Parka - Disco Dancer
Time to break the first rule of reviewing and talk about meself for a bit. I've had a year out from this writing lark. Moved house a couple of times. Editor-in-chief Bill kindly had me back and it was lovely to be talking about new bands again. But then something terrible happened: I heard the new single from Parka.
MWAAAAAARRRRRRRR! I felt an animalistic rage flood through my body, and a roar escape from my throat. My chest, my arms, my whole body swelled and grew in front of my eyes, my shirt ripped into shreds and fell to the floor. Somehow, my trousers stayed on and I did not question this. My skin turned a lurid green, and in the mirror I saw the eyes of a brutal creature I did not know. I looked like a drummer. Breathing in ugly snorts, I stomped through the streets to the office of Jeepster records, smashing the door off its hinges with one brutal blow. GNNAAAARRHH! I turned over desks, smashed cupboards, snapped computers in half and stood towering over the terrified head of the label, who cowered pitifully under a swivel chair.
“Why did you let this happen? An indie band so pathetic, so craven and ridiculous that the chorus goes “disco dancer, disco dancer, I wanna dance with you”! It's got those done-to-death indie disco drums! The singer squawks like a bird! It's got no ambition… even the B-sides are shit! Why did you let this happen? Why?!” Although in reality, this came out as WRNNNGGAAAAHHHNNNGGG! He had no reply but to urinate pathetically, and as I left, I took the jar labelled 'Money from Snow Patrol albums' and ate it whole.
Waking the next morning in a skip, I found I was myself again and walked home in a daze, pausing only to steal clothes from a skinny tramp. Some sad piano music played as I vainly tried to hitch-hike, and then in one moment, I knew…. I knew. I knew that this is the sort of complete bollocks you wish could be wiped out with the X Factor and cancer.