It’s our fault. We’re sorry. We got your hopes up and now, it’s time to come clean. Truth is, it’s over.
Truth is, it was never really there in the first place. Sure, you were fun to have around for a bit, and that one about the guitar pedal was all kinds of great, as was that one that had those two Von Bondies girls on but… oh, hang on a second. Were those the same song? May as well have been, eh?! All sounds the same, eh?! Anyway as we were saying, honestly, we just don’t care anymore.
Oh, don’t cry. Have a star. Have two. If it’s any consolation, when you first came on the scene we did like you, at least, we think we did, but then again there was a lot of irony going about then! Heh-heh-heh! But still, we digress.
Your timing was perfect: just post that glorious time when The Strokes changed the world for us. So our defences were down, and everything seemed spectacularly marvellous. Now, to look back and think about some of the shit we did… ah, the mind boggles.
And you, your hair was long, your trousers were tight and it seemed so right. It felt right. So we gave you the nines out of ten and we told you you were great, and, at the time, we almost believed it. But really it wasn’t true. It was a drunken fumble which you mistook for something long term. Like your mother never told you, you were just a mistake.
We feel we can’t take the entirety of the blame; we tried to let you down gently and subtlety, but you don’t really get subtlety do you? That embarrassing second album business came, and we politely listened and then totally ignored it in the hope that you’d get the message, but you just didn’t.
Which leads us onto Smoke and Mirrors, or, as it seems, your final attempt to refire the passion. Oh Datsuns. It can’t. We’re just not in that place anymore.
This garage-cock-rock thing, it leaves us cold. It’s like, so 2002. Or 1974. Either way, we’ve moved on. We’re involved with different people, and, our tastes have become more sophisticated. Your brand of semi-serious big-riffage doesn’t warm the cockles of our pants anymore.
You say you’ve changed, and to give you the modicum of credit our previous dalliances deserve, there is a hint of that about Smoke and Mirrors. There are gospel singers, there are elements of Zeppelin‘y mysticism, and there are swampy Cajun tinged bits, but nothing hides the fact that it’s too little too late. It may be a new dressing, but it’s the same salad.
We do want you to know that we’ll always treasure, in a guilty little way, the time we spent together. And we’d say we want to still be friends, but that might give you some vague hope for a future conciliation. So it’s probably better if we just make this a goodbye.
Yours (quite) fondly,