Why I won't be getting the Rage this Christmas.

Now, I'm nobody's Simon Cowell fan, but I'm starting to think that the latest anti-X Factor/Syco (pronounced as 'Psycho' rather than my choice of 'Sicko', either way it's no win) protest is as predictable as it is tiresome. I'm not exactly bowled over at the prospect of Geordie Joe romping to the Christmas number 1, before the inevitably dull album release and the eventual career on the West End. I even bought into the previous year's Facebook campaign, the one where we were all supposed to go out and buy (actually, sit in and download) Jeff Buckley's version of 'Hallelujah' over the Alexandra Burke version.

But I'm starting to wonder, if there is any time of the year that we should lie down and give in to the crass commercialisation of popular music, then it's Christmas? After all, crass commercialisation is what Christmas has come to be associated with. The charts are likely to be filled with the same Christmas songs that have been doing the rounds for the last however many years. Christmas is the time of the year where people who know nothing about music buy albums for other people who know nothing about music and occasionally not actually from Tesco. Expect the impossibly bland housewives' favourite, Mickey Bubble, or whatever he's called, to be up there in the album charts alongside Lady GaGa and Susan Boyle, an unlikely threesome indeed (in all possible senses of the word). The prospect of the musical puppet McElderry topping the singles chart come the 25th is, in many ways, a perfect microcosm of a society in which we rush round trying to find the latest fad item to hastily wrap for our loved ones on the big day, before being even more hastily discarded/returned with the receipt/consigned to the shed on the 26th.

It is into this melee that the latest Facebook protest has arrived, in the form of Rage Against The Machine's 1992 song 'Killing in the Name', and our supposed purchase thereof. Someone, somewhere has presumably decided this would be incredibly clever to have as a song blaring out of our stereos over Christmas. As a title it is the worst there has been for a Christmas song (as it now is) since The Darkness released one containing 'bells end' in the title (a fact I believe singer Justin Hawkins said he was proud of). More worryingly, the song is dreadful. Seriously dreadful. It is the sort of utter wank that almost certainly influenced the early-noughties rise of nu-metal, and for that reason this song should be left in the vaults of music history and forgotten about.

Championing RATM over Cowell and his charges is exactly the kind of pseudo-edgy thing you'd do if you think rebelling is only buying the Fairtrade chocolate from your local Waitrose. Digging up a song from nearly two decades ago from a hugely successful band and lining their already deep pockets is not, in any way, shape or form, an act of protest - especially given the current bustling, burgeoning and varied UK indie scene producing a stream of great, unheard music (and by indie I mean the plethora of smaller, independent acts likely to be playing your nearest toilet venue and plugging their 7" single on MySpace).

But, say the protesters, it's about Cowell controlling the charts. Yes, he is to some extent, but if the only way to protest is by buying a single specific song which I might not happen to like, thankyouverymuch, then you can keep it. Sorry to say it, but the charts are and will continue dominated by Cowell and the major labels, and have always been. There's little we can do about that, and why would we want to? The charts are not about recognising true talent, they're about who has the biggest marketing budget and can pull a few strings with the radio giants, a two-pronged attack which will inevitably translate into sales. If that is what the protest is against, then I'm sorry, you've lost. Irretrievably so.

So this Christmas, I will be protesting against protesting. That is to say, do nothing at all and just enjoy Christmas for what it is. I invite you to do the same.

Frank Turner – Poetry of the Deed

It is an interesting truism to note that the level of Frank Turner's success has increased in an inverse relationship with the length of his hair. Expect, then, when he finally hits the big time for him to turn up looking like Michael Stipe. But more centrally to the ascension of our star Turner is his third longplayer offering, 'Poetry of the Deed'. It is very difficult to write a review about the borderline crossover appeal of Turner without reference to the phrase 'selling out'. Fear not, for this critique is not about to accuse Turner of such. Indeed, the wit of the man has beaten me to it; 'We can never sell out because we never bought in', yells a typically animated Turner on upbeat opener 'Live Fast Die Old'.

However, shying away from such actions does not take away from the fact that this is perhaps the weakest Frank Turner album to date. That opening song sets a promising pace for the rest of the album to follow; prominent piano and organ over a clean production sheen (I'd have loved to hear the first album produced like this), a song pitched in the 'Vital Signs'/'Reasons...' bracket. Therein lies the true problem of the album however – most of the songs here have in essence been done before, and done better. Many of them have direct counterparts from the first two albums, almost as though they have provided a blueprint for all future works. For 'Sons of Liberty', for instance, read 'Love Ire & Song' or '...Anarchists', except not nearly as good. There's the songs about drinking, songs about girls, songs about...songs. The problem is that none of them seem to grab this listener in quite the same way that their non-identical twins once did. Remember when you first heard 'The Real Damage' or 'Long Live The Queen'? Nothing on here quite has the same impact, be it through a killer hook or lyric.

Still, any new material is a welcome addition to the Turner library. 'Richard Devine' has a quirky, staccato swagger about it, vaguely reminiscent of his backing band Dive Dive's 'Take It, It's Yours' and bizarrely, (and ever so slightly) 'Laura' by the Scissor Sisters (listen to that piano/guitar line in the opening verse). Not a sentence I'd ever thought I'd write. Elsewhere, lead single 'The Road' is another standout – the kind of folk-pop singalong we've grown used to over the years, with an almost trademark driving middle eight in particular lifting the song to a triumphant final chorus. 'Live Fast...' also makes use of this well, especially the lovely sliding effect signalling the run in to a great last minute or so.

Leaving these aside, solo acoustic strum 'Dan's Song' is probably the weakest such effort I've heard from Frank's repertoire, musically and lyrically – an attempt at a 'Real Damage' without the punch. And title track 'Poetry of the Deed' contains the line, “Life is to short to be lived without poetry/If you've got soul darling come on and show it me” - one of those Turner lyrical moments; a genius rhyme or just plain cringeworthy? I still can't decide after numerous listens. However the closing trio of songs somewhat rescues a meandering middle portion of the album; each building, once again, to their own dramatic climaxes; the slow-burning 'Sunday Nights' perhaps the most affecting of these.

Taken outside the context of the first two albums, there is no doubt that this is a highly listenable record; upbeat in many places, generally just good fun. It pains me a little to judge it on the first few listens; some songs may grow over time, or be more impressive in a live scenario. Furthermore, this is no 'backlash' as may have been expected against his growing popularity. But there is no getting away from those earlier efforts and comparisons thereto. This is a Frank Turner minus the angst, the emotion, the call-to-arms anthemics of first two albums works. In other words, everything that made his earlier works special, personal, life-affirming even. Shorn of these traits, Poetry of the Deed is merely a decent collection of songs.

7/10


Well at least I got through this whole review without one use of 'frankly', 'to be frank...' or similar.