Playing goalkeeper has long been supposed to be the loneliest position on the football pitch. Albert Camus famously played between the sticks. As did Vladimir Nabokov. But being a lone striker can't be the easiest task a manager can give a fellow either frankly. A lot of weight on your shoulders. And the moment of existential dread when you're played in by your inside left. The goal nets gaping in front of you with ten minutes left in a scoreless cup tie. Ten minutes left on the clock. Keeper to beat.
Lone Striker, (for this is they), pick up the theme. A project for an Englishman called Tom Brown on York's Safe Suburban label. Their eponymous album is lonesome Americana ennui. Taking it's lead from the likes of Sparklehorse, Mercury Rev and Silver Jews and giving them a wryful English twist of doomed literary romanticism. Like Badly Drawn Boy. Lost on the American highway.
This is an exceptional record which deserves Album of the Month plaudits from the likes of Uncut Magazine and Mojo. It's highly unlikely to gather these garlands so its up to the likes of It Starts to sing its praises instead. I'd be delighted to. This is exceptional misery. With sleeve credits to the likes of Niall Quinn, Tony Cascarino and Niklas Bendtner. Past masters of being slightly crap in front of goal. This is a record which makes failure seem like the sensible option.
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