Powder: cheesier than cheddar, but it rocks!
Oliver Cann
7/14/2002 3:16:18 PM

"Can any young pop group evade the pitfalls of fame, sex, drugs and all their inherent baggage? Will the Grams headline Glastonbury? And, crucially, can their guitarist achieve orgasm with a fully-limbed lover? ( from Powder, by Kevin Sampson )"

I hate to be overly cynical or anything, but is Kevin Sampson peddling Powder [Vintage] this over-the-top saga of the 'Best Band in the World Ever,' to make up for the fact that the band that he managed, the Farm, weren't, well, all that good?

The Grams, Sampson's fictitious band of cheerful scally minstrels, annoyingly manage to ascend to the pinnacle of rock greatness in record time, and for one short year, became the toast of the world. Men love them, women adore them, etc. Ronan Keating tells them they are better than he and, one suspects, so would Slobadan Milosevic, had he been given the chance. The lads, however, fail to get off the groovy train in time to avoid crashing headlong into almost every rock and roll cliché ever contrived. Or, almost every cliché - surprisingly, they don't actually trash a hotel room.

The guitarist is a sex and drugs addict, the singer a thoughtful, waif-like, delicate little flower who just wants to be understood. Their manager, a childhood friend, is an Internet anorak not cool enough to be in the band itself, the record company boss is a well-meaning sloan. Powder offers you everything you would expect from a trashy music biz expose, but unfortunately not a lot more. That said, I loved it.


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