Hello. The clocks have gone back, the rain's pissing down and the heating's off. Yes, it could be better but who gives one?
I'm in Seven Sisters with the boys holed up in my nice big bed in my nice big house writing a blog- it could be a lot worse. Anyway the winter really is closing in. You know there's a point every year when suddenly you're wandering about town at 5am off your face as usual and the cold really starts to be a pain? I had this uniquely British experience whilst trapsing across the darker dark alleys in Brixton a fortnight ago, aimlessly trying to make it to a Subway, or a PFC (Perfect Fried Chicken for the uninitiated).
I got back to north London eventually. It only took me two days, four car rides, two buses, a train and two tube journeys but I got there, last week's shepherd's pie in hand (cheers mum). As long and winding drunk nights go I guess this was up there, but I did get a free phone along the way which eased my nerves a little.
Still, two things are on my mind this month. Unsurprisingly they both concern music. Firstly I'd like to use this forum to voice some opinions on Alan Yentob's account of Jay-Z on the BBC this week. Not really sure why the beeb let old Alan out to shadow the world's greatest ever rapper but it seemed to work; if it didn't really tell us more than we already knew about Sean Carter. Came from Brooklyn, makes tunes, got loads of cash. Still, any documentary about pop culture is going to be able to pull at the strings of nostalgia in all of us relatively easy, and it was no different here.
A whole smorgasboard of Jay-Z's best anthems would have almost evoked the same reaction in 99 per cent of the programme's viewers but the nagging timeline of the icon's epoch-defining gig at Glastonbury provided a glacial backdrop to endless snaps of Alan looking more than a little out of his depth at various hip-hop howdowns. I doubt he could've looked more out of place if he'd worn a white hood and a pitchfork but it was good entertainment.
And when your docu subject's Jay-Z you really should be pedalling the minimum wage because the man is such a monolith of modern zeitgeist you can hand-pick from any number of raps, tunes, pics, quotes and general too-fucking-cool-for-school poses that'd have Madonna desperately voguing at bus shelters for attention. The man is pure genius- I didn't know there were hairs on my forehead but they stood to attention when 99 Problems bellowed out from Glasto's hallowed Peaveys. A proper legend.
Secondly, let me congratulate The Kills on their album Midnight Boom- it's neck and neck with Fantasy Black Channel for my favourite album of the year, and may well overtake it if I keep on playing it as much as I have at the moment. In particular Last Day of Magic is one of those fantastically brooding and misanthropic records that defines a band of The Kills' ilk. Menacing, probing and downright dirty flaxen notes booming from Jamie Hince's battered guitar while Alison pouts for America make for a perfect couple. It's just one of those songs that really pleases as you can kind of tell (I hope not) that it will be their best.
I'm going to start writing more of this crap in the coming weeks as, with the internet being fitted in my house, I don't even need to get out of bed to scribe all the drivel spewing out of my limp mind. Good for me, not so for everyone (anyone) reading.
Hasta luego
Thursday 30 October 2008
Wednesday 24 September 2008
Wintertime
Ach, don't you hate the winter? No, neither do I really. Football, Christmas, New Year, my birthday of course. And as my girlfriend pointed out, better clothes.
No cricket, no sun, no barbeques, getting to and coming back from work under the cover of darkness. No summer holidays, no beaches, no girls in short skirts, football in the pissing rain, another inevitable season of misplaced optimism and even more misplaced transfer wodge at Charlton. Is winter really all it's cracked up to be? Would it be better if we lived on the equator and had no seasons?
Nah. There's nothing like the winter mist draped over a cobbled London street (though in my recollection it's more like farts drifting over a crackhead). And what about the snow which falls properly about once every five years, eh? That's good, right? Then there are all the great presents you get at Christmas- the socks, the Parker pens, the rubber chickens (seriously).
The great British summer? Bollocks. Everyone but me pretending they like cricket, watching a major football tournament where England are either absent or bereft of talent, sweating on the tube. We didn't get mods, punks, indieboys, teddys or goths from Billabong shorts and an All Saints vest, eh?
