End Of Fashion
Book Of Lies
At one stage this album looked like a contender for the "longest time a CD has sat on my desk and not been imported into iTunes" award - a prize currently held by Ben Lee's last album, Ripe, which is still yet to make the transition. Then one day for whatever reason I thought I would give it a shot. I was surprised. Not because the record was any good but that it was 2008 (ie. The Future) and the brilliant tech-minds over at Apple HQ still hadn't invented a way to recognise shit disguised as 'music' and forcefully stop me from adding it to my collection.
This is the same amalgamation of recycled "rawk" guitar riffs and pop-focused garbage that End Of Fashion have focused their attention on ever since they "accidentally" raped the shit out of the Pixies. Frontman Justin Burford comes across as more of a dickhead than ever before, with his self-obsessed lyrics and "pop shine" vocals sounding unbelievably forced and painfully predictable. His lyrical content across the twelve songs on this record (which is about thirteen songs too long) will surely play a big role in the suicide statistics for this year.
Book Of Lies is full to the brim of rock cliches and vomit-inducing "pre-made hits". The group's barefaced commercial focus is (for lack of a better word) sickening. This is pure 400% uncreative crap.
I would recommend you stab yourself in the eye of your penis with a rusty screwdriver and/or forcefully shove a 120kg dead man up your vagina ahead of EVER listening to this album.