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Franz Ferdinand


Right Thoughts, Right Words, Right Action


Here’s a scary thought. Some of the people going to Amps this Friday have been going every weekend since 2004, when people still listened to Hot Hot Heat and a black president was just something that happened on 24. This album is for them, and only for them.

RFRWRA is a litany of sexless, dry irrelevance, coasting in neutral on disco struts so half-heartedly turgid that not even the band seem convinced it was a good idea to bother with them. Stand On The Horizon puts up a decent fist of being worthwhile (it sounds like The Specials!), but heck, it’s a lonely thing in this bunch, especially when Alex Kapranos starts hallucinating that he’s an animal about seven minutes later.

I hate this album. I hate the fact I’m typing this sentence. And I hate you, Franz Ferdinand, for turning up so late to the party that you’re incredibly early to another one you weren’t even invited to. I don’t live in that house anymore, your jacket looks like crap and there is no way I am railing dexies with you again in your Daewoo in your mum’s driveway before we taxi to the city, so don’t ask.



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