I know we all ove going abroad, chilling on a beach, burning our skin until it has the texture of sandpaper. But we British are descended from the Vikings, the Celts, the Angles and Saxons. And none of them were lying in beach huts at midday sipping coconut juice- they were huddled round fires chugging beer and wine, chatting shit and trying to shag anything that moved. So come on guys, get back to your roots and relish the Great British Winter- it's what we were made to do!
A short list for you this time, mainly 'cos I shouldn't be writing this now, but really 'cos I can't be arsed:
Roots Manuva - Let the Spirit (Hot Chip remix)
Noblesse Oblige - 4am
Le Le - Hard
Lo Fi Fnk - Want U
Youthmovies - Become an Island
Hello, Kate!! - Don't Panic (feat. Olivia Hanssen)
King Cannibal - Arigami Style
Tic Tac - Conspiracy Theory
Adios.
No cricket, no sun, no barbeques, getting to and coming back from work under the cover of darkness. No summer holidays, no beaches, no girls in short skirts, football in the pissing rain, another inevitable season of misplaced optimism and even more misplaced transfer wodge at Charlton. Is winter really all it's cracked up to be? Would it be better if we lived on the equator and had no seasons?
Nah. There's nothing like the winter mist draped over a cobbled London street (though in my recollection it's more like farts drifting over a crackhead). And what about the snow which falls properly about once every five years, eh? That's good, right? Then there are all the great presents you get at Christmas- the socks, the Parker pens, the rubber chickens (seriously).
The great British summer? Bollocks. Everyone but me pretending they like cricket, watching a major football tournament where England are either absent or bereft of talent, sweating on the tube. We didn't get mods, punks, indieboys, teddys or goths from Billabong shorts and an All Saints vest, eh?
I know we all ove going abroad, chilling on a beach, burning our skin until it has the texture of sandpaper. But we British are descended from the Vikings, the Celts, the Angles and Saxons. And none of them were lying in beach huts at midday sipping coconut juice- they were huddled round fires chugging beer and wine, chatting shit and trying to shag anything that moved. So come on guys, get back to your roots and relish the Great British Winter- it's what we were made to do!
A short list for you this time, mainly 'cos I shouldn't be writing this now, but really 'cos I can't be arsed:
Roots Manuva - Let the Spirit (Hot Chip remix)
Noblesse Oblige - 4am
Le Le - Hard
Lo Fi Fnk - Want U
Youthmovies - Become an Island
Hello, Kate!! - Don't Panic (feat. Olivia Hanssen)
King Cannibal - Arigami Style
Tic Tac - Conspiracy Theory
Adios.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Greetings from Scenesterville
In the interest of all who are lucky enough to study these hallowed scriptures, I' not actually massively into everyone who hangs around Brick Lane. In fact, I think some of them look like total cocks. Grown, heterosexual men walking with a gait more contrived than Kate Moss with the clap. I know I wear jeans that dangerously lower my sperm count but some of the outfits, well- there must be prizes for wearing the most colours in one outfit.
Anyway, without wanting to sound like some second-rate gossip rag hack, a lot of people here are cool. A lot more aren't. I'll keep it at that.
My latest incarnation, as many will already know, is as chief music reviewer for a wonderful publication called PIMP magazine. There are loads of good features to the job including freedom to write creative articles, license to create features and trends. The best part by a mile, though, is my mail. How many of you get this as your mailing address?
Sean-Pimp.
I have arrived. Anyhow, as a superfly sage of the airwaves I'd better give you all a very small list of tunes that've been giving me pleasure over the last few weeks:
Golden Silvers - Arrows of Eros
Chanty Poe - Weekend Cruise (Mark Moore, Kinky Rowland & S Express Mix)
Ja Ja Wunderbar - Paper Jam
Johnny Foreigner - Salt, Peppa & Spinderella (Bloc Party Remix)
Utah Saints - Something Good (High Contrast Remix)
Late of the Pier - Heartbeat
Micachu - Just in Case
Onra - Relax in Mui Shi
Metronomy - Radio Ladio
So, enjoy that- hope I can be of some service. Oh, and I'll be posting my first mix which I made I while ago, 'Order!', in the coming days- as soon as I get back to Dartford from the Tottenham gaff to sort out my ipod.
