I fear that Bloc Party has succumbed to the self-important band disease far too soon. Already, the band is lined up for every do-gooder festival on the circuit this year, which is all well and good, but we like a little spice in our punk rock. A little controversy. A little daring do. Kele Okereke’s coming out and then taking it back doesn’t count. In fact, it almost comes off like a sad stunt. Then, he talks trash about his label, Vice. I’m all about biting the hand that feeds you and everything, except he’s offended by Vice, which is like being offended by rain. Vice operates in offensiveness. Okereke didn’t know this going in?

Oh, and the new album isn’t so punk, is it? It sounds like U2? Fuck. Well, Bloc Party went from energetic, quasi-political rabble rousers to studio tricked-out boring mopesters in one record. It took me three listens to qualify a single hook on the record. Granted, it gets a little better with each listen, but it sounds so inorganic, so plotted, and so completely claustrophobic I can barely stomach the pedestrian lyrics, much less the ham-fisted thematic demagoguery about how London is a vampire. Less concern for global emissions, more focus on the rock.