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Why I am pissed off
by Dan MacRae
The Carillon
I’m not picky. I’d love to be stood up or treated like a dope by lots of bands. But, The Thrills? Aw, hell no! On Saturday I waited by a telephone with my editor Kent for a phone call from the Dublin quintet so they could pimp their Mercury Prize-nominated album So Much For The City. The Thrills are a breezy Irish folk-rock styled band riding a wave of hype (Q Magazine kissed their ring and anointed The Thrills as “the Best New Act of 2003”) as a result of their California-kissed and heavily Beach Boys-influenced collection of pop songs. And in their supposedly breezy nature I was left waiting for a phone call that never came.
I’d be first in line for Lou Reed to refuse to do an interview with me and put out his cigarette on my face, or have Courtney Love call me a “bloodsucking whore” and try and beat the ever-living-Celebrity Skin-hating shit out of me. But no, I’m being stood up by a group that has its manhood in its hand dreaming about California while living in Ireland. Okay, so I’m over-reacting and putting my J-Lo diva hat on, but who do The Thrills think they are? The Strokes? Stellastarr? Every single date I’ve ever had? Y’all just riled the wrong, powerless, motherfucker.
I spent the multi-hour wait talking with Kent about such pressing issues as Halloween costumes (space cowboy, it turns out, may be difficult to do), whether or not Gwyneth Paltrow would be good in bed (the verdict? Poor Chris Martin), and the rules of fighting each other with staplers, poster packaging and various office instruments. Instead of being able to write about their singles-are-dope-but-the-replay-value-is-a-little-weak-I-hear-and-there-is-apparently-some-filler-on-it album, I’m reflecting on the dazzling insight that bored teenagers exchanged about Gwennie Paltrow’s zeal for fucking. Although I must say I found it positively fucking riveting.
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