Bye bye
Anyway, without wanting to sound like some second-rate gossip rag hack, a lot of people here are cool. A lot more aren't. I'll keep it at that.
My latest incarnation, as many will already know, is as chief music reviewer for a wonderful publication called PIMP magazine. There are loads of good features to the job including freedom to write creative articles, license to create features and trends. The best part by a mile, though, is my mail. How many of you get this as your mailing address?
Sean-Pimp.
I have arrived. Anyhow, as a superfly sage of the airwaves I'd better give you all a very small list of tunes that've been giving me pleasure over the last few weeks:
Golden Silvers - Arrows of Eros
Chanty Poe - Weekend Cruise (Mark Moore, Kinky Rowland & S Express Mix)
Ja Ja Wunderbar - Paper Jam
Johnny Foreigner - Salt, Peppa & Spinderella (Bloc Party Remix)
Utah Saints - Something Good (High Contrast Remix)
Late of the Pier - Heartbeat
Micachu - Just in Case
Onra - Relax in Mui Shi
Metronomy - Radio Ladio
So, enjoy that- hope I can be of some service. Oh, and I'll be posting my first mix which I made I while ago, 'Order!', in the coming days- as soon as I get back to Dartford from the Tottenham gaff to sort out my ipod.
Bye bye
Saturday 9 August 2008
It's been a while...
Evening all. I don't know why it's taken me so long to write a new post here, being jobless now for about a month. Still, I've done it now so there you go.
Whilst working on some local rag some months ago, I was sent on a mission to the local magistrates' court to cover the day's action- less interesting than it sounds if possible. Anyway, two agonising hours in, enter Mr DVD Robber (an unfortunate name; he was actually in court for defacing five pound notes with rubber stamps of Fern Britton's arse). When asked how long he'd been seeking employment, Mr DVDR replied:
"Six years."
Fuck me (I didn't shorthand that). Six years? Six years of Trisha, Cash in the Attic and Countdown? Six years of cheap vodka and spliffs on a Friday night? Six years of a deep sense of waste and worthlessness? Actually, I suppose not- not with all those copies of Maid in Manhattan he'd been lifting from the local Woolworths. But still, six years?
What could one do with six years wandering the employment wilderness? You'd think the world would be at your feet; globetrotting across the seven seas, meeting endless numbers of fascinating people and fulfilling all those little things you always wanted to do- the novel, the photo gallery, the lifesize Darth Maul gimpsuit.
But it's not that simple. With no job (and I know I speak not only for myself) each day seems to take the wind out. It's like getting a kidney shot from Ricky Hatton but with that super slow-mo Sky camera. It's taken me all of a month to write this article, for Christ's sake!
Oh well. Bring on the ladyfriend returning in a few days. Bring on Brick Lane a week later, and Seven Sisters a week after that. I might even get another post in by then if I'm feeling really adventurous between Doctors repeats.
I think I've read about half a dozen reviews of XX Teens' Welcome to Goon Island, all of which have given distinctly average scores to the Mute's post-punk quintet. Well, I can tell you now they're all categorically wrong. This LP is a beauty, a real kick up modern post-punk's skinny-fitted backside.
Fair enough, some of the lyrics are so ridiculously abstract they'd make I am the Walrus sound like a World Service report. But spare these London boys their two cents of art-school oddity and you're left with a album that, given the Teens' vampish faithful, is packed with catchy, poppy dancefloor numbers. To reference the NME, imagine Mark E Smith smoking crack with OMD (whilst falling down spiral stairs onto Noel Gallagher who's walking David Bowie's dog, who's just taken a crap on Ian Curtis' pants). I've got the attention span of a goldfish watching The Hills, and I can listen to it through. Trust me- if you value my judgement, that's a huge compliment.
Oh, and watch the video to the sprawling Only You; dumbfoundingly fitting.
