Being named after a 40-year-old Velvets' song is the giveaway.
If there's one thing I really have a problem with in music, it's this cringeworthy veneration of the distant past. It's like one of those 'legends' football matches where some fading star like Beckham gets to have his teenage idol Pelé in his team.
And I'm sorry to say this but ATP is the modern-day equivalent of the fucking revival cabaret tour. There's no irony lost on these guys, they even take place in Butlins holiday camps. It's bad enough when all those godawful 80s bands like Flock Of Seagulls and T'Pau come back to haunt us but this ATP stuff is arguably worse: it's predominantly the 60s and 70s. It's at the level of Elvis impersonators. It's fucking nostalgia unlimited.
I can hear some hecklers saying, well, you cunts did ATP in London, you're just bitter 'cos you got bottled off the stage. And there is some truth in that because, for fuck's sake, Whitehouse is 26 years old, and at the time I do admit that concert was a totally frustrating and depressing experience, albeit compounded by the breathtaking incompetence of that legendary numpty, the ATP stage manager. However, on kinder reflection, I look back on our premature exit as a vindication of sorts. A reassuringly healthy disrespect for 'tradition'.
And bear with me a bit longer while I'm still ranting on this topic (it's one of those days, I'm afraid); it's really disappointing, for all the above-mentioned reasons, to hear about Thurston Moore showing old Come Organisation videos at last weekend's bash without even asking for permission (which, by the way, wouldn't have been given). So there.