Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Fucking hell Michael Bublé is the blandest man ever in the world ever ever.
12/31/2003 06:46:00 pm
i.e. I love all the records below, just not enough. Come March you'll understand,
12/31/2003 06:45:00 pm
The ones that haven't made the grade (yet)...
Various - 300% Dynamite
Various - Trojan 12" Box Set
Leftfield - Leftism
Various - The Sun Records Story V.1
Lambchop – Is A Woman
Bjork - Homogenic
Outkast – Speakerboxxx/The Love Below
Orbital - Snivilisation
Mouse On Mars - Instrumentals
Godspeed You Black Emperor – F# A# [infinity]
Radiohead – The Bends
Curtis Mayfield - Superfly
The KLF – The White Room
Mouse On Mars – Vulvaland
Orbital – “Green”
Otis Redding – Otis Blue
Madonna – The Immaculate Collection
The KLF – Chill Out
At The Drive-In – Relationship Of Command
Radiohead – Kid A
John Coltrane – Blue Train
Herbie Hancock – Head Hunters
Wu-Tang Clan – Enter The 36 Chambers
Cannibal Ox – The Cold Vein
Mouse On Mars - Autoditacker
Mogwai – Young Team
Beastie Boys – Ill Communication
Big Star – 3rd/Sister Lovers
D’Angelo – Voodoo
Goldie – Timeless
PJ Harvey – Rid Of Me
Jimi Hendrix – Electric Ladyland
Kyuss – Welcome To Sky Valley
Make Up – Save Yourself
Bob Marley – Exodus
Mos Def – Black On Both Sides
Screaming Trees – Dust
Sly & The Family Stone – A Whole New Thing
Spiritualized – Laser Guided Melodies
Super Furry Animals – Guerilla
The Verve – A Storm In Heaven
Witness – Before The Calm
Can – Tago Mago
Dave Douglas – Songs For Wandering Souls
Black Dog – Bytes
Nick Cave – The Boatman’s Call
Miles Davis - Agharta
Prodigy – Music For The Jilted Generation
Asian Dub Foundation – Community Music
12/31/2003 06:42:00 pm
I know I'm not alone in this sentiment, but I really fucking hate New Year. Not just because it's a stupid, arbitrary celebration based around a somewhat 'idiosyncratic' religious calendar (the Christian calendar starts when jesus is born, rioght? so why are Xmas and New Year a week apart? why is Xmas not until January 7th in Ethipia, which is a Xtian country? why are we not nuts about various kings and such in the middle ages nicking years off us to make themselves look younger?). What is New Year if you're not Xtian and accept that the calendar we live by is purely symbolic in terms of when it starts and ends? Not an equinox, not a solstice, not even a fucking harvest or a planting - these things I can more than understand celebrating more than some tenuous 'new beginning'. While we're at it why aren't months lunar anymore? You fucking fucks. I could do with an extra paycheque each year.
Uergh.
But most of all I hate the enforced joviality of New Year's Eve, the evil and awkward imperative to have as much fun as possible that forces people who don't understand what fun is to go out and have it. Idiots who don't know how to behave in pubs and go out one night in 365 and make life hell for people who work there (something I did for years). And the awful, crushing knowledge that if you don't go out and attempt to eviscerate yourself with alcohol, swear at people, get off with someone you don't like or probably even know, dance a shit dance, sprain your ankle and be seen desperately trying to 'enjoy' yourself, that you're going to be dubbed a killjoy fascist fun-hater.
Uergh. Assholes. This year I shall probably be staying in and watching a film.
12/31/2003 02:00:00 pm
Sunday, December 28, 2003
I'm not sure what the fuck this is, but...
12/28/2003 04:34:00 pm
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Merry Wobbs!
12/25/2003 09:00:00 am
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
12/24/2003 03:25:00 pm
Something wonderful about this. Funny that I should read it just as I've put fingers to keys for the first time on the tale of my own university experiences (except, of course, I think this is possibly fiction).
12/24/2003 11:30:00 am
Each wordword must be html'd differently.
12/24/2003 11:11:00 am
Oh yeah, DE is about the best film-writer on the net at the moment (that I've seen). Write more.
12/24/2003 11:08:00 am
Sam, I love you. I'm not sure when the horrifc realisation that it was all about being an artisan rather than a magician kicked in. Possibly just now.
12/24/2003 11:07:00 am
I am eating hazelnut chocolate, listening to Plaid, and blogging. At work. Eat my fuc, santa. Merry Wobbs!
12/24/2003 11:06:00 am
"Squance" by Plaid is the greatest fucking thing EVAH.
