The band gimmick is that they all wear buttoned up shirts without a tie, except the singer, who gets to wear a tie whenever he likes – 'when you write a decent rhyming fucking couplet,' the singer snarls, tearing the neat Windsor knot from throat of the drummer during a band rehearsal (in Stoke), '...when you write a decent rhyming fucking couplet, and not one moment sooner!' He throws the drummer's tie out of the window; it lands in Stoke. Uneasy silence. A drumstick slides from the drummer's hand in slow motion, tapping a strange beat on the hardwood floor before coming to rest at the toe of the singer's black Chelsea boot. The rest of the band look at the drummer with irritation. Their eyes worry his insides. His foot jumps involuntarily onto the high-hat pedal. The resultant crash of bell bronze makes him drop the other drumstick, but this time not in slow-motion.
He had forgotten to take the tie off, rushing as he did straight from his father's funeral in North Devon. Later he will chastise himself for the mistake in front of the bathroom mirror, or take it out on his girlfriend, a sweet, mousey woman with a high body mass index and a voice like a soft wind blowing over an empty milk bottle. No, actually the milk bottle is full of woodlice, bits of dead grass, and a spider with curled up legs.
Remember, if a band has a uniform, they have had a meeting to discuss it. The chances of four or five people all wearing the same clothes on a single given day is remote - multiply this by the number of days in an NME sponsored music tour of the UK and you have...All the Young, a group of men who make rock music and discuss clothes together. There's nothing wrong with that, but just keep it in mind when they are gurning in your face, singing words about daring to dream dreams (in Stoke).
They sound like what Oasis would sound like if Oasis were virgins studying Psychology at a 6th form college (in Stoke). The singer looks like a cross between Suggs and a leg of ham. He sings like a cross between Noel Gallagher and a retired footballer, and a leg of ham. His sunglasses look silly, and although I've only ever seen him with them on, they make his face look a bit weird. Below the sunglasses...his sullen face. The kind of sullen that can only be achieved with muscle-stimulating electrodes. Perhaps the electrodes fire whenever he plays an Am on his guitar, which is always because it is a sad chord that makes ladies feel romantic and drunk men cuddle each other in pubs, large lager dribble stains in dark patches down the front of their all black, short-sleeved pulling shirts. The kind of stains that nobody notices until someone called Craig uploads the pictures to facebook the following morning, in a folder called something like 'Messy nite with the lads'.