Muse reminds me if the guys from Radiohead and Porcupine Tree had gay sex and then birthed a baby out of their asses and they learned to play instruments and tried to copy their fathers but in a way less original way.
Muse
Wonderful. Muse singles getting airplay. Just what we needed. Now we can turn on the radio and hear a pretentious little imp having some sort of emotional seizure and squealing like a stuck pig over a bed of bombastic cock-prog-muso-rock crap. A band whose every single sounds exactly like the last one, yet one is still totally unable to get used to it. I’ll give them credit for this much: they know how to set the teeth of the sane on edge like no others. I can picture Matt Bellamy sitting in the studio for hours and hours, sweating over how exactly they can make their latest high-flying pitch-shifted guitar riff even just one percent more annoying. “I have done it,” he might say, “I have created the most obnoxious song ever to exist… but that is not enough for me! I am drunk with my own terrible power! The chorus could use some more falsetto, I must squeeze that extra octave out of my voice and shatter the decaying eardrums of Freddie Mercury’s corpse.”
