These days, bands can ride a tidal wave of hype, long before even their debut album hits Spotify. Taste makers are always clamouring for the next big thing. So it is with The Last Dinner Party. They’ve been everywhere over the last year.
Unfortunately, they don’t feel like worthy recipients of such praise. This debut was produced by James Ford, and hits all the “loud quiet loud” buttons of derivative pop. I call it Waitrose indie. Gone are the days of landfill indie, these days it’s posh kids playing power chords. That’s not a judgement on background – The Strokes went to finishing school and The Stones didn’t exactly struggle- but what grates is the lack of ideas. They’re very much in the floaty, Florence and The Latrine mode of am-dram raised, boutique festival pleasing choruses to make their Tarquin and Sophia filled crowds sway. It’s music for those who find techno or punk a bit much, indie with no rough edges. It’s phony baloney, yet takes itself way too seriously.
Nothing Matters exemplifies this, pseudo- art rock that’s so studied that it’s utterly predictable. It’s all so inoffensive,safe and twee. The Feminine Urge is marginally better, a polished take on the Phil Spector sound.
But the worst offender is Caesar On A TV Screen, where lead singer Abigail Morris trills, “I felt like an am-por-arrgghhh” (emperor). This is the main problem- her plummy, forced vocal. Morris sounds histrionic, like Toyah. Toyah! In 2024!
It’s so posh it’s positively pompous, bellowing ” look at me, I’m rebellious “, pushing everyone else out of the way, before max -ing out Daddy’s credit card and then getting a job in the financial sector. We really deserve better than this “too cool for public school”, facsimile of alternative music. It really sucks.
Prelude To Ecstasy is out now via Island.
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