Kotchy - 89
This job isn't all sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Sometimes it's murder and here's absolutely damning evidence your Honour - Kotchy's debut, 89. Let's start at the beginning (screen goes wiggly)... A mysterious new album drops through The Music Fix letterbox...Our special rock'n'roll Postman gives me the skinny on this new kat, Kotchy. [Whispers] “Like Prince, basement Mozart, freakster hip-hop but not that Pharrell crap, this is the Shiz”. I pat him on the back, discretely hand him a pony and that picture of Sarah Harding he wanted and I gets my prize. The New Prince? Hell yeah. Further investigations turn out this fella rolled with Joan As Police Woman and Rufus Wainwright too. Lawdy Miss Clawdy! Good times my friends.
PAH! I'd been slipped a mickey. That bloody Postman!! I'm gonna spike his ipod with some bloomin' Wombats next time I see him!! God damn it now I'm stuck with reviewing the bloody thing. Jesus just strike me where I stand, gimme some Swine Flu, take me off the street 'til the storm passes over. No? Damn.
How to describe 89? Do you remember that episode of Friends where Ross is 'playing' the keyboards and just pressing nonsensical sci-fi noises, belching frogs and church bells and calling it “a sonic cathedral”. Imagine that for FORTY FOUR minutes. 'Songs' (and I use the term loosely) lurch from one to another without any identity or personality whatsoever and I repeatedly check if we're onto a new track or if it's just one revolving circle of hell.
Let's put the formula on the chalkboard shall we children? Right take some hippity-hoppity beats. Any ol' bobbins will do. OK, now move the tempo slider up and down slightly everything thirty seconds, lovely yes. What else? Maybe whine a completely random phrase or two in the most annoying falsetto ever recorded? What should you say? Erm, just say the songtitle indiscriminately. Now for the piece de resistance, just hit every button on your keyboard. Yes, OK, pretend you're a baby in a high chair, yes! Yes! Mash up that naughty food Mummy's making you eat. Throw it up! Throw it against the wall! Yeah that'll teach 'em! You're not the boss of me Mother!!
As Phil Collins might say, but seriously, this is someone who's just fannying about trying every sound on the new bontempi he got for Christmas. Terrible hipster shit destined to be lauded solely by Nathan Barley London types. It's the middle class kid from Offspring's Pretty Fly For A White Guy video. It even includes the (cough) lyrics “Shake it I wanna see you dancin'...loosen up let's dance buck naked”. You want more? How about Three Lonely Girls, an insightful potrait of aforementioned lonely ladies on a fag break whose “pain is synchronised”, or Shake (a soul-melting six minute epic) which includes the monumental revelation “I don't give a fuck what you've got to say...shake that shit”. Look out Bob Dylan, this cat's a lyrical gangster! It's the Village Idiot who got locked in Dixons overnight and this is the aftermath. I listened to it alone and I was embarrassed. If I had a split personality, I wouldn't be talking to myself right now.
This car crash atrocity reaches its nadir on A Superstar (dream on Kotchy) . Let's take a snapshot of this lyrical manifesto, “Cash and cars can help him get laid...big tits...ho's...I'll take the ugly bitch, pussy to trade”. Priceless. Throughout, Kotchy is desperate to paint himself as “legendary swordsman”. Like you do, when you're 13. This will all inevitably be defended as “knowing pastiche” and “clever irony” but it's far too dumb to convince and the result is bad, VERY bad. It's so offensively tragic I signal the guards to seize the equipment and hurl its creator into the dungeon.
In the name of 'fair journalism' I am compelled to present some kind of balanced critique, so good bits? Good bits. Good. Bits. [struggles] Oh yeah! In Sing What You Want one of the synth noises reminded me of the Animal Magic themetune from my youth. Aah lovely Johnny Morris doing the voices of the animals and all that, just wonderful. Oh and midway through Track 16 there's 90 seconds of pure bliss. Yes there's just silence, beautiful, beautiful silence. Then some Woodstock-style bohemian butts in and says “Your friends are gone”. It's genuinely hilarious. I can just imagine little Kotchy popping his baseball cap back on (backwards obviously) and going back to Mothers for dinner, new 'album' proudly under his arm. Chortle, I can only imagine her pained smiles as she endures all 43:49 minutes over and over again. Not me suckers, never again! I'm changing my name, moving abroad, having my ears sealed, I'd rather listen to N-Dubz than go through this again. No wait pull yourself together man, I really am losing it, nothing's that bad.
The Kotchy spindoctors suggest 89 is "more than just a number". They're right. As well as being a steaming No2 it also makes a nice coaster for lovely cups of tea or a wedge for a wobbly table leg. So, 1/10 and just because he cleared his plate and used ALL of the sounds on his very first keyboard. Well done you!