Green Day - Working Class Hero

Well hello there. I think I need a comma in that opening bit, but I can’t work out where, because my brain is frazzled.

The examination period at grown up school is nearly over. So far, I’ve done OK on one, failed two, and I haven’t even done the hardest one yet. A period of re-sits awaits me, well, at least I think that this will be the case. Just have to wait for the results.

Now I know how the promiscuous members of Freddie Mercury’s past must’ve felt when waiting to find out if they had the bum AIDS, and realising that their gaunt look wasn’t just due to snorting toot off dwarves heads.

I thought I’d take this brief respite to do a review of a forthcoming single that has left me feeling like some sort of cocktail - one part disgust, one part sore arse, one part molested, with a little bit of ice and a slice, obviously.

Green Day, voice to a million small children who don’t know any better, have became the classic epitome of the much touted phrase “sell-out”. I’m just as guilty as the next man for bandying about the word “sell-outs” as a description for everything that I don’t like, but in this case, I’m definitely right.

Starting off as younglings, with their caustic, unhinged brand of power pop on indie label Lookout, Green Day produced a first album of unrequited love songs and angst, then a second album (their best, if that says anything?!) of frenzied punk pop and dope fuelled tales of rejection and boredom. Then of course came the inevitable corporate dollar, and things have went downhill ever since.

As with most bands that sell out and start suckling at the teat of self importance, Green Day have started to get all political on us and have also decided to start using their mega-huge-profile to make money for charity, fair play to them. But anybody who bought that single they did with U2, for the grave-robbing stadium rapists in New Orleans, is a cunt. And anyone who buys this, is also a cunt, which makes me a cunt, but I did have to do it for my art, selfless cunt that I am.

Firstly, for me anyhow, Lennon’s stuff should not be fucked with. I was annoyed when the Manic’s did this song as a hidden track on their recent album, but to release this song as a single, particularly this version of it, is sacrilege. But then, this song does feature on a compilation of Lennon covers called “Instant Karma”, featuring other “greats” as Black Eyed Peas, Barenaked Ladies, Snow Patrol and Maroon 5, need I say more.

It’s for Amnesty International, so I can’t be too harsh, but fucking hell man, this song has got to be up there as one of the worst cover versions ever, completely raping and ruthlessly pissing on Lennon’s grave, wanking on Yoko’s gegs and depositing a tiny Malteser of cack on his headstone.

Fair enough, they might raise a bit of awareness and raise a bit cash, but it’s depraved. If I was a rich rockstar, I wouldn’t risk my credibility with this bollocks, fuck human rights. I’d stay in my guitar shaped mansion all day, playing pool on my black leather pool table, with half of the balls made from gold, the other half made from elephants tusks, a white ball made from transparent shatter proof glass with the foreskin of a Nicaraguan encased inside, pockets made from the armpits and pubic hair of Indonesian virgins, and the cue’s made from the femurs of third world orphans.

So that’s about it, it’s out on the 21st of May.

I’ll be back just as soon as I’ve got the school work out of the way.