This is how I answer those who accuse my music taste of remaining firmly entrenched in the eighties, nay, rather the seventies and sixties. It is true, to a certain extent- these mornings my wake-up and make-up music is Simon and Garfunkel’s The Boxer (lay-la-lay! BOOM! lay-la-la-la-lay-la-lay- BOOM!) and I realised yesterday that my current favourite song, a Billy Gibbons cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Oh Well was initially recorded in 1964. It makes me laugh and cringe at the same time “..and my legs are thin…”.
But back to Radioactive, Imagine Dragons. It was on the radio today, and I said, smirking slightly, that they say that he is the new Axl Rose.
No, they are no such thing, of course not. There some madness to the song, but none of that genuine sharp hysteria, the pure unadulterated crazy that is GnR. These new songsters, they are too polished, too ironical, too standing outside and looking on themselves and at their audience. Their angst is too correct and too diffuse. Still, the soft toys in their music video, all bloody and fighting remind me of the Golden Boy- every night, before lights out, he sits on my bed and moves his soft toys against each other, making soft whoosh whoosh noises. They make a pretty cute picture, but I know he is playing out Mortal Kombat scenes in his head and on the toys.