Anywho, that'll do for tonight. I'll have more for you in the coming days. That's if I can drag myself away from the women's coxless fours (I can shorthand that pretty quickly).
Whilst working on some local rag some months ago, I was sent on a mission to the local magistrates' court to cover the day's action- less interesting than it sounds if possible. Anyway, two agonising hours in, enter Mr DVD Robber (an unfortunate name; he was actually in court for defacing five pound notes with rubber stamps of Fern Britton's arse). When asked how long he'd been seeking employment, Mr DVDR replied:
"Six years."
Fuck me (I didn't shorthand that). Six years? Six years of Trisha, Cash in the Attic and Countdown? Six years of cheap vodka and spliffs on a Friday night? Six years of a deep sense of waste and worthlessness? Actually, I suppose not- not with all those copies of Maid in Manhattan he'd been lifting from the local Woolworths. But still, six years?
What could one do with six years wandering the employment wilderness? You'd think the world would be at your feet; globetrotting across the seven seas, meeting endless numbers of fascinating people and fulfilling all those little things you always wanted to do- the novel, the photo gallery, the lifesize Darth Maul gimpsuit.
But it's not that simple. With no job (and I know I speak not only for myself) each day seems to take the wind out. It's like getting a kidney shot from Ricky Hatton but with that super slow-mo Sky camera. It's taken me all of a month to write this article, for Christ's sake!
Oh well. Bring on the ladyfriend returning in a few days. Bring on Brick Lane a week later, and Seven Sisters a week after that. I might even get another post in by then if I'm feeling really adventurous between Doctors repeats.
I think I've read about half a dozen reviews of XX Teens' Welcome to Goon Island, all of which have given distinctly average scores to the Mute's post-punk quintet. Well, I can tell you now they're all categorically wrong. This LP is a beauty, a real kick up modern post-punk's skinny-fitted backside.
Fair enough, some of the lyrics are so ridiculously abstract they'd make I am the Walrus sound like a World Service report. But spare these London boys their two cents of art-school oddity and you're left with a album that, given the Teens' vampish faithful, is packed with catchy, poppy dancefloor numbers. To reference the NME, imagine Mark E Smith smoking crack with OMD (whilst falling down spiral stairs onto Noel Gallagher who's walking David Bowie's dog, who's just taken a crap on Ian Curtis' pants). I've got the attention span of a goldfish watching The Hills, and I can listen to it through. Trust me- if you value my judgement, that's a huge compliment.
Oh, and watch the video to the sprawling Only You; dumbfoundingly fitting.
Anywho, that'll do for tonight. I'll have more for you in the coming days. That's if I can drag myself away from the women's coxless fours (I can shorthand that pretty quickly).
Friday 2 May 2008
Just when everything seems to look a little stale, something always primes its teeth and drags you back into the rabbit hole. Yesterday I discovered Micachu, a young whippersnapper from Eazt Lundin innit. Rather than the iffy processed line of female vocalists littering our airwaves at the moment (the schizophrenically dire blues/spice girls pop of Duffy, for example) Micachu manages to glue some classy hip-hop beats to genuinely soulful lyrics, a bit like a chavvy Regina Spektor. And it's fucking brilliant. Just have a listen at http://www.myspace.com/micayomusic and I guarantee you'll be breaking out the Lambrini and slipping on a leopard skin halterneck. Maybe just me. The free mixtape is worth downloading to catch a few of London's latest grime acts in their pomp.
I suppose if Micachu is the next Lily Allen (though it physically pains me to make that connection), Esser could be the new Mike Skinner. Not afraid to fuse the more leftfield elements of modern hip-hop with unabashed radio 1 poppiness, what results is a massivley fun listen. That is all. I've been a lazy fuck recently, but I promise I'll deck these virtual halls with plenty of tuneful nuggets regularly from today. So, in true lazy blogger style, here are some other bands you might want to browse over:
Afrikan Boy
Panther DLX
Naked and the Boys
Thank you and good night.
