by Halle Berry
The problem with so-called indie rock is not that so much of it is shit (as Regression, sadly and predictably, is), but that it is irrelevant. Who the fuck cares?
“Indie rock,” sadly and predictably, has become a catch-all moniker for boring noise laboriously churned out by an endless horde of middle-aged white men with minimal talent, pricey technology, time on their hands, hackneyed views on everything from love to politics, and soft erections. Who the fuck cares?
Listening to Regression is like looking at faded family Polaroids taken by your second cousin discovered while cleaning out your grandmother’s attic. Who are these people? What are they doing?
Who the fuck cares?
The ten songs on Regression constitute a litany of cliché and failed attempts at profundity. Does being purposefully abstruse make you cool? OK then, you’re cool. Who the fuck cares?
The album opens with “Autoresponder,” a tune that begins in 6/4 time. It’s as if the band has never listened to Daya or Kelsea Ballerini or DNCE or X Ambassadors or Hailee Steinfeld or Cole Swindell or PARTYNEXTDOOR or Rob $tone or Chance the Rapper or Major Lazer or twenty one pilots or even Sia or Drake or Calvin Harris or even, frankly, fucking anyone.
The sole track worthy of note is a bizarrely anemic rendition of “The Year of the Cat” by Al Stewart, the epitome of flaccid and over-produced ’70s easy-listening crap. What distinguishes this version is that while it eschews the original’s interminable instrumental sections it miraculously manages to be more tedious than the original even without the fucking cello, violin, piano, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, synthesizer and fucking saxophone.
Indie rock?! Bullshit. The Long Afternoon is a fucking polka band on diazepam.