Sleeper - Vegas

And so we welcome in many people's primary whipping boys/girl (well, after Menswear) where Britpop cynicism - a type of guilt by association that exists in no other successful genre, by the way, nobody goes "yeah, punk, but what about Chelsea and Eater, eh?" - hoves into view. It wasn't always this way, early Pixies comparisons and Peel support earning them quite some credit before a dialling down of the abrasiveness, Louise Wener's openness to weekly magazine quotability and a left fork turn into character studies such as this one, the problem here being with the unremarkable, vaguely Suede-indebted quiet-loud dynamic (and Graham Coxon parping away on sax in the middle eight) comes the realisation there's not actually that much study - man living on his own in rundown flat gets out and flies to somewhere where nobody knows him, all manner of salacious, possibly criminal backstory to be filled in ("no one stopped him... made it just in time, all this talk about luck/He's just so loaded, he's just so loaded down"). Ronnie Biggs metaphor? If so the beginning and end haven't quite been filled in.

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