I suppose if Micachu is the next Lily Allen (though it physically pains me to make that connection), Esser could be the new Mike Skinner. Not afraid to fuse the more leftfield elements of modern hip-hop with unabashed radio 1 poppiness, what results is a massivley fun listen. That is all. I've been a lazy fuck recently, but I promise I'll deck these virtual halls with plenty of tuneful nuggets regularly from today. So, in true lazy blogger style, here are some other bands you might want to browse over:
Afrikan Boy
Panther DLX
Naked and the Boys
Thank you and good night.
Monday 7 April 2008
Knowledge is Power
Is anyone else completely addicted to wikipedia? I find myself whiling away hours of potential work time learning about the indigenous tribes of Bhutan; or the minutiae of Schrodinger's quantum theory. As sad and as damning on my current social life as it sounds, is knowledge a drug? And no, I'm not talking in some kind of quasi-metaphorical and poncey terms. I just think that with the internet so readily available, it's depressingly easy to find yourself spending days, weeks, going from page to page, sifting through the murk of the web to find pub ammo ad nauseum.
You can tell who's been swotting up on the net as soon as you walk in the King's Head on a weeknight:
-You know, it's funny you should talk about the Dalai Lama Dave, 'cause Tibet's actually an autonomous region of China, including the old western region of Kham!
Don't get me wrong- I'm all for intelligent conversation- I even drink Staropramen occasionally- but this kind of quote-all crap has to go, or at least be flagged up.
-So what do you reckon should happen in Tibet then Alan? You reckon we should be boycotting the Olympics?
-Er...
You can always tell a 'wikism' because it usually veers off at such a tangent from the rest of the conversation as to render it a verbal atoll. It will be frequently backed up with a quick sip of Fosters and a trip to the gents' room:
-You watch the United game yesterday Dick?
-Yeah pretty fucking good game eh?! And you know what else, only Spurs have won the cup as non-leaguers, in 1901.
-Yeah that's interesting mate, doesn't that fit in with their run of winning cups in years ending in the number 1?
-Yeah yeah totally, and it was then (sip sip)...that they won the cup then...anyway mate I need a fucking slash, can you get these in?
Note: The wikism is always followed by as colourful and alpha-male language as possible, so as to cover up said faux-pas. Rating a nearby female is a favourite get-out tool of the wikidickhead. Do not be fooled. Spot the wikidickhead and eradicate him from society. A cheeky Stella all over the Thomas Pink is the best way, apparently (and that's not a euphemism either, I promise).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I finally found, in my infinitely flawed wisdom, the greatest mp3 website on the planet today- www.hypem.com has the digital music world scoured for every last b-side, remix and instrumental from a massive range of mp3 blog sites. It's like a price comparison website for, well, cheapskates who don't want to pay for their music. So, in my joy I managed to get pretty much every Blood Red Shoes track I'd been looking for recently. Tapedeck appear to be the latest Hoxton pin-ups right now, and you can get quite a few of their tunes and remixes for the site, all of which are interesting, if not a bit Dr Mario (Crystal Castles' Xxcuxzeme surely takes that award- shit).
Still, they can all go and kiss Late of the Pier's fetid y-fronts. I'm still finding old bootlegs and lives from the Castle Donnington foursome, and each one is a thing of throwback pop beauty. See them live see them live see them live. If you want some perspective, have a listen to Tubeway Army. Gary 'he's got a pilot's license! Great' Numan's mixture of post-punk and avant-electro perfectly mirrors today's manic obsession with all things moog.
Oh, and Leroy Lita's not bad either. More of that another time...
You can tell who's been swotting up on the net as soon as you walk in the King's Head on a weeknight:
-You know, it's funny you should talk about the Dalai Lama Dave, 'cause Tibet's actually an autonomous region of China, including the old western region of Kham!
Don't get me wrong- I'm all for intelligent conversation- I even drink Staropramen occasionally- but this kind of quote-all crap has to go, or at least be flagged up.
-So what do you reckon should happen in Tibet then Alan? You reckon we should be boycotting the Olympics?
-Er...
