FCK DN CRLSN - Close To The Squirting End Of The Entering Piece

Fuck you Glastonbury for showing everyone just how much of the music industry is stuck in a sludging, shitting black hole of life-sucking middle-of-the-road fuck allness. When every guitar band°, who seem to have their sights on either 1.) cloying sentimentality or 2.) a mind-ruining tuneless din (and nothing in-between), are overshadowed by Orbital, the Van Morrison of dad-dance, who are five albums past their prime, it's time to McGyver the rest of our material possessions and fashion exo-dimensional explosives to lob into our withering, permissive, excruciatingly un-odd, soul-deadening generational yawn.

Right now, I'm thinking of The Farm.

The Farm may have been one of the most giftless groups of young men to ever stumble out of the drug-fueled happy haze of Madchester and the only band that was an easier target than Northside, but I put them on the other day and was horrified to learn that they are actually really incredible. Really fucking incredible. Yes! I was confronted with and (I guess) corroborated by what I can probably describe as biggish, gangly, sadness-devouring melodies that were versatile with indie clichés and yet reliably (and believably) stuffed with a Happy Mondays-like energy and purpose and weirdly modulated guitar spinal chords. A sense of life, really. Stack up "Groovy Train" (!!) against, I don't know, The Vines or "There Goes The Fear" or the boringly half-cooked pseudo-incest of The White Stripes, or even Mull Historical Society (name!), and it towers over them like a radioactively enlarged reptile of clever dance-drug beats and stupid sunshine.

When did indie culture stand up, slap a nametag on its chest, and say to the group, "Hello, My name is Useless Flab-Fart Of Mediocrity. And I can't write a tune to save my fucking life"?

1990:

Yes