12/24/2003 11:05:00 am
Why is it that I have received far more [spam] email about Paris Hilton than about anything else? Why does anyone care if she got 'banged'? Who actually wants to see this 'infamous' footage of her being a 'cum-guzzling whore'? Is the sexual realisation of someone normally known in a different context somehow more erotic (because pornography is always intensely erotic, of course < /irony>) than the objectification of someone who has no other context, i.e. the 'porn star'? Is this why readers' wives features and amateurism are so popular, because although we don't know these women we can imagine we do much better than with Jenna Jameson or whoever? And if this sexual recontextualisation is part of the appeal, then why still the fascination with Paris Hilton, because she seemingly has no other context and ergo may as well be a 'porn star'? And why the hell does she not appear to be upset at all about this explicit and voracious sexual objectification of herself?
I fear the continued popularity of Paris Hilton may simply be down to amny men's desire to "fuck some posh totty".
12/24/2003 09:04:00 am
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Two possible questions for asking on ILX when it's back up and running...
1; Taking sides - Ben & Jerrys vs. Hagen Daazs?
2; Taking sides - Pop Idol vs. Fame Academy?
12/23/2003 09:40:00 pm
You Can Never Go Back
Frodo is so scarred by his adventures at the end of the Lord Of The Rings trilogy that he can no longer live in The Shire, and finds himself heading for the West in the company of elves. After you've been away, discovered something of yourself, been through the mill, you can never go back. No one can ever go back.
There's a lesson to be learnt here for musicians as well as questing hobbits. U2 decided to return to the sound of their youth and The Joshua Tree with All That You Can't Leave Behind, and it was rubbish, a blight on their memory that only those blinded by faith in the band's genius could not see for the folly it is.
REM experienced the exact same phenomenon with Reveal, which was meant to retread the melodic pastures of their late 80s, early 90s peak. It didn't.
Orbital tried to find the dancefloor again with The Altogether. They failed.
Plaid tried to regain something of their Black Dog days with Spokes, and ended up producing the weakest LP of their career.
How many times do you hear tell of a band "harking back to the sound of their earliest material" or "recovering the raw edge of their early days"? And how many times do bands actually manage to achieve this? I suspect this will always be a trend, as people stop to take stock of where they are and realise that they're not sure who they are anymore, and feel the disconcerting twinge of panic in their necks. So they clamber backwards over the rocks they spent so long trying to pass in the first place, back in those heady, youthful days of discovery and joy.
And so, lapsed fan that I may be anyway, I don't hold out much hope for Embrace's return next year. A return to the muscular, confident sound they emerged with? Possibly. But probably not.
12/23/2003 09:39:00 pm
Now playing:
The Delgados - Hate
Plaid - Double Figure
Mogwai - Happy Songs For Happy People
Conclusion:
In a lush and oddly melodic mood with a hitn of melancholy.
12/23/2003 09:24:00 pm
In the rather nuts spirit of Pepys' Diary and Jorge Luis Borges, I am going to state right now, right here, that I think Busted should alter their career arc from henceforth. As of January 2004 I think Busted should become The Beatles by refusing to do anything other than cover each and every Beatles song, in the order The Beatles first did them, live and on record. If possible they should only play gigs where The Beatles played gigs, and on corresponding dates. In 2007 they should stop playing gigs at all. In 2020 Charlie Busted should be shot dead by someone reading a Bret Easton Ellis novel on the steps of some hotel (possibly the Paris Hilton! hahahahaha - welcome ye, random Googlers!).
I think this would be a wise and magnificent move.
12/23/2003 12:39:00 pm
Monday, December 22, 2003
Just go and buy yourself some of these.
12/22/2003 09:01:00 pm
It’s not over when the fat lady wins…
Pity Michelle Pop Idol. Simon Cowell decided weeks ago that the only chance of making series 2 of the nation’s favourite talent contest marketable was to have a winner with at least some attribute that could mark them out from the identikit stage-school hordes. When cutesy teenpop rentboy Sam was voted out last week the result became as inevitable as Frodo tossing the Ring Of Power into the flaming underbelly of Mordor. What the fuck is the other guy even called? Mark? Matt? Mike? Last night he looked like nothing so much as a drunk young man at a wedding who’d stumbled onstage to karaoke his way through some long forgotten Take That number. And he’s meant to be a pop star? God save us from this blandness. Elton John must have been weeping. With no recognisable personality or distinguishable vocal character to pin the marketing team on, Simon Callow was left with the fat girl. Why not? After all a few people liked Rick Waller, and at least Michelle has human teeth.
