Track one of The 1975, by The 1975 is called The 1975. Does such bravado indicate a grandiose statement of intent? Well, it’s a faux-poetic come on that veers from icky to borderline nonsensical (‘Step in your skin? I’d rather jump in your bones’) set against production so smooth and polished you can see your grimacing reflection in it, and it’s halfway into the next track before you realise that it’s finished. So, yes.
The 1975 are less a band, more a collection of stock photos of trendy people. Their music is disco-infused emo for people with above average self-esteem. Singer, Matt Healy, puts everything in an impassioned, mewling yelp, as if all this dicking and all these loaded looks at awesome parties weigh heavy on his soul. Which may be true, but we never even get near the potentially interesting bit, which is why.
All this would be at least ignorable were it not for interminable bombast of the music – it’s an endless wall of sound, giant ‘80s drums competing with lush synths and roaring guitars. It’s an album about sex without a shred of intimacy to it. On the Phil Collins bop of Heart Out Healy asks ‘Why don’t you figure my heart out?’ I fear my answer would offend him.
Rating: 1 star
_ CHARLIE LEWIS