At first glance, Standard Fare are not my usual cup of tea. Unlike my usual listening material, their wholesome, cherubic faces are completely devoid of smeared eyeliner, whiskey drool, hairdye, tattoos or glitter. Usually, this would not bode well for a girl of such dubious sleaze-rock tastes as me. But undaunted, when a link to their Myspace landed in my inbox alongside rave reviews from Artrocker and The Sunday Times, I decided to put aside my cynicism and see what all the fuss was about.
And lo and behold, I may be doing it more often, for I too soon found myself infatuated. Gloriously jangly guitars combine with heartfelt but upbeat boy/girl vocals from Danny How and Emma Kupa, and it wasn’t long before I was getting all misty-eyed and nostalgic about my misspent youth of endlessly listening to Kenickie and Belle & Sebastian on repeat. Like their audible influences, Standard Fare are all about the infectious melodies and bittersweet, sentimental smart-mouth lyrics delivered with a jaunty energy that it’s hard not to be charmed by.
Their catchy choruses will have you alternating between fond smirks of recognition and winces of empathy (“You’re only fifteen, what was I thinking?”), and anyone with a soft spot for the lyrical twists and turns of Hefner and The Long Blondes is sure to be smitten. Just don’t let their twee, wholesome appearance put you off.
Standard Fare’s debut album, The Noyelle Beat, was released at the end of March, and they’re touring the UK over the summer. Their latest single, Philadelphia, came out in July and you can watch the adorably DIY video right here:
(Originally published on luscious lady-music site The Girls Are)
Welcome to the month in telly, where I sort the chaff from the champs of all the televisual entertainment the universe has to offer.
We at twobob are miffed at 
Patrick McGuiness has jumped off his chunkier, and quite frankly funnier friend Peter Kay’s coat tails to host his own show: Take Me Out. The main format of the show, for those of you privileged enough to not have seen it, is that 30 women, of varying attractiveness and types, stand behind podiums with a button and a light. A gentleman then descends from the “Love-Lift” and must then do all he can to impress these desperate harpies, which can include anything from fire-breathing to videos of cringe-worthy interviews with the poor chap’s mum. If the ladies are unimpressed then in the words of Paddy, “No Likey, No Lighty”; the women switch off their light, and those that keep their light on can go on a date with him. If every light goes off then he has to take the walk of shame to the tune “All By Myself”, retreating back to his bachelor’s lair for a pot noodle and a cheeky wank over the 2 am repeat of Loose Women.
This month my excessive television watching has been eternally punctuated by the ravings of meerkats who think everything’s “Shimples” (?!), a red telephone on wheels that became defunct as soon as mobile phones stopped needing a carry handle, and a fat man with a moustache and a belting set of pipes who interrupts everything from a morning coffee to the simple life of a residential road with cacophonous, near-valkyric proclamations of how much you can save if you go compare.
The BRIT Awards aired recently, and along with the usual mis-timed jokes, horrifically mis-judged outfits and Misses “I have a pop career because I find clothing uncomfortable,” there was a new addition to the show: a person sitting in a room with a mute button. The awards this year were broadcast live, and because of the reputation rebellious popstars have on these sort of nights, this poor soul had to try (usually in vain) to mute the audio of the live feed pre-emptively whenever someone looked like they were about to say something naughty. I have watched through most of my recording of the show, and the only person who managed to proper slip through the net was that cheeky posh-but-pretending-to-be-a-geezer-bird Lily Allen, who proclaimed, “shit” when receiving her award. Two of the Spice Girls, Ginger and Eddie Murphy’s Baby Mamma, also maintained their hardcore rock ‘n roll status by ingeniously postulating that because it is live TV they could say “The F word”, but sadly they decided against this, which is fortunate really because after all they do both have successful pop careers to protect….. NOT! The only solo songs they have done that have had any level of success have been bastardisations of good original songs: “It’s Raining Men” by the ginger one, and “Word Up” by the scary one.