Saturday revealed to me that a; Michelle is not a singer of any instant, recognisable quality, and b; the public still like to patronise overweight people by assuming automatically that they must be talented or ‘lovely’. This is not the case. Fat people are just as likely to be ridiculous, callous no-marks as thin people. Compounding Simon’s realisation that Michelle was the way to go was the growing public determination to demonstrate that the idle judges don’t like it up ‘em (Pete Waterman allegedly stormed off in either tears or profanities when the result came in), by voting for Michelle. Hence you get thousands, maybe millions of people voting not for their favourite singer but for “the fat girl”, out of both a sense of misplaced justice and a mischievous desire to upset misters Callow and Wankerman.
Only Callow isn’t upset, because he sees the opportunity in this result. Alex Parks? Gay. David Sneddon? Might as well be gay. Will Young? Gay. Girls Aloud? Homicidal. Gareth Gates? De-flowered by Jordan. One True Voice? Characterless, bland and nowhere to be seen. Hear’Say? Characterless, bland and nowhere to be seen. Had Matt/Mike/Mark won where would Pop Idol be? What’s the market for dull, heterosexual, characterless pop? Certainly there’s room for it in the rock sphere (Coldplay, Starsailor, Travis – all of whom suffer from not being anywhere near gay enough) but then you need at least an illusion of being organic, something which the whole reality pop system throws out of the window before letting contestants in the door.
I imagine Michelle’s career will be as long and illustrious as Tiny from Ultrasound’s.
Where the fuck is David Sneddon? Not that I want him back in the charts or anything, you understand. Just curious.
12/22/2003 01:52:00 pm
Mad World
I'm a Tears For Fears fan, of course I wanted The Darkness to 'win'. Much as I love Donnie Darko and think "Mad World" fits into it beautifully, Gary Jules and thingummy's cover version murders the original with the same kind of deep & meaningful indie schmindie sincerity that caused Travis to think they could transform "Hit Me Baby One More Time" into a heartfelt expression of the horrors of domestic violence, or whatever. Likewise The Flaming Lips covering Kylie, and countless other indie bands trying to "make pop good and meaningful". Dismemberment Plan did it OK when they covered Jennifer Paige's "Crush", but that's down to Travis sounding like a psychopath/stalker rather than a wistful, lovelorn fool. Slower does not necessarily mean more profound. Pop music is not necessarily lesser than rock music. Crying is definitely not intrinsically better than dancing.
As for The Darkness, I may find their shenanigans too much to stomach, but they have at least added to the lineage of ridiculous Christmas rockers.
To be honest I wish Sugababes had managed to nick it as "Lost In You" is by far the best thing in the top 40 right now. But that was never going to happen.
Props, as ever, to Swygart, who is a young master and possibly the best chart commentator in the country right now.
12/22/2003 12:38:00 pm
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Speaking of which, Sam, wtf is with all the homoerotic violence?
12/20/2003 05:34:00 pm
Three uses of 'other' in one sentence, that's Freudian because he's gay, right? I don't even know what he looks like but I bet he's beautiful.
12/20/2003 05:33:00 pm
I mean, he sounds like a jar of molasses smoking a fag, perched on a velvet cushion. It's ludicrous but it's incredible. He sounds like he can't be arsed and yet he's got all of Broadway exploding behind him. Sod nicking things from minor players, he's stealing "Bolero" off Ravel and making it look like he wrote it himself. If I never hear anyone else sing again I wont mind. He's totally making up these melodies as he's going along only you know he's not, he's not, he's just so fucking good that he sounds as if he is. It's like Buckley and Sinatra- no, someone better than Sinatra, more fulsome, more given to bathos because bathos is much more affecting than pathos when it's done right, completely through overblown and mawkish and pompous and out of the other side of ridiculousness into some beautiful other country that most other people are too embarrassed to even try and get to.
Wow.
12/20/2003 05:32:00 pm
Fucking hell, Rufus Wainwright.
