Watching Young Talent Time is like watching a corpse of completely vapid and over-sculpted teens perform sterile hits for a demographic that still thinks that their cancerous childhood pets ran away to live together in a cottage in Hampshire.
Honestly, it’s hosted by Rob “I-Still-Can’t-Tie-My-Shoelaces” Mills and his Chesire cat grin that would still try to sell condoms to the Michelin man. At least i think it’s him. It might be a gingerbread man cut from Quicksilver swatches and sugar-free icing, otherwise – I should look into this shady chimaira; maybe he comes from the same place Dave Mustaine’s credibility went to die at.
How many photos of the dude are there on the average 16 year old girl’s Tumblr (TRADEMARK) anyway? If you put a needle into your eye for every snap of Mills wearing a pair of Black Milk leggings with a caption like “Dream Aloft”, you’d still end with twenty-twenty vision and a pervadin sense of generational despair.
Yeah, these kids are really boring man, and there’s nothing the producers can do with their billions to rectify this, lest they sink fifty grand into speedballs for Tommy, or pay for little Ella to see the inside of a rogue’s harem. I mean, if i wanted to see quaintly attractive kids singin trite pop-songs in an exhaustively risk-less manner, i’d watch Glee. At least they have a disabled character and a pregnant teen (how topical and innovative!)
This Mickey Mouse shit just ain’t gonna rate in a post-Grunge age where kids grow up on a diet of Marlboro and anomie. And being idiosyncratic and anti-mainstream is the flavour of the week, yet i have not seen one of the show’s characters versify their cats or orpine their love of Georgian architecture.
Like, where’s the miracle in inches comedic relief who asks the kids the ‘711’ on their puberty to intelligent derision?