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It's funny, I'd say 60, maybe 65% of my bad dreams involve Keane. There's the one where the enormous pie-faced one is rampaging through my house trying to eat me, there's the one where the posh keyboardist fella has dressed me in a red furry suit and is chasing me over hedgerows waving his shotgun, and there's the one where the drummer is...uh... ah.. hmmm... Alright. The drummer of Keane is obviously far too anonymous to place in some comic nightmare.
Imagine that. Being the anonymous one from Keane. It'd be like being the talentless one from Right Said Fred. Or the one the other Sugababes describe as having a good personality Ugh. But we digress.
Anyway, bad dreams. Like the one where you switch on the radio and all that spews out is a never-ending cycle of crappy, guitarless twiddly-bollocks. Except, that isn't a dream. It's Keane. This new single is therefore not an occasion to hang out bunting and bake a cake. As humdrum, spiritless, stagnant, stale, pedestrian and torpid as Keane normally are, this is worse. Concrete has more life. Seaweed has more get up and go. It's miserable, pointless and depressing, and you can't even wake up from it. Fuck.
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