12/20/2003 05:23:00 pm
The good humor man he see everything like this…
There was a moment during one of the climactic battles of The Return Of The King when Legolas (he’s the elf, non-nerds [I use the term ironically {nerd, not elf}, considering The Guardian’s rather aimless and unfocused article on The Triumph Of The Nerd or some such last Friday {December 12th}, which spent 2,000 words being surprised that girls like Lord Of The Rings and superhero comics are now forming blockbuster movies, like fantasy films have never been popular, as if Star Wars and Superman weren’t sensations nigh-on 30 years ago, as if Jason & The Argonauts never existed, as if no one ever went to the cinema in search of fantastical, escapist spectaculars until post-9/11, as if we’re all nerds now but never were before – I mean, wtf?!]) clambers up one of the giant, killer-elephant-things, swinging from strap to strap, bouncing on its haunches, slashing the guy-ropes that tether the huge, orc-bearing (ok, they’re not orcs, they’re foreigners, specifically Asiatic/African foreigners, with masks, and shaved heads, and make-up, but I don’t even wanna start to go into the race issues here) chassis, causing it to fall off as the giant, killer-elephant-thing (is this the same giant, killer-Elephant-thing that topped NME’s Albums Of The Year poll?), killing (presumably) it’s murderous crew of immigrants and voodooists. Legolas then daintily runs across the giant, killer-elephant-thing’s back, demonstrating supreme balance and fleetness of foot, before drawing his magnificent bow and unleashing an arrow into the giant, killer-elephant-thing’s cerebral cortex via the back of its head, killing the giant, killer-elephant-thing and bringing about the behemothic beast’s final, fateful tumble earthwards. And at the moment the giant, killer-elephant-thing hit the dirt, the audience of the Exeter Picturehouse, to a man (excepting me and my companion, possibly [and maybe a few others, so not quite to a man, perhaps more like 60%]), cheered. I’ve never known anything like it in my life. But considering that I’ve probably only been to the cinema three dozen times in my life this is not surprising.
What makes Peter Jackson’s Lord Of The Rings meta-epic (it seems churlish now to call it a trilogy – these are obviously not three films anymore than, say, Orbital’s “Lush 3-1” and “Lush 3-2” are two songs) so much better than the Wachowski Brothers’ Matrix saga? If anything struck me about The Return Of The King (aside from the sentimentality which comprised the denouement – remember the end of Return Of The Jedi, with the celebrations and the shiny C3-PO and the kissing and the smiling and the happyhappyjoyjoy? That lasts about three minutes – in The Return Of The King the equivalent lasts half a fucking hour or more) it is the complete spiritual and moral hollowness of it. The goodies win, the baddies lose, no one we really like dies (apart from Bernard Hill but he’s old so it’s OK), there are no consequences to deal with apart from happiness and the dawning, utopic Age Of Men, the absolute worst that happens is that we have to say goodbye to Bilbo (who is remarkably still alive!) and Frodo, that Sam gets to marry the girl and have some lovely halfling babies (his betrothed’s enormous, hirsute feet eroding any slight hint of eroticism), that Aragorn becomes king and that his elven love returns to be by his side, that Faromir (sic) doesn’t die by being burnt alive by his batshit insane father, that Merry & Pippin are left with the prospect of eating yet more bacon and eggs, drinking yet more ale, and smoking yet more tobacco… The Matrix trilogy ends with the death of Trinity and the resultant martyrdom of Neo (he loves her so much that he’s got nothing else to live for, so he might as well save the rest (read ‘dregs’) of humanity from the evil machines, geddit?), and, much as we don’t care about these characters, or by this point in proceedings the fucking godforsaken films themselves, there is at least a sense of pathos and finality-through-death and a new dawn that might require some work in order for people to live happily ever after.
An aside for the Wachowski Brothers – if you are ending an epic, pseudo-biblical film and want people to be touched, moved, enlightened and enriched, then don’t, for god’s sake, have the final, platitudinously hopeful utterances spoken by computer programs; if your audience didn’t care for Jesus and his Laura-Mulvey-baiting-first love (cinematic woman as nothing more than catalyst for man’s success [resist the temptation to go nuts over the Magical Negro, please Nick]) then they’re not going to care for MS Word and Mozilla Firebird gazing winsomely at a sunrise and saying “turned out nice again!” now are they?!
Lord Of The Rings has none of this sense of pathos at all. If anything the laying-on of sentimentality and happy-endings (which appears to have been done with an enormous trowel) twists the mood towards bathos, which is really not want you want after ten+ hours of mind-boggling, terrifying, wonderful, thrilling, triumphant cinema spectacle. But this is not Jackson’s fault, of course – it is Tolkein’s.
My father and I read The Lord Of The Rings together when I was very small, and although I have since re-read The Hobbit I have had no inclination to revisit the actual trilogy itself, especially not since it has replaced Harry Potter as the Devon commuter’s morning read of choice. Snobbish, I know, but there you go. My twenty-year-old copies are safely ensconced beneath my bed should I ever change my mind, browned pages and broken spines all. I would say something insightful and knowledgeable about Tolkein writing in a post-war England which needed both escapism and hope for a better future, and that this is why the culmination of The Lord Of The Rings is so bleakly happy and idyllic, but I have no idea whether this is actually the case and know sod-all about Tolkein himself or what happens at the end of the books themselves, so I shan’t. We do like a happy ending though, don’t we?