You can always tell a 'wikism' because it usually veers off at such a tangent from the rest of the conversation as to render it a verbal atoll. It will be frequently backed up with a quick sip of Fosters and a trip to the gents' room:
-You watch the United game yesterday Dick?
-Yeah pretty fucking good game eh?! And you know what else, only Spurs have won the cup as non-leaguers, in 1901.
-Yeah that's interesting mate, doesn't that fit in with their run of winning cups in years ending in the number 1?
-Yeah yeah totally, and it was then (sip sip)...that they won the cup then...anyway mate I need a fucking slash, can you get these in?
Note: The wikism is always followed by as colourful and alpha-male language as possible, so as to cover up said faux-pas. Rating a nearby female is a favourite get-out tool of the wikidickhead. Do not be fooled. Spot the wikidickhead and eradicate him from society. A cheeky Stella all over the Thomas Pink is the best way, apparently (and that's not a euphemism either, I promise).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I finally found, in my infinitely flawed wisdom, the greatest mp3 website on the planet today- www.hypem.com has the digital music world scoured for every last b-side, remix and instrumental from a massive range of mp3 blog sites. It's like a price comparison website for, well, cheapskates who don't want to pay for their music. So, in my joy I managed to get pretty much every Blood Red Shoes track I'd been looking for recently. Tapedeck appear to be the latest Hoxton pin-ups right now, and you can get quite a few of their tunes and remixes for the site, all of which are interesting, if not a bit Dr Mario (Crystal Castles' Xxcuxzeme surely takes that award- shit).
Still, they can all go and kiss Late of the Pier's fetid y-fronts. I'm still finding old bootlegs and lives from the Castle Donnington foursome, and each one is a thing of throwback pop beauty. See them live see them live see them live. If you want some perspective, have a listen to Tubeway Army. Gary 'he's got a pilot's license! Great' Numan's mixture of post-punk and avant-electro perfectly mirrors today's manic obsession with all things moog.
Oh, and Leroy Lita's not bad either. More of that another time...
Thursday 3 April 2008
Order...
My journalism tutor's been banging it into me for the past two months that I have to write a snappy, concise introduction to each piece.
So there, that's my intro. Did it leap out at you? Grab at your eyeballs and reel them in like a big juicy cod? Maybe not. Shame, because I really want you to read on. This blog will just be a ramble through the idle moments of my life, with some not-so-idle moments thrown in to liven it up a bit. Now I bet you really want to read on.
Maybe I could spice it up a little. Throw in the odd spectacular death here, a couple of affairs there. Perhaps someone I know went to a brothel and got beaten up by a few Nazi stormtroopers. I don't want to delve too far into fiction though.
There are a few things I like, one being music. I'd love to start up one of those super-trendy mp3 blogs. The ones where they've got pictures of French teenagers with clothes so fluorescent they're a danger to air travel. I'll dress brightly at times, but I reckon these kids could be put in some of those sensory therapy rooms in mental hospitals (is that the right name?). They could sort Frank Bruno out, and he might give one a right hook. Win win.
However apart from the pretty colours, http://fluokids.blogspot.com/ has some pretty good music, and it's updated almost every day. Hats off to the authors, who must sieve through some pretty turgid crap before they find any gold in a pretty saturated nu-rave/electro market.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
If Nietzsche had stuck on a pair of Cheap Mondays and strolled down to the East End, I'm pretty sure he'd conclude that Rock n' Roll is dead. And we've killed it. I know this whole 80s electro trend has been chugging along for a while now. It just feels like the more traditional boys with guitars are giving up on the competition. A notable handful of exceptions aside (Arctic Monkeys, Howling Bells and the seemingly ageless Nick Cave), there just doesn't appear to be the calibre of British indie outfits there were about five years ago. Okereke's making dance music, Doherty's playing chicken with porridge and Borrell's too busy ruining film stars to care any more. I suppose Shotter's Nation did have some cracking tunes on it, but really it was just a water(man)ed-down Libs LP.
