Indie music saw a massive resurgence in the early noughties. From the smouldering scrapheap of Britpop, a new pack of rowdy neerdowells emerged, ready to carry the baton of indie pop into the twenty-first century. But now, in 2017, the young rabble-rousers of the new millennium have grown up. No longer are they the fresh-faced, posturing triers we used to know, but older, more mature men. That’s right, they’re dads now.
Here is an incomplete list of indie dads who could ruin my life. I know you didn’t ask for it, but here it is anyway.
Yeah he’s weird and almost definitely an elder in at least five different cults, but Brandon Flowers is nonetheless an absolute babe. Never has this been more evident than in the video for ‘The Man‘, in which Flowers sports a flattering wife-beater while doing a bunch of manly shit like lifting weights and flexing his biceps. His idea of a hot date is definitely a night in taking it in turns to cut each other’s hair, but on the plus side, he is a real life Mormon, and everyone wants to shag one of those.
Pretty sure this guy gave me some sort of awakening circa 2003 when he appeared in an unzipped jumpsuit and writhed around on the bed of some sort of spacecraft. There was something oddly sexual about his unconventional features: his buck teeth, his skinny frame and his pale face framed by an unruly mop of frizzy hair. But now, after a bit of fine tuning, Justin Hawkins (in my opinion the prettiest Justin in pop) has undergone a low-key transformation. He’s still bursting out of jumpsuits, but jeez, look at him. Take a peek at the new video by The Darkness for a fuller glimpse of his scorching man bod.
Oh we see you Carl Barat. Don’t think we don’t see you there, pouting away in Charli XCX’s ‘Boys‘ video. You hunky little Libertine, the man whose poster I used to sleep beside, with your eyes that look like they have seen some truly terrible things and your hair that looks like it enjoys a good ruffle from time to time. We see you Carl Barat.
Ah, the beard. The surefire sign that one has reached dadhood. Kele Okereke could wrap me in those monster biceps of his all the live long day. Oh to be that guitar, lying in his firm but gentle grasp, strummed for hours on end until the night turned to day. I bet he smells amazing, too.
Now here’s a man you could bring home to your parents. He’d sit chatting about the weather and the queues at Aldi until the cows came home, and wouldn’t even complain on the car ride home. And once at home, he’d probably cook you your favourite dinner and then go down on you for like an hour. A real gent, this one.
OK, is it me or does he look like Ed Miliband here? Still, you definitely would, even if he probably does put on Is This It while he bangs.
Come hither, you angular perma-child with your floppy hair and dreamy brown eyes. Twizzle me like the knobs on that thing you’re always poking about with on stage and tread on me like your echo pedal. Maybe if we shagged, a tiny bit of his genius would rub off on me. Or maybe I’d just go to heaven and back. Either way is fine.
He’d talk to you about Wilde over dinner and then take you cruising once the bill was paid. He’d buy you flowers then suck you off in the club toilets. He’d meet your parents and wank you off under the dinner table. He’d cook you food when you were ill then take you dogging when you were well again. He’s Jekyll and Hyde with abs. A dreamboat, a filthbag, a total dad through and through.
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