Having studied philosophy at university, even if only for a minor part of my degree, and counting “thinking about things” as an interest, I tend very much to run away screaming from pop.cultural products which aspire towards profundity. Watching The Matrix for the first time at university, in a living room surrounded by rapt stoners who were very rapidly being mind-boggled and exclaiming “this is the best film ever” or “this is the most original film ever” or some such ridiculousness while I made a mental checklist of shots nicked from Vertigo or locations very similar to those in Die Hard or Terminator 2. The “there is no spoon” idea I could deal with without feeling sick, but the whole “what if we’re all in somebody else’s dream” schtick was tired and old before the jaded (as in ‘made green’?) opening credit sequence. By the time The Matrix Reloaded attempted to drown us in a sea of foul-smelling tripe about choice and destiny and paths and so on I was fully fed-up and embarrassed by the level of thought that had gone into it. Cod-philosophy? Not even that. I guess it’s quite amusing that Waking Life, with its extended, boring monologues about lucid dreams and existential theory, should be one of the films that I’ve enjoyed most over the last few years. Possibly Hal Ashby’s Being There is the diametric opposite of Waking Life, openly mocking the gullibility of people drawn into believing trite observances are universal profundities before rapidly and unexpectedly evolving the protagonist into some kind of magical entity, moving from realism into magical-realism just as Waking Life moves from luscious, surreal waking-dream into a realisation that it is little more than a visually stunning discourse on nothing in particular. I love Being There as much as Waking Life.
That The Lord Of The Rings is at heart completely empty works in its favour. Jackson is a schlock director, a b-movie maker – you only need to glance at Bad Taste or Braindead to realise this – and Lord Of the Rings is the ultimate b-movie. The story and world are laid in stone and have been for decades, visuals painted clearly in people’ minds by calendars, animations, Games Workshop, countless illustrations and parodies and so on and so forth; all Jackson had to do was bring them to life. Any fiddling with the story would have been untenable due to the unavoidably stern gaze of the Tolkein-fascists who must be consulted at every level lest they curse you, or something. Jackson could have ended the movie at the moment the Ring sinks into the magma, at the moment victory is achieved, avoiding the basking in happiness that follows, but a; the purists would go nuts, and b; why bother? When you’ve made a ten-hour film with no real lightness or calm after the first 40 minutes, why not milk the happy-ever-after for all its worth? The final 40 minutes or so was the only point during the film(s) that I have even approached boredom, and even then I felt nowhere near as cheated as I do at the culmination of Close Encounters when Richard Dreyfuss happily runs of to live in bliss in the world of the aliens with nary a thought for his wife and kids.
The key thing is to provide a spectacle, a cinematic phenomenon that bedazzles and astounds and amazes. To create a new world, not better or worse but different and remarkable and strange. To make people gasp, to make people cheer when a young man with false ears fires an imaginary arrow into the skull of an illusory elephant, to make a 6’2” Welshman appear as a dwarf and a rock star’s daughter appear as an ageless elf. Jackson has done all of this, and done it superlatively. And I am sure that come September (or whenever) and the release of the extended DVD version (replete with seven minutes of Christopher Lee to give a face to the faceless evil) the full, unexpurgated vision will be even grander, even more pompous, even more thrilling and magical and dangerous and magnificent.
The greatest film(s) ever made? Dunno about that. But certainly the grandest.
For what it’s worth, I think I enjoyed the first film the most, when the spectacle was new, to both us and to Frodo et al. The second and third films evolve inexorably into huge, awesome war films, but that first film is an adventure story, about stepping outside for the first time and seeing where the road takes you, the first brushes with danger, and the dawning realisation that there’s more between heaven and earth, Samwise Gamgee, than is dreamt of in your philosophy.
Addendum
Never go off to have lunch and then come back to a blog post 3/4s done, because you will forget your point.
I felt like I was being condescended to by The Matrix, as if someone who wasn't as smart as me (and I'm not very smart to start with) was trying to show off with second and third-hand ideas that they don't fully understand (and assume that no one else understands either, so they can show off with them!), whereas I don't feel Lord Of The Rings was trying to do anything other than entertain me in the most spectacular ways. And of course there's always the fact that the crux of the Matrix films was predicated entirely upon you the audience believing Neo & Trinity's love for each other as a profound well of human experience. Which is patently ridiculous considering Keanu's dramatic ability ranges from confused to confused and back to confused again. The dialogue in LOTR may have made Star Wars look like South park, but that's part of the fun ("by nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs!"). Uergh, what the hell. I just don't like The Matrix very much.
12/20/2003 01:51:00 pm
Current listening - Patrick Wolf's bizarre and compelling Lycanthropy and Rufus Wainwright's magnificently luscious and camp Want One. NME does have some uses then.
