My Morning Jacket – Touch Me, I’m Going To Scream (Rough Trade)
2/5
'Touch Me, I'm Going To Scream', the new single by hirsute Kentuckians My Morning Jacket, has an uncanny sick-inducing ability of reminding me of the Fun Lovin' Criminals. And for me, that's akin to a reverse Midas touch. Where once My Morning Jacket could do nothing wrong, now they recall those fat skinny fake hard men that made me skip Channel 4 every Friday night for half the nineties. Thank f**k it isn't TFI Friday anymore.
It's not that the two bands sound particularly alike. It's not even because their respective frontmen have dubious facial hair and to some extent, it's not entirely My Morning Jacket's own doing, although they're far from blameless. The main source of my ire resides in the way in which the press - and I'm talking about a particular kind of self-congratulating, coffee table press here - tend to make like the second coming as soon as any previously "underachieving" "indie" (which are huge misnomers here considering My Morning Jacket's affiliation with BMG) band attempts to incorporate new, slightly incongruent elements into their sound.
Fun Lovin' Criminals were once the main recipients of this misplaced, misunderstanding middle class fawning; their dead eyed funk-soul shtick shaped as a postmodern bricolage reflecting the collective identity of a certain American Diaspora. In their incorporation of, as the press release celebrates, hip hop, R&B and, more apparently, classic soul influences, My Morning Jacket are starting to gain similar plaudits, praised for their alleged artistic transgression, of a sonic eclecticism that makes that age old mistake of conflating change with progress, and progress with artistic credibility. There's nothing wrong with constancy, if you're constantly good (see The Ramones). Were this true of My Morning Jacket's forays into new musical territory, it would still be annoying, that it's not, is utterly infuriating.
While My Morning Jacket can't be blamed for the discourse that surrounds them, the song itself is a barely passable attempt at sexing up one, rather predictable, over-produced trick centred around a simple tension and release conceit, which I presume is designed as a rather crass metaphor for orgasm. Very clever. Even the usually magisterial vocals of Jim James are unmoving; here histrionic where in the past they've soared, not helped by the plastic production poured all over them.
It's not the worst song I've heard all year, or even this month, but it's by far the most disappointing.
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