I think we’re supposed to be taking sides for the current race for the prize of Christmas Number 1. Presumably if you prefer your pop music to not be a chicken-in-a-basket piece of mediocrity spooned-fed to us from the scraps of a four month TV talent show, then I guess you’re supposed to be hoping that the spoiling tactics of the Facebook-generated campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to top the charts this yuletide will succeed.
Personally, I couldn’t give a baboon’s red bum as to which of the two records hits the top, as this competition is flawed for several reasons. The primary one is that neither song is actually very good.
The viable alternative to a poor record ought to be a ruddy good one. If last year’s X Factor had any positive outcome it was that new people were introduced to the works of Jeff Buckley, as sales of his version of Leonard Cohen‘s Hallelujah rocketed as people gave a group meh at Alexandra Burke’s overblown rendition. If only a single person discovers the majesty of the Grace album that would not have done previously, then something wonderful has come from a televisual and musical pile of arse.
As a man now in his mid-30s, I am of the right age to have bought the Rage Against The Machine record the first time around. Or indeed have taped the album off of a mate at the very least. I did. The tape is still tucked up in a drawer at the top of my house, with the inlay card appropriately crafted with some sort of made-up teenage font to make it look boss. I thought it was great, and my teenage self pogoed at the indie discotheques countless times.