12/20/2003 11:55:00 am
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
I guess, in my naïve and idealistic way, I'd always hoped that NME (which I read every week from the age of 15 up until 21) would grow and develop and change tastes and so forth directly analogous to my self. This is obviously not the case.
12/17/2003 11:21:00 am
Awesome.
12/17/2003 11:19:00 am
So once again I buy my yearly copy of NME. I used to look forward to end-of-year issues, lists of best albums, best films, best singles, reminders of things I'd forgotten, tantalising mentions of things I'd never heard of. For instance, check out this list from when I was 16 (1995, as if that wasn't immedietely obvious from the contents);
NME Albums 1995
1. Maxinquaye - Tricky
2. (Whats The Story) Morning Glory - Oasis
3. It's Great When You're Straight..Yeah! - Black Grape
4. The Bends - Radiohead
5. Grand Prix - Teenage Fanclub
6. I Should Coco - Supergrass
7. Different Class - Pulp
8. To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey
9. The Great Escape - Blur
10. Timeless - Goldie
11. Elastica - Elastica
12. Foo Fighters - Foo Fighters
13. The Second Tindersticks Album - Tindersticks
14. Wake Up! - The Boo Radleys
15. Hot Charity - Rocket From The Crypt
16. Wowee Zowee - Pavement
17. A Northern Soul - The Verve
18. The Charlatans - The Charlatans
19. Garbage - Garbage
20. Exit Planet Dust - The Chemical Brothers
21. Exit The Dragon - Urge Overkill
22. Pure Phase - Spritulized Electric Mainline
23. No Protection - Massive Attack V Mad Professor
24. Mark's Keyboard Repair - Money Mark
25. Stanley Road - Paul Weller
26. Throbbing Pouch - Wagon Christ
27. Bwyd Time - Gorky's Zygotic Mynci
28. Leftism - Leftfield
29. Only Built For Cuban Links - Raekwon
30. Liquid Swords - Genius/GZA
31. Washing Machine - Sonic Youth
32. Life - The Cardigans
33. Music For The Amorphous Body Study Centre - Stereolab
34. Branded - Isaac Hayes
35. Post - Bjork
36. Ballbreaker - AC/DC
37. L'Etat Et Moi - Blumfeld
38. Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness - The Smashing Pumpkins
39. I Was Born A Man - Baby Bird
40. Tical - Method Man
41. Mirror Ball - Neil Young
42. Clear - Bomb The Bass
43. Tilt - Scott Walker
44. Jack's Tulips - Lambchop
45. Nobody's Cool - Lotion
46. We Care - Whale
47. Disgraceful - Dubstar
48. There Are Strings - Spring Heel Jack
49. Red Medicine - Fugazi
50. Viva Last Blues - Palace Music
Or how about this one from when I was 18 (1997, obviously);
NME Albums Of The Year 1997
1. Spiritualized – Ladies And Gentleman We Are Floating In Space
2. Radiohead – OK Computer
3. The Verve – Urban Hymns
4. Primal Scream – Vanishing Point
5. Super Furry Animals – Radiator
6. Cornershop – When I Was Born For The 7th Time
7. Mogwai – Mogwai Young Team
8. Teenage Fanclub – Songs From Northern Britain
9. Bentley Rhythm Ace – Bentley Rhythm Ace
10. Supergrass – In It For The Money
11. Daft Punk – Homework
12. The Chemical Brothers – Dig Your Own Hole
13. Blur – Blur
14. The Charlatans – Tellin’ Stories
15. Bjork – Homogenic
16. Death In Vegas – Dead Elvis
17. Prodigy – The Fat Of The Land
18. Wu-Tang Clan – Wu-Tang Forever
19. Yo La Tengo – I Can hear The Heart Beating As One
20. Gravediggaz – The Pick, The Sickle And The Shovel
21. Black Grape – Stupid Stupid Stupid
22. The Divine Comedy – A Short Album About Love
23. Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds – The Boatman’s Call
24. Pavement – Brighten In The Corners
25. Oasis – Be Here Now
