The Rapture at Latitude

Here come The Rapture. They are loud, they are rowdy, they are woo-yeah funkay for tha laydeez - but frankly, they are also a bit dull. Come in, let’s be honest, the flavour has drained a little from all this knowingly retro punk-funk now that the formula has been hammered to death by every disco-rock chancer from London to New York and back.

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Here come The Rapture. They are loud, they are rowdy, they are woo-yeah funkay for tha laydeez – but frankly, they are also a bit dull. Come in, let’s be honest, the flavour has drained a little from all this knowingly retro punk-funk now that the formula has been hammered to death by every disco-rock chancer from London to New York and back.



The Rapture also have the misfortune of playing Latitude after New Young Pony Club and CSS, so their blokey racket looks a little monochrome and one-dimensional by comparison to these multicoloured boy-girl crowd-pleasers. No spangled leotards? No glittery catsuits? No face paint? Hmmm. Thanks boys, but no thanks.

OK, so they had the crowd bouncing with their honking, squawking racket. And the anthemic closing version of “Olio” had a gothic, almost Cure-like majesty to it. But otherwise most of their tunes are functional at best, little more than generic 12-bar blues with a disco beat. Deep down, these percussive New Yorkers are basically just Kasabian with drum machines.

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