Let me tell you, straight away, I don’t believe a fucking word of this horseshit. Here, this dipshit that calls himself Passenger but is actually the one taking everyone else for the ride returns with his fifth album, something like that – like I actually care. It’s called Whispers, but sadly I can hear him loud and clear. He sounds like he cleans his teeth with the copy of Once he never returned to the DVD store and rubs a David Gray CD all over his body before turning in for the night after a hard day of staring daggers at a picture of bestie, Ed Sheeran.
After beating off over one of his first four album covers the Passenger steps up out of the cry-o-genic chamber he sleeps in (a bed kept clean by the that-break-up-song-is-so-fucking-beautiful tears of his dumb-ass would be-if-they-only-could-be groupies) and gargles a cup of warm Cat Stevens before rhyming bitter with Twitter, as he tells us we all “want something real, not just hashtags…”
Like he doesn’t have a Twitter following.
One more album and that’s about all he’ll have. And then even swifter nothing. Just like he’s served up here. A bowl of tossed off nothing. Earlier in the album, on a song called 27 he tells us all that he writes songs “that come from the heart” and that he “don’t give a fuck if they get into the chart, or not” – written and sounding as corny-bad, as faux-tough-guy as only someone can when they are working with the full assurance that they are treating their audience just dumb enough, having charted already – so ready, then, to turn their back on fame. Yeah right.
Oh it’s torturous. It’s infernal bleating. It’s eternally vacuous and thin and ultimately just a noise.A horrible voice that sings of phoned-in insecurities, that stretches hackneyed phrases and lives inside them, sheltering the audience from anything resembling a truth.
This is just pitiful enough to work. Again.
You could call him a cunt, except he lacks the warmth and depth.