Betty Curse - Hear Lies...

by Adam Anonymous

Why hello Betty Curse, eponymous leader of London-based goth-pop ridiculousness

"It’s the new unobtainable, the new too-perfect-to-touch, the new ‘my - existence - is - so - fucking - involved - and - unimpeachably - important - and - please - don’t - ask - why - I’m - so - messed - up - because - I - don’t - actually - have - a - reason’. It’s the Suicide Girls' blog journal of life given extra ‘quirky’ appeal."

“I like dressing up. I like drinking wine. I enjoy loneliness. I like romance. I like being in control. I like being submissive. I like reading poetry aloud. I like absinth. I like tattoos. I like to lie, it makes life more interesting. I'm in a band, but then who isn’t?”

Why hello Betty Curse, eponymous leader of London-based goth-pop ridiculousness, and hi also to painful first-person self-analysis with all the depth of a puddle of used black eyeliner, constructed to appeal to be-penised fuckwads with needs straight outta the cliché catalogue, MySpace 2006 edition. News just in: Paddy Power have stopped bets on the revealing of Ms Curse’s fondness for lip-wrestling other women in public to gain attention and the occasional razorblade forearm art lesson. It’s only a matter of time.

So maybe it’s motivated by all issue-strewn, porcelain-cheeked harlots passing us over for the joys of average sex with infinite wallet-chained men who generally spend more time circle pit jerking and grooming idiot-shaped beards than, like, thinking. After all, who the balls wants somebody whose main motivations in life are anger and an unflinching uncomfortable feeling at the escalation of emotionally parasitic human scum-skeletons surrounding them? Go for the easy option, bitch, it’s not like you’ll regret it in the long run, right? Right??

It’s the new unobtainable, the new too-perfect-to-touch, the new ‘my - existence - is - so - fucking - involved - and - unimpeachably - important - and - please - don’t - ask - why - I’m - so - messed - up - because - I - don’t - actually - have - a - reason’. It’s the Suicide Girls blog journal of life given extra ‘quirky’ appeal. It’s selling a lifestyle as tediously linear as any designer labels-and-Cristal reactive catalyst for supposedly alternative living.

There’s an afterthought too, squirming under the pretence there was any real thought beyond surface product formulation in the first place. Some might dub it music; rock-brushed dross so unchallenging and wimpishly mild a newborn baby would listen contentedly without misinterpreting a single layer. The wise will realise it’s closer to comedy minus laughs caused by anything other than the inherent dreadfulness of an entire concept so perfectly imperfect it should be shrink-wrapped and sent into outer space. It’ll provide a blueprint for future civilisations on thus-far undiscovered planets. Except there’s nobody out there, fuckers.

‘God This Hurts’ declares the opening track, a single of monumental obviousness shoehorned into a Prozac nation that’s drying the over-relinquished pussies of a hundred thousand ‘depressed’ teenaged girls, creating sexless zombies under the impression the breakdown of a half-formed relationship might signal the world’s imminent end. The subtext, a filthier mind might suggest, is an innocence-smashing blood ‘n’ hymen-splattered happening, no doubt at the hands of a remedially-challenged, asymmetrically-coiffured fashion victim with less delicacy than brain cells; enjoy that 30 seconds of adolescence-defining disappointment, now.

It’s almost though Betty Curse has already met us: the anti-self-harm, her genuinely pissed off nemesis. And when that does happen, she’ll be wishing emotional pain was the only variant she’d ever experienced. Come cross to the real dark side, honey.

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