La Rue

Like most of you, I have difficulty finding the time and energy to actually think for myself in this non-stop, caffeine-fuelled, unlimited broadband, 24-hour society that we live in these days. What should my opinions be? Is racism still allowed? What's good? Can anyone tell me what things are good? What am I supposed to like? I have no idea. Please, somebody, instruct me: what am I to believe in!

But while no-one can help me with the racism issue, those niggling pop-cultural dilemmas are no problem at all, thanks to the efforts of all those tastemakers, trendsetters and winklepickered cultureNazis who decide for us what we should be thinking about the purveyors of the popular arts.

Take music, for example. Being of a certain age, I remember the last time we were supposed to like dance music. And I remember the fear and confusion of my early 20s being further compounded by the realisation that I was starting to fall behind the curve that fateful day on which indie was declared cool again, and anything without guitars and skinny jeans in it resolutely uncool. What was going on? I was lost and frightened. I knew, deep down, that I must've liked this stuff, because that's what I was being told to like, but some part of me - some stubborn, hideous part of me - didn't.

I'm ashamed to say it, but this twisted rogue element of my psyche was thinking, completely of its own accord, that a lot of those American boys with beards and ill-fitting t-shirts just sounded like rubbish Blues Explosions without the sense of humour, while their unambitious British counterparts sounded like the same old shit that unambitious British bands had been peddling for decades, only now they were selling records.

Luckily I killed that part of me with a programme of drugs, Hollyoaks and hot sex with slippery feline indie chicks. Which is why I've spent much of the last decade lolling around in shrunken period clothing, rakishly-angled hats and ironic facial hair. Now I hate dance music. Now it disgusts me, hedonistic pleasure music devoid of substance, not like The Automatic and The Ting Tings. Proper music.

But a wind of change is blowing confusion into my face once more. We're supposed to like dance music again? What? I had a look at some of it. La Roux, for instance. Video set in a shiny CG future: check. Video featuring sexy girl in high-end car: check. Artless, over-wrought vocals: check. Hollow, pseudo-profound lyrics: check. 'Attitude': check. It's exactly the sort of slick, soulless shite that all us guileless, fashion-conscious fuckwits were told to turn our backs on in the first place. It's like 1999 all over again! Fuck! What now? I set fire to all my chinos years ago!

I'm not too proud to admit that I cried, dear reader. Cried and masturbated.

Ah, but then I looked closer, and now it all makes sense. This isn't the slick, soulless shite I thought it was, for throughout her videos and in all her promo shots, she looks a bit wounded and vulnerable. There's the substance! It's not 1999 all over again at all.

It's 1996. She's Olive.