To The Gallows You Go

Chris Martin; Gary Lightbody; Bono; the bloke from Keane whose face has no edges: all of them provide that sort of dull, introspective nonsense that is so criminally overrated that if there were such thing as a high court for crimes against music, they would face imminent hanging.

But as we fantasise over the swinging corpses of those mentioned above, we must remember, for some people they are heroes. For some, they provide the soundtrack to a heavy heart; for others, they merely provide fey indie songs with anguished six-former lyrics, which make the listener want to reach for the nearest sharp implement and try to remove their ears - insides and all. Boo-hoo! It must be so hard with your millions in the bank, now grow some stones and go off and write a proper song. Please.

Turbo Blanc, despite probably not having the millions in the bank (well, not made from the tears of the emotionally fragile, at least), fit into the tedious and self-absorbed model of our aforementioned musical un-dignitaries and their debut EP, ‘Ten Days’ suffers because of two gleaming factors: the music and the lyrics.

Musically, the four tracks are a fairly unspectacular bag. Occasionally peppered with some guitar riffs which elevate the music slightly, there is nothing here that really grabs your attention and demands you to listen intently for all the little nuances contained within. Lyrically, they are also fairly unaccomplished too. ‘Something Crazy’, with its playground-esque rhyme scheme and absurdist refrain of: “She hates my ankles//She hates my wrists//And now she’ll hate me for stealing her lists” just sits uncomfortably.

There could be an accomplished band in here somewhere, but even after repeated listens, it’s hard to hear. Turbo Blanc will probably be appearing at an arena near you soon.