Hell. Jess Harvell, when prompted on ILM to come up with a nice, curt nickname for this bunch — The Ferds? Franzes? FF? Franzinand? — has got a name for them: shit. Lyrics about murdered archbishops and political figureheads and then they tell Spin Magazine they’re too good for pedals. They’re like this friend of mine: fuck all the production noise. “If you don’t got the tunes,” lead singer tells us, “no point in using them pedals!” Or as Coxon told us: can’t polish a turd! Then we’re told what they sound like: Interpol meets The Rapture! A car crash between The Strokes and Radio 4! Nevermind that Jules is the only of the bunch that writes songs about honesty and gets to the point — what the fuck, Obstacle 1? — and that the gang cheats using kool production — by spliffing fancy pedals! Guitars vs the keyboards! Well of course we’ll be nifty with the latter — because even though that’s exactly what this Scottish lout wish they did, it’s intrinsic in their very nature to never be able to. They’ll never make it anywhere with that attitude: like the director who tells you that he’s been cheating all his life and now it’s time to make movies without sets, Franz Ferdinand wants to be the next real thing. In no way is the only song I’ve heard of theirs malicious (”Take Me Out”), and they even make a nice job of lending sweet-sounding chord changes vs the standard-issue blues progression (a bit on that in a bit). But they’ve gone about it the wrong way: dance-punk! Let’s make it honest and real again! Thifty to throw in a tempo breakdown and squiggle about the blues — black folks’ music! They were the ones who suffered! (Funny you mention that, boys; the first World War began when your namesake got blow’d up and then the bluesmen got press’d into service without the faintest equal pardon from the big men) — and make it all work, especially, ooh, especially with none of those synthesizers. Dancing is simple again. Dancing — ultimate liberation! — and now anyone with a few Rickenbackers can be part of the new community, too. To hell with good intentions! Get a life you sonsofbitches. Look at me, listening to your music, eye to eye, tell me this is what you want.

I don’t hate this band because the NME likes them and they’re rich. I hate this band because they’re brilliant tunesmiths who are still awful cunts. “Take Me Out” is fucking catchy like syphillis, and hence negates the previous four hundred words.