TINDERSTICKS
TINDERSTICKS
Mumbly, mildew-voiced men scratching their warty groins in ill-lit pubs, leering at women and sobbing into their drinks. Another useless cabaret entry in the Great British Parade of liver-failure chic and lowlife tourism: move on, nothing to see here. Nothing new, certainly, especially after four suspiciously similar albums. You get the measure of Tindersticks by their covers: listen to Pavement’s “Here” filtered through Stuart Staples’ ironic croon: it’s a fucking novelty record, without even the benefit of being funny. At least it’s got a hook, which is more than you could say for their original material.
But they’d read a few books, and the records had strings on. So that was all right.
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