Flying Under Cheap Kite
Upon hearing this, Steven Patrick Morrissey promptly hung himself, buried his own corpse, and rolled over in his grave. Johnny Marr shrugged and high-fived Isaac Brock. And four New York lads in Man United jerseys exchanged smug smiles, knowing they had just successfully gang-humped their idols, and man was it good.
But seriously, in a Smiths-free vacuum-- hell, in a Voxtrot-free vacuum-- the Isles' "Flying Under Cheap Kite" is perfectly serviceable mixtape fodder, pleasant and amicable and good-humored, a welcome guest in parlors far and wide. Take it home to mum, she'll love it. And even in a world where the Smiths live on only in recorded form, half-reunions, and Moz, this could serve a purpose, the way your old college buddy's on-again off-again Smiths cover band (The Queen's Men? The Comatose Girlfriends?) serves a purpose for wistful gin-grinners and fanners of fading embers. But when you ape the aesthetic with immaculate precision and then hit us with couplets like, "There's no one knocking at my door/ I don't know what the doorknob's for", you're only spitting on the grave you just robbed.
But seriously, in a Smiths-free vacuum-- hell, in a Voxtrot-free vacuum-- the Isles' "Flying Under Cheap Kite" is perfectly serviceable mixtape fodder, pleasant and amicable and good-humored, a welcome guest in parlors far and wide. Take it home to mum, she'll love it. And even in a world where the Smiths live on only in recorded form, half-reunions, and Moz, this could serve a purpose, the way your old college buddy's on-again off-again Smiths cover band (The Queen's Men? The Comatose Girlfriends?) serves a purpose for wistful gin-grinners and fanners of fading embers. But when you ape the aesthetic with immaculate precision and then hit us with couplets like, "There's no one knocking at my door/ I don't know what the doorknob's for", you're only spitting on the grave you just robbed.