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1 out of 10
If you have any romantic notions about music being the most beautiful and abstract of the arts, the one most in touch with what it is to be human, then give Tiny Spark a listen. This band will take your soul, put it in a wheelie bin and torture it for months, pausing only to send you ravaged, screaming segments in the mail. You will weep. You will raise your hands to the careless heavens, howling, "WHY ??!! WHY ME??!! WHY US??!! IS THERE NO BEAUTY, NO LOVE, NO HUMANITY??!!" Your very being will be reduced to a 'tiny spark', indeed. I caught my foot tapping at one point and immediately hacked it off - with a triple-A from a Slayer gig, naturally.
And what of the soundtrack to this existential nightmare, produced by five man-tastic, girl-moistening rakes with cheekily sculpted hair and bankrolling by Mr. Ben Sherman's pants empire? It is a titanic pop chimera. Keane's head on ELO's torso. Queen's left arm. The entire lower half of U2, making some accountant-creaming, eight-legged Cthulhu-machine. The whole topped by the mangled, gibbering, harmonised larynxes of Chris Martin and James Blunt. This monster won't be happy with Virgin cod-Indie award nominations or playing to others' sell-out crowds. Oh no. It wants spots on the National Lottery show, residencies at the O2 and tentacled trysts with Girls Aloud while they're still partly human. I see a permanent engraving on Dermot O'Leary's playlist, in beige ink on a fawn background. I see massed arms of Personnel typists waving along to the 'my window got a hole' chorus of Never Met That Girl at the V Festival, utterly failing to quake in fear at the line 'I never met a girl that took it so bad'. I see the Cowell cloning vats. Tiny Spark are killing music. They must be stopped.
2. Go On
3. Never Met That Girl