Review: Modestep, Rescue Rooms
YOU couldn't accuse Modestep of wasting resources – repetition clothes their set like a sewing machine popping rolls of bubble wrap.
But this hamster-wheel of recycled beats is worshipped heartily by the crushed-in crowd.
Has a hungry fetish for mediocrity sullied the air tonight, or is a record-breaking contagion of deja vu clouding their judgement?
The chanting urban swagger of true dubstep is spacious, minimalist and thoughtful.
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It's a straight-talking street voice that never sleeps.
In contrast, this brand of cyborg rattling can easily be emulated – just put some ball-bearings in a tumble-dryer and you'll soon be tipped as their direct competition.
This dreary, spinning routine fails to outweigh the imaginative flair shown by children writing lines in detention.
The sunlight hurts your eyes does it? I'm more concerned about my massacred eardrums.
Is this an audacious attempt to create indoctrination through brain-hazing monotony, or the product of a chronic ideas-famine?
They try earnestly to knock down a cluster of mediocre song-skittles using Feel Good – their only bowling-ball blockbuster. But sadly, with the gutter working doggedly, it's time to face inevitability and change lanes.
In their shoes, I'd be tempted to replay the first thirty seconds over and over until kick-out time – plenty of extra deckchair-lounging, without compromising the result.
Hey, Oasis made an expansive career out of three chords – maybe Modestep will go one better and carve their looping screeches into a lazy niche.
How long can elongated microwave-bleeps encapsulate this beer-soaked demographic for?
Valentine's Day might be pushing it.