Glasvegas: "Geraldine"

Glasvegas was handpicked to open Echo & the Bunnymen’s recent New York City performance of Ocean Rain (1984). Presumably this was because the frontmen of both bands fashion themselves as cooler-than-thou motherfuckers with a predilection towards wearing sunglasses indoors, but also because Glasvegas are NME’s new IT Band, riding a furious wave of British hype unseen since, uh, Arctic Monkeys? Kasabian? Starsailor? Take your pick.

Most often described as “fuzz-pop” and sporting a moniker suggesting equal amounts nu-metal and electroclash, yours truly showed up early for the Bunnymen gig in hopes that Glasvegas would supply some dirty, Jesus & Mary Chain-style hedonism. Instead, Echo fans got a quartet of particularly yelpy pups armed with the singular idea of re-casting Doves’ “The Cedar Room” in as many keys as possible.

And that describes “Geraldine” in a nutshell, a teary-eyed knock-off from a band that desperately wants to be thought of as “important.” Loud and strident while utterly devoid of substance, “Geraldine” is exactly the type of Brit-pop smash that, like Starsailor’s “Good Souls” or JJ72’s “Oxygen,” sends the music tabloids into a tizzy lasting just long enough for the ill-fated sophomore record to slip in and drop. Everything is in its proper place: the guitarist plays two swelling chords over a rudimentary march while lead vocalist James Allan alternately coos and spits out hiccupy (and likely auto-tuned) verses like, “I will be that angel on your shoulder / My name is Geraldine / I’m your social worker!” (she’s got an MSW?). “Geraldine” is hardly subtle, sounds like a dozen better bands, and is extremely British; I’d probably have loved it eight years ago, but now I just don’t give a shit.