Who’s in the mood to be puked on and pawed by a drunken twat? Don’t all rush at once, guys.
[Video][Website]
[1.20]
Katherine St Asaph: Like a wild party, where all the guests are being hazed.
[0]
Scott Mildenhall: Fire up the Bantmobile! The Loveable Rogues are here for an irony-free celebration of deliberate doltishness. Never has hedonism sounded so tedious. It’s illustrative of a curious thing about “lad culture”: as it’s pretty difficult in Britain for anyone to get away with thinking they’re amazing, it often involves a reconciliation of self-deprecation and self-awareness bred by that with an inclination to go ahead and be an absolute tool anyway, thus rendering that awareness redundant. In other hands, lines like “I don’t get drunk, I get awesome” could be loaded with pathos (or snobbery), but even though Loveable Rogues aren’t trying to be cool and know that this is all a bit rubbish, they wear its stupidity as a badge of honour, ploughing through the putrescence with rhymes like “beer pong, Pokemon, everybody sing along,” leaving them no time to realise that “party” is not an adjective, and that “screwing” does not mean what they think it does. As a song it’s egregious in every way, horrible down to its rusting hook – the only people who “make” money are millionaires, the people who are buying this song merely earn it, that’s if they’re lucky enough to have a job – but as a cultural artefact it would serve as a great time capsule of one sorry aspect of society in the early 2010s, if only there were any chance of anybody at any point in the future ever remembering it. Jack Peñate died for this?
[2]
Edward Okulicz: People who say “I don’t get drunk, I get awesome” are not loveable, they are the kind of people who make their obnoxiousness your problem and expect you to be OK with it. “What a Night” celebrates the nocturnal behaviours of the Western world’s most annoying gits, and does so with a jaunty smirk that says “We’re just a bunch of lads having a good time.” And they are the only ones, because the sheer artlessness of this song calls to mind nothing so much as a bunch of overimbibing light-weights who’ll puke everywhere but in the toilet, after which they are too incapacitated to do anything but post on Twitter what a great time they’re having, possibly accompanied by pictures of the mess. I’ll give them credit for a song that is a reasonably good aural representation of the vomit from one of their no doubt frequent mini-binges; every sound added to the bog-standard strum-a-long seeks to evoke FUN but instead is embarrassing. This song makes me feel like a designated driver at a pub crawl, having to put up with stupidity only I can see, and is going to take some beating as the worst song of 2013.
[0]
Anthony Easton: One point for making the Uke sound less than boring. One point for the hand claps. One point for how he sings “swimming pool.” One point for the chorus. One point for the growl after the line of ripped sheets. Minus one Point the “haha only” serious self aggrandizing bit. Minus one point because the ironic quality of the manic joy is not well articulated. And minus one Point for the McLovin reference.
[2]
Alfred Soto: As a production the song is dreadful: the horns, record scratching, crowd noises included to gin up enthusiasm, like a roofie in a cocktail. No doubt there are girls who’ll think this is cute.
[0]
Patrick St. Michel: There is nothing redeemable about this song, which celebrates home invasion in the very first line and features backing music Benny Hill would have turned his nose up at. I want this song to be destroyed from history.
[0]
Iain Mew: It sounds like a cross between the worst elements of Rizzle Kicks, Kate Nash and Jamie T, which is already enough to be massively irritating even if it was just a typical party song. The lyrics are too vile for that, though. “I can’t be held responsible for getting naked in your swimming pool” says one of the first lines, and that sense of entitled immunity looms over everything else. They act terribly and ruin a stranger’s house against her protests, but refuse to accept any regret because it was all just a good laugh, wasn’t it? Can’t you take a bit of banter? Isn’t it hilarious to treat other people like shit for no reason? Especially women? And of course they’re releasing all of this under the name Loveable Rogues, extending the infuriating attitude beyond the confines of the song.
[0]
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: There is a lilt to the guitar playing that stirs up memories of the last great wave of UK ska. On one hand, a song as crassly homogenized as “What A Night” strips ska rhythms into shorthand for gauzed good-time music. On the other hand, I’m intrigued that the musical approach of UK ska-punk bands has somehow resurfaced to be absorbed into the mainstream. Minus Capdown’s frantic sense of joy, of course. And No Comply’s edge. And King Prawn’s message of inclusion. So really, all we’re left with are the dregs of that era: bad jokes, unnecessary meanness and major chord jolliness making up for sheer lack of imagination. No pulse, no heart. This sounds like [spunge] and even they had a song about kicking pigeons. For fuck’s sake, people.
[1]
Brad Shoup: I can’t properly hate this, as growing up I dined from the crumbs of my brother’s 2 Tone collection. Before he texts, I gotta admit that this isn’t ska by a strict measure; this is more Mraz than Madness. (I would’ve bumped my score up if the insectoid brass had been replaced with some baleful Rico-style slide.) But the shuffle is close, and the tempo is bonkers, as if the Rogues hope to ingratiate by sheer velocity. The text is brorem ipsum, but the chorus gets to a sweet place as do the creaky fadeout wails. And how can I hate a clapalong?
[5]
Jer Fairall: The musical equivalent of wearing a lampshade on your head.
[2]