Get Up by Bryan Adams

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Washed-up rockers come around every so often, and they’re usually called Bono. There are pros and cons to Bryan Adams’s Get Up – it’s just a shame that the fact it’s not being performed by a dodgy Irish bloke in funny sunglasses is probably its best point.

There’s something oddly charming about the naivety of most old rockers, and Adams is no exception: he occupies a world where there’s still a genre called rock ‘n’ roll and you can still “start a revolution”, as he claims on the aptly named ‘That’s Rock and Roll’. Cute, but this isn’t the ‘80s anymore Bryan. There are scary bands that’ll eat your Gibson SG for brunch (Fat White Family pop to mind – they’d probably actually do it, too). The dated semi-acoustic strums and feeble “woah-ohs” that undercut Adams’s gravelly vocals only make it all a bit more cringe-worthy. This isn’t even dad-rock, it’s frightfully less cool than that. It’s mum-rock.

Adams bangs out sub-three minute tracks, as if to not overstay his welcome. It’s probably because he doesn’t have enough stuff to extend his songs. Either way, it’s for the best. ‘Do What Ya Gotta Do’ is probably the most lyrically atrocious thing I’ve ever heard, actually elevating the Crazy Frog to the songwriting levels of someone like Morrissey. A predictable chorus includes the song title being repeated multiple times and a lyric where Adams sings, and I quote, “You might take a hit / You might take a punch / There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch”. Not even joking.

It’s a shambles. It’s more shambolic than Avril Lavigne’s ‘Hello Kitty’. It’s more shambolic than a blocked toilet without a plunger. It’s more shambolic than Derby County’s 11-point 2007-08 season. It’s just horrible.

 

Carl White

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