The one area of indie that does seem to be spawning like a Catholic nympho is post-punk. Post-punk in its rawest, bleakest, guise. Ipso Facto, Prinzhorn Dance School, etc etc.
Apparently The Horrors are post-punk's heroes, but apart from the monochromed gladrags I can't really see it. The Horrors are a great heavy punk band. PDS sound like they just took too much Ritalin and found some Fisher Price instruments.
As for your traditional British pop-rock acts, The Feeling and The Hoosiers are what you get if you take T4 too seriously. Actually, when I think about it I've never seen them both in the same room. Goodbye Mr Any More And I'll Stick My Head in a Blender.
To finish on a lighter note I've got one word this week: Grum. Not North Yorkshire anal sex but a Leeds/Edinburgh-based DJ twisting countless rock tunes into tasty dance nuggets. Check him out at www.myspace.com/grummmusic and you'll see what I mean, especially the remix of Kings of Leon's On Call. Mustard (it's getting in Dave).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Anyhow, This is going on far too long now so I'll quit while I'm only a bit behind. So much to talk about, so little writing skill. I might put some interesting stuff in the next blog.
So there, that's my intro. Did it leap out at you? Grab at your eyeballs and reel them in like a big juicy cod? Maybe not. Shame, because I really want you to read on. This blog will just be a ramble through the idle moments of my life, with some not-so-idle moments thrown in to liven it up a bit. Now I bet you really want to read on.
Maybe I could spice it up a little. Throw in the odd spectacular death here, a couple of affairs there. Perhaps someone I know went to a brothel and got beaten up by a few Nazi stormtroopers. I don't want to delve too far into fiction though.
There are a few things I like, one being music. I'd love to start up one of those super-trendy mp3 blogs. The ones where they've got pictures of French teenagers with clothes so fluorescent they're a danger to air travel. I'll dress brightly at times, but I reckon these kids could be put in some of those sensory therapy rooms in mental hospitals (is that the right name?). They could sort Frank Bruno out, and he might give one a right hook. Win win.
However apart from the pretty colours, http://fluokids.blogspot.com/ has some pretty good music, and it's updated almost every day. Hats off to the authors, who must sieve through some pretty turgid crap before they find any gold in a pretty saturated nu-rave/electro market.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
If Nietzsche had stuck on a pair of Cheap Mondays and strolled down to the East End, I'm pretty sure he'd conclude that Rock n' Roll is dead. And we've killed it. I know this whole 80s electro trend has been chugging along for a while now. It just feels like the more traditional boys with guitars are giving up on the competition. A notable handful of exceptions aside (Arctic Monkeys, Howling Bells and the seemingly ageless Nick Cave), there just doesn't appear to be the calibre of British indie outfits there were about five years ago. Okereke's making dance music, Doherty's playing chicken with porridge and Borrell's too busy ruining film stars to care any more. I suppose Shotter's Nation did have some cracking tunes on it, but really it was just a water(man)ed-down Libs LP.
The one area of indie that does seem to be spawning like a Catholic nympho is post-punk. Post-punk in its rawest, bleakest, guise. Ipso Facto, Prinzhorn Dance School, etc etc.
Apparently The Horrors are post-punk's heroes, but apart from the monochromed gladrags I can't really see it. The Horrors are a great heavy punk band. PDS sound like they just took too much Ritalin and found some Fisher Price instruments.
As for your traditional British pop-rock acts, The Feeling and The Hoosiers are what you get if you take T4 too seriously. Actually, when I think about it I've never seen them both in the same room. Goodbye Mr Any More And I'll Stick My Head in a Blender.
To finish on a lighter note I've got one word this week: Grum. Not North Yorkshire anal sex but a Leeds/Edinburgh-based DJ twisting countless rock tunes into tasty dance nuggets. Check him out at www.myspace.com/grummmusic and you'll see what I mean, especially the remix of Kings of Leon's On Call. Mustard (it's getting in Dave).
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Anyhow, This is going on far too long now so I'll quit while I'm only a bit behind. So much to talk about, so little writing skill. I might put some interesting stuff in the next blog.
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