26. Stereolab – Dots And Loops
27. Grandaddy – Under The Western Freeway
28. Roni Size & Reprazent – New Forms
29. Travis – Good Feeling
30. Mick Head Introducing The Strands – The Magical World Of The Strands
31. Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci – Barafundle
32. Portishead – Portishead
33. Eels – Beautiful Freak
34. Squarepusher – Hard Normal Daddy
35. Jonathan Fire Eater – Tremble Under Boom Lights
36. Prolapse – The Italian Flag
37. Wilco – Being There
38. Missy ‘Misdemeanor’ Elliot – Supa Dupa Fly
39. Photek – Modus Operandi
40. David Holmes – Lets Get Killed
41. Echo And The Bunnymen – Evergreen
42. Finley Quaye – Maverick A Strike
43. Tindersticks – Curtains
44. Manson – Attack Of They Grey Lantern
45. Scarfo – Luxury Plane Crash
46. Foo Fighters – The Colour And The Shape
47. Howie B – Turn The Dark Off
48. Robert Wyatt – Shleep
49. Silver Sun – Silver Sun
50. The Wannadies – Bagsy Me
Even as recently as 2001 there was a respectable degree of variety, nay, eclecticism even, in the picks for the year;
NME Top 50 Albums of 2001
1 The Strokes 'Is This It' (Rough Trade)
3 Spiritualized 'Let It Come Down' (Spaceman)
3 The White Stripes 'White Blood Cells' (XL)
4 Jay-Z 'The Blueprint' (Roc-A-Fella)
5 Starsailor 'Love Is Here' (Chrysalis)
6 Slipknot 'Iowa' (Roadrunner)
7 Mercury Rev 'All Is Dream' (V2)
8 Rufus Wainwright 'Poses' (DreamWorks)
9 Andrew WK 'I Get Wet' (Mercury)
10 Aphex Twin 'Drukqs' (Warp)
11 Super Furry Animals 'Rings Around The World' (Epic)
12 Elbow 'Asleep In The Back' (V2)
13 Basement Jaxx 'Rooty' (XL)
14 Air '10,000 Hz Legend' (Source/Virgin)
15 Destiny's Child 'Survivor' (Columbia)
16 Daft Punk 'Discovery' (Virgin)
17 Pulp 'We Love Life' (Island)
18 Roots Manuva 'Run Come Save Me' (Big Dada)
19 Fugazi 'The Argument' (Dischord)
20 Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds 'No More Shall We Part' (Mute)
21 Stephen Malkmus 'Stephen Malkmus' (Domino)
22 Sparklehorse 'It's A Wonderful Life' (Parlophone)
23 Travis 'The Invisible Band' (Independiente)
24 Low 'Things We Lost In The Fire' (Tugboat)
25 Radiohead 'Amnesiac' (Parlophone)
26 Missy Elliott 'Miss E …So Addictive' (Elektra)
27 Mark Lanegan 'Field Songs' (Beggars Banquet)
28 Mogwai 'Rock Action' (Southpaw/PIAS)
29 Clearlake 'Lido' (Dusty Company)
30 The Charlatans 'Wonderland' (Universal)
31 New Order 'Get Ready' (London)
32 Björk 'Vespertine' (One Little Indian)
33 Kings Of Convenience 'Quiet Is The New Loud' (Source)
34 REM 'Reveal' (Warner Bros)
35 Boredoms 'Visioncreationnewsun' (Birdman)
36 Beanie Sigel 'The Reason' (Roc-A-Fella)
37 Turin Brakes 'The Optimist LP' (Source)
38 Four Tet 'Pause' (Domino)
39 Aaliyah 'Aaliyah' (Blackground/Virgin)
40 N*E*R*D 'In Search Of…' (Virgin)
41 Oxide & Neutrino 'Execute' (East West)
42 Kurupt 'Space Boogie: Smoke Oddessey' (Antra)
43 The Beta Band 'Hot Shots II' (Regal)
44 The Tyde 'Once' (Track And Field)
45 Future Pilot AKA 'Tiny Waves, Mighty Sea' (Geographic)
46 Cannibal Ox 'The Cold Vein' (Def Jux)
47 Sizzla 'Rastafari Teach I Everything' (Greensleeves)
48 Gorillaz 'Gorillaz' (Parlophone)
49 Zoot Woman 'Living In A Magazine' (Parlophone)
50 Gorky's Zygotic Mynci 'How I Long To Feel That Summer In My Heart' (Mantra)
If you ignore the frankly ludicrous inclusion (and/or high ranking) of The Strokes, Starsailor, Mercury Rev, The Charlatans, REM and New Order, that's a pretty damn good list, as lists go (hatehatehatehate them).
But now, in 2003? What do we get? We get this...
