, this excuse for a Northerner, has taken modern Indie, yeah fucking modern Indie, cupped that squirming gelatinous beast - and I'm currently shaking while typing - in his two grubby fucking stumps on the end of his slave-made Topman clothed arms, and unleashed it, on what I regard as the most innocently devastating form of literature... yes, that's right - poetry. He has done in three minutes what Keats took a lifetime to do - he made accessible poetry shit.

The offending creature, Matt Abbott, from the group Skint & Demoralised, has apparently stumbled upon what was his primary school book of poetry and made it into a spoken word song. So you don't have to waste any precious time or effort on this suicidal inducing paedophile of poetry, here are the lyrics from his song Red Lipstick

I like things that don´t make sense
No need for lies no false pretence
No pop-up dolls or pasted pictures
Dreams of fame or chasing riches
I like girls who like their friends
Not chasing blokes or fashion trends
She doesn´t care if she´s looking daft
That kind of girl always makes me laugh

Oh really girl I must confess
Yeah really girl I´m quite impressed

She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Alright

And I don´t mind when I look a fool
When I try being nice try and stick to the rule
Your face goes blank like you´re trying to test us
And I´ve used my bank of romantic gestures
I don´t mind when you laugh at all of my lines
I´ve tried to impress you a million times
You brush them off but you still looked flattered
My minds gone blank and my brains are scattered all over all over
And then you win be back with a look of affection
Your timing was done to real perfection

Oh really girl I must confess
Yeah really girl I´m quite impressed

She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
Red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Alright
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside

Let me reiterate, this person proclaims or has been proclaimed as a spoken word poet. Now for me a poet who makes forays into the musical world has to be extremely gifted - if he uses rhymes he has to be inventive, imaginative and exciting, he has to have good rhythm and his lyrics, as he would usually speak them, have to have a powerful meaning. Let us spend a minute dissecting Mr Abbott's song..yup it's still shit and reads like a twelve year old's love poem. If you don't believe me, listen to it... it's still shit. If even then, you are some self-pitying pig who cannot come to your own opinions without listening to Luke from the Kooks and goes to a gig to stand around on the peripheries, as not to mess up your bed head hair-do and are the kind of person who will get offended at that last sentence please take some time to listen to Mr Abbotts contemporaries. The first two who come to mind, as they are my personal favorites, are Mr Johnny Cooper Clarke and Mr Scroobius Pip.

The difference is, that in JCC's case, he is devastatingly witty and although prone to some poor rhyming he pulls it off in a cheeky manner and more than makes up for it in his rhythm and style of most of his poems, which are among the most imaginative poems I have ever read/listened to. Similarly Mr Pip, while having Dan le Sac to give an added touch of flare, sees beauty in the most obsolete places, tells harrowing parables and rhymes five syllable words that I never knew existed. Compare them now again with this wanker - I like girls who like their friends/Not chasing blokes or fashion trends - my dog writes better, it goes Woof/Woof. In fact I have decided to write a quick verse in the style of this poe... po... p... poat - Apologies reader, I can not bring myself to describe him as a poet.

Matt Abbot you are shit

If i saw you I would hit

yeah

Your face into a brick

alright

Then i would take out my tit

And force you to suckle on it

Now I realise this is slightly unfair, as I have used a two syllable word, something Mr Abbott is still striving to accomplish, but let me tell you, I wrote that without pausing and it is infinitely better than anything I have heard from the mouth of that penis-faced-cunt-tit-wanker. I plead with him to put his pen down, leave Poetry alone and return to Sheffield to make silver spoons.

* Apologies to anybody who has been affected by a victim of a stroke, a truly horrendous infliction. I can't think of anything which could be worse apart from the continuation of modern RnB

** Summary: Whilst Skint and Demoralised can create catchy music their self-proclaimed spoken word poet frontman, Matt Abbot creates the worst lyrics I have ever read. He seems to be on a vendetta to destroy poetry by making it shit - which angers me