I fear that Bloc Party has succumbed to the self-important band disease far too soon. Already, the band is lined up for every do-gooder festival on the circuit this year, which is all well and good, but we like a little spice in our punk rock. A little controversy. A little daring do. Kele Okereke’s coming out and then taking it back doesnâ€™t count. In fact, it almost comes off like a sad stunt. Then, he talks trash about his label, Vice. Iâ€™m all about biting the hand that feeds you and everything, except heâ€™s offended by Vice, which is like being offended by rain. Vice operates in offensiveness. Okereke didn’t know this going in?
Oh, and the new album isnâ€™t so punk, is it? It sounds like U2? Fuck. Well, Bloc Party went from energetic, quasi-political rabble rousers to studio tricked-out boring mopesters in one record. It took me three listens to qualify a single hook on the record. Granted, it gets a little better with each listen, but it sounds so inorganic, so plotted, and so completely claustrophobic I can barely stomach the pedestrian lyrics, much less the ham-fisted thematic demagoguery about how London is a vampire. Less concern for global emissions, more focus on the rock.