NME Albums Of 2003
1. The White Stripes – Elephant
2. The Rapture – Echoes
3. The Strokes – Room On Fire
4. Elbow – Cast of Thousands
5. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Fever To Tell
6. Rufus Wainwright – Want One
7. Kings Of Leon – Youth & Young Manhood
8. Outkast – Spekerboxxx/The Love Below
9. Radiohead – Hail To The Thief
10. My Morning Jacket – It Still Moves
11. Evan Dando – Baby I’m Bored
12. The Coral – Magic And Medicine
13. Spirtualized – Amazing Grace
14. The Distillers – Coral Fang
15. Hot Hot Heat – Make Up The Breakdown
16. Dizzee Rascal – Boy In Da Corner
17. Funereal For A Friend – Casually Dressed And Deep In Conversation
18. The Sleepy Jackson – Lovers
19. Muse – Absolution
20. Jet - Get Born
21. Blur – Think Tank
22. The Hidden Cameras – The Smell Of Our Own
23. The Cooper Temple Clause – Kick Up The Fire, And Let The Flames Break Loose
24. Four Tet – Rounds
25. The Darkness – Permission To Land
26. The Kills – Keep On Your Mean Side
27. Super Furry Animals – Phantom Power
28. The Mars Volta – De-Loused In The Comatorium
29. Peaches – Fatherfucker
30. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club – Take Them On, On Your Own
31. 50 Cent – Get Rich Or Die Trying
32. The Thrills – So Much For The City
33. Mogwai – Happy Songs For Happy People
34. Jay-Z – The Black Album
35. Nick Cave – Nocturama
36. British Sea Power – The Decline Of British Sea Power
37. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – Master And Everyone
38. 22-20’s – 05/03
39. Patrick Wolf – Lycanthropy
40. Devendra Banheart – Oh Me Oh My..The Way The Day Goes By The Sun Is Setting….
41. Soledad Brothers – Voice Of Treason
42. Stellastarr* - Stellastarr*
43. Ten Grand – This Is The Way To Rule
44. Basement Jaxx – Kish Kash
45. Cat Power – You Are Free
46. The Ravonettes – Chain Gang Of Love
47. Canyon – Empty Rooms
48. Jane’s Addiction – Strays
49. The Duke Sprit – Roll, Spirit, Roll
50. Starsailor – Starsailor
It's no wonder I don't read NME anymore, is it? This is the most reductive, retro-friendly, dogmatic, artifically-scene-building list I could imagine. Tokenistic nods for Outkast, Jay-Z, Four Tet, 50 Cent, Dizzee and Basement Jaxx (the Jay-Z album is rubbish! Rubbish! And it only came out the other week?! Did no copies of This Is Not A Test? find their way to King's Reach Tower until last week?).
(Lists courtesy of Rocklists.net.)
Interestingly enough Beyonce is voted Single Of The Year. "It's Fab Moretti's single of the year", they say, as if that caveat makes it OK for indiekids to like. Yes, yes, of course. Someone from The Strokes likes it ergo I like it too! It's rather pathetic that NME has to spoonfeed it's readership with justifications for enjoyment like that. I'd hoped the whole bigoted indie mentality ahd died out long ago, but it seems it never will.
12/17/2003 10:44:00 am
Anyway... First three shots with my 'good' foot were fucking shocking. So I then got a hat-trick with my left instead. Forza!
12/17/2003 12:01:00 am
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Meanwhile, if you wrap up warm and walk for five or ten minutes away from the town, find a clear area with no trees, preferably behind a hill so the orange luminescence that is civilisation at night is blotted out, and look straight up, you see something like this...
Which is MUCH better than those fucking illuminated Homer Simpsons.
12/16/2003 11:36:00 pm
Look at us, we're so festive; we love Christmas; see how mcuh we're enjoying ourselves!
Fuck off and die already.
December the 16th and already I am becoming almost homicidally enraged by the enforced joviality, the six-foot tall, illuminated Homer Simpsons, the epilepsy-inducing strobe-lighting that passes for exterior decoration.
12/16/2003 10:54:00 pm
It's amusing that, apart from the obvious chip on my shoulder which has come into violent focus below, I don't care for class at all. I don't care for anything that seeks to define, which is interesting considering my day job, from genre to race to sexuality to whatever. Which is why I get so pissed off when someone defines me, especially without foundation.
12/16/2003 10:39:00 pm
The idea that pre-modern, pre-capitalist values were the ultimate goal in Britain - the default model once you'd passed a certain age and made a certain amount of money - was around for so long, and made such a dent in the psyche, that it can reasonably be said to be the basis of all the hating on Westwood; he and the shift he embodies unsettle most of the onetouchfootball forum and the likes of Dom Passantino and Nick Southall on ILM, people who like Everything In Its Proper Place, who feel most comfortable with a world where the sons of the clergy can be relied upon to live up to the hierarchical values that the industrial bourgeoisie eventually mostly cow-towed to, and who suffer a certain future shock from the world we're in today. It would be so much easier and happier for them, you feel, if pre-modern values had remained the default; then their Class War idea of pop music - veering in some cases towards sub-Marxism - could remain unquestioned, their simple proletarian games could be played unchallenged.
From here.
Interesting thing is that I can't think of anything where I've actually dissed Westwood directly apart from one oblique reference here (which is a dis of