You know that feeling when you bite into something that looks exciting but tastes like lukewarm water? That’s The 1975. It's like they collected every pretentious sound from the last forty years, ran it through an artsy internet filter, and called it something original. Their lyrics try to sound meaningful, like they’re making some big statement about love or society. But most of the time it just comes off like a rambling journal entry written during a blackout. And the synths? It’s not nostalgia, it’s dress-up with instruments.
They’re the musical version of someone who just learned about philosophy and won’t stop quoting Nietzsche sporadically.
Don't get me started with Matt Healy (or whatever the fuck his name is). He walks around like he’s rewriting culture, spouting fake-deep thoughts in interviews like they’re divine truth. He smokes on stage and complains about capitalism like it’s performance art. He also got that face even a mother could punch.
The lead singer sounds like a whiny bitch, always stuck in some melodramatic pity party. Their music? Pure synthetic trash designed to pander to overly emotional teens and those who never outgrew their teenage angst. Lyrically, it’s all about Matty’s ego and his sad little insecurities like a broken record obsessing over himself and his supposed “sex appeal,” which feels about as convincing as a kid bragging on the playground. No serious artist respects them; they’ll forever be stuck somewhere between wannabe garage band and mainstream joke.
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