British Music's Trapped in Booze Hell

For a while now, US and UK urban music have been dealing with profoundly different subject matters ("urban music" is a horrible, Operation Trident-kinda term I know, but a bigger umbrella term than "rap" or "R&B" is needed these days). The US new school of A$AP, Kendrick, Schoolboy Q, et al, are a hedonistic bunch to say the least. They've eschewed the previously popular themes of Maybachs and Illuminati conspiracies for a good old-fashioned mash-up (as in getting fucked, not the kind you find on MP3 blogs). Rocky's got his purple drank, Schoolboy claims to care only about "weed and brews" and Kendrick is into pretty much everything bar huffing on white spirit according to "A.D.H.D". Action Bronson might look like a Nordic orang-utan, but he's actually a man who knows his grapes, waxing lyrical about his favourite Shiraz like a Bronx Oz Clarke. The music even sounds three sheets to the wind, full of staggering beats and migraine basslines that are far more evocative of a Thursday night in Maidstone than anything David Guetta has ever done. (Drake and The Weeknd are their Canadian crooning cousins, more partial to a "cup full of Rosé" than a Sprite bottle full of Codeine and Jolly Ranchers.)

It's indicative of the idea that rap no longer needs to be responsible. It doesn't even have to be ghetto, in fact; the battles have been won and there's nothing to prove any more. Jay-Z, a man who once spoke about dumping bodies in Marcy, is now apparently the most powerful person in the world, let alone music. Rap's back is covered, so why not just hit the sauce? North American hip-hop overall is in the midst of a Mötley Crüe stage, rebelling against itself with hair metal decadence. Meanwhile, the British equivalent has been stuck in a state of sober denial, the temperate spirit of Cliff Richard looming large over the UK urban scene. The ugly dragon of grime has been shackled and glasses without lenses have replaced rooms without windows. It's an Apprentice-esque vision of artistic success: Get the mixtape, get the Example collab, get the Euro-crossover hit and get photographed with Richard Branson.

But as the industry revels in this domestic dream, one fuelled by ring-fenced Brit Awards optimism, the sound of British urban music loiters in the doldrums. Production-line productions, lyrical cliches and fizzy mineral water are the orders of the day, but fear not, because two British (sort of) MCs have thrown their fitted caps straight into the heady ring of hangover-hop. The toxic twins in question? None other than five-time Lord Of The Mics champion Taio Cruz, and that flame-haired hell raiser himself, Ed Sheeran.

Cruz's entry to the canon may be told from the bleary-eyed perspective of the morning after, but a number two breakfast and three Hedex in his system later, he's ready to roll. Boastfully informing the listener that he can "drink until I throw up, never want to grow up", Taio isn't just having the hair of, but the whole fucking dog. The problem with his boozy posturing, however, is that it's stunningly unconvincing. Like an anti-Paul Gascoigne, he's trying to convince a sceptical public that he does have a drink problem. I'm not doubting that maybe he has delved too far into a Mahiki Treasure Chest once or twice, but the fact that this hangover makes him want to say "woah-oh" reveals him to be a novice in the booze game. People with serious hangovers can't even listen to music, let alone be inspired to make it. I've got him down as the kinda guy who goes in with seven mates on a pitcher of vodka and Monster rather than a man who glugs White Ace on his lunch break. Someone who likes the theory but not the practice.

Hooded troubadour Ed Sheeran has a different, predictably reflective take on the genre. He's gone for Drizzy-esque sorrow drowning, rather than Taio's dubious beer pong claims. But just because it's more introspective, it doesn't mean it's any more convincing. The Abercrombie Dylan tells us that he wants to be "drunk when he wakes up, on the right side of the wrong bed", presumably talking about crashing at a mate's uni halls after a particularly heavy FIFA and bunning session. Ed's into the hard stuff too, by the way, letting us know it's always 4.20 in the Sheeran household when he talks about "the flicker of the clipper when they light up".

To be fair, the Jack Wills Bukowski's far more convincing as a stoner than a drinker, seeing as he's got that "feds confiscated my grinder" look down to a tee. Oliver Reed he is not, the giveaway sign being that he appears to be drinking Carlsberg in the video. The can is sort of obscured, but it looks that way to me. You see, Carlsberg is a drink mistakenly bought by people who don't usually drink beer. It's the beer of choice at school fetes and barbeques held by teetotallers. The amateur choice. If he'd been on the Skol Premium, I might have believed him.

Not that you'd actually want to see him pissed. He seems like he'd be a terrible drunk, the sort of guy who'd go to house parties as a kid and spend the majority of them crying on the stairs or reeling around in the back garden falling into the patio AGA. You know when people make a point of telling you how drunk they want to get that night? Planned binging is always a bad idea, destined to end with tears, a short trip in the booze bus and an £80 fixed penalty notice. Gentlemen, you aren't fooling anybody. Stick to the Rubicon, and let the Americans do the drinking while we figure out what to do with our superior stash of brain cells.

Follow Clive on Twitter: @thugclive