Here’s Willy Moon
Island Records Group/Universal
There was an iPod ad, featuring Willy Moon’s apparent retro-chic and his song Yeah Yeah and now there’s an album. He’s a Kiwi but he’ll put on an almost-British accent in an interview it seems, since he’s lived in the UK for a few years. Watch the Kiwi music funding agency fork out a bunch of cash now he’s been deemed a success, since that gives them a kickback/payoff.
Watch YouTube clips where Moon can’t dance even though that’s apparently one of his attributes, or clips where he can’t sing – even though he’s, apparently, a singer. Watch this hokey hokum where in his new-car-smelling, old-furniture-having flat he digs out three records to play to show off his eclectic tastes.
You’ve been had worse than that time you decided bee-stung lips and a slow-motion version of ennui filtered through a warbling, key-skipping/sliding paean to video-game playing boyfriends was actually a good thing – or even, at the least, was sung by a good thing.
Willy Moon is some horror-show construct of rampant metrosexualism working hard to make it look and sound like he’s effortless. I’ll grant them – that’s “The Team” behind this monstrosity – that little real effort was put into this record. But it’s the lack of value I’m concerned about – “songs” (because really there’s nothing on here that is actually a song) that attempt to sneak by, greased up, suited and booted, with nothing close to a hook.
When the album was previewed a month or so ago there was a link to a few song snippets. They were 30 seconds to one minute long. The actual songs are two minutes long; 2:30 tops in most cases. That’s okay if you can write a good hook – remember Elvis Costello’s Get Happy!! album – but you can imagine these songs being written (and borrowed) and stripped down to the two-minute mark in an effort to hide the fact that they’d painted over the hole where the hook used to hang.
Oh, fuck all this playing nice shit: this is the worst album I’ve heard in a long, long time.
This is simply ghastly. Atrocious. Awful. It contains nothing that even resembles music. Willy Moon can’t sing, he has no feel, no style, no soul, no rhythm; these songs don’t groove, they don’t flow, they don’t sound nice, they don’t sound dirty, they’re not lean, they’re not mean, they’re not raw – they’re not real! – they’re not cool, they’re not sharp, they’re not – in any way – good.
The gimmick of dusting down a rock’n’roll-ish sound/feel and calling it rockabilly then adding some white-boy-chooses-hip-hop-beats to clunk across the top or sink way below is this album’s raison d’être. (And why is that even a thing?)
This “album” is 28 minutes long – again, in theory, nothing wrong with that, heard Pink Moon lately? – but you feel this album lurching towards the 28 minute mark by the final track (12 “songs” long) even though it’s been maintaining a don’t-break-a-sweat sprint for most of it.
This album dresses up vacuous in its mother’s clothes then takes it out on a date.
This album masturbates on to its own cover then rubs in whatever lands because it might help to maintain the sheen.
This album is certainly unique. (That’s not a compliment).
And Willy Moon will be fine with all of this. He will simply turn the other cheekbone; fake a new career in a(nother) new town, do something else he’s terrible at because a handful of people whose only idea of taste is what is in their mouth will tell him he’s sharp and slick and smooth; will tell him he’s fresh and hip and cool.
He can dress and dance and sing how he likes – but his album is an embarrassment, cruel too to think of all the albums that don’t get made, or don’t get bought when this was released instead.
Oh yeah, and, so the story goes, this record is 28 minutes in length as tribute to one of Moon’s favourite albums, the self-titled Ramones record. Presumably he heard that after buying one of the band’s T-shirts from Hallensteins.
There’s a song on this album called Working For The Company (click on that link. Do it! You’ve come this far you deserve to know). Not only is Moon definitely doing that (if you can call it “work”) but he’s also running dangerously close to reminding me of a scene in someone else’s dream where they wake up and find out not only have they arrived at school naked – but also it’s just been announced they’ll understudy for the school’s musical production that will take place, without a rehearsal, that very day. They’ll take the stage and be truly awful and everyone can see every tiny little bit.
If you’ve heard Serj Tankian shaking off the last vestiges of a bad Transylvanian accent to recast Swanee in white-suit rather than black-face (and come on, you haven’t lived until you have…) then you can imagine – maybe – the horror that is Willy Moon attempting to out-Glee Glee.
This album is bad.
The album is not – as it has been suggested – “rockabilly gone dubstep”. And why would that be a good thing anyway? (And how is that a thing?) Just because it doesn’t exist doesn’t mean it needs to get invented.
This album is 28 minutes of someone else’s embarrassment. It’s Jack White-lite. (And you thought that’s what Jack White was after The White Stripes anyway, right?)
It is actually some boy-band break-out solo act covering Jack White’s solo album.
You might remember Willy Moon from his acting/modeling career previously? He used a different name though…he was then-called Derek Zoolander. He rather liked the documentary they made about him.
God I hope Here’s Willy Moon is a joke. I mean, I know it is, already – but imagine if this was all some conceptual prank. That would almost excuse it. Though it would turn out to be about as successful as that Joaquin Phoenix stunt I imagine. About as telegraphed, as laboured, as fruitless.
You could imagine Willy Moon receiving copies of his album in a box, the day of release, and squealing with delight: “Oh! This is great. Finally something I can listen to! I love this kind of music!”
You are alone kid. You are alone. Your album is disgusting. Anyone telling you otherwise is as empty in the soul as your music.
I’ve just listened to the worst album of 2013.