They've really got to change their colors if they want to join the Hipster Neon Five-a-Side League. Pic via loscampesinos.com.
If there's one thing the world of the Hipster Gooner is missing, it is quality football-themed indie songs. Sure, you can make like Max and pretend that Vampire Weekend's Walcott is about everyone's fave Englishman, but songs that truly combine the skinny jeans lifestyle with the love for the beautiful game are few and far between.
Enter Los Campesinos!, one of our* favorite bands who also happen to be led by a rabid football fan. Gareth Campesinos! has described their most recent album as being about death, sex, and football. Tragically he, along with the rest of the lads, mainly supports Manchester United (though he does also support his local team, Welton Rovers FC) -- would it be too much to dream that we aren't the only Hipster Gooners out there? -- but his lyrics are vague enough to apply to any football fan who wishes Pitchfork ratings took into consideration the number of references to crossbars and pitches.
So without any further ado, these are the lyrics we'd be posting on our personal blogs or featuring on "First Match of the Season 2010" mixtapes.
FROM WE ARE BEAUTIFUL, WE ARE DOOMED (2008):
Miserabilia
I've cried on ashen floors of working men's clubs -- 96, 98, 2000, 2002, 2004 -- Oh my God, will it end?
We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
Charlotte says, "It's more constructive than the one in Canada,
When you got drunk, ate loads of crisps and threw up by a football pitch"
I know it is, and really that's what worries me, I feel like I should hurt.
All Your Keyfabe Friends
You asked if I'd be anyone from history, fact or fiction, dead or alive:
I said "I'd be Tony Cascarino, circa 1995".
FROM ROMANCE IS BORING (2010):
We've Got Your Back (Documented Minor Emotional Breakdown #2)
Every girl I ever kissed I was thinking of a pro-footballer
(THOUGHT. YOU. SHOULD. KNOW)
Plan A
I'm called up to the Maltese national team,
My vision is impeccable, my first touch is obscene.
A World Cup qualifier finds me fifty, forty, thirty yards
From goal, a late sub on in an off the striker role
Was it wind? Did it take a bad deflection?
A decade spent nursing a fear that you might never make it?
The crowd draws breath at once it swerves to the top corner
The Sunday tabloid press declares me the new king of Malta.
With my name on shirts, your face on the cash
That every week just piles inside our bank account,
We'd rule the roost and we could start a family
I think we'd make about a hundred million bucks.
Straight In at 101
Some people give themselves to religion
Some people give themselves to a cause
Some people give themselves to a lover
I have to give myself to goals!
This Is a Flag. There Is No Wind.
In an analogy that makes sense to most, this opportunity it found me unmarked at the far post, but I blazed it right against the crossbar of the pub that you had worked in since you moved here from Bath Spa. We agreed we couldn't trust the guy that didn't like a single sport.
*Disclaimer: "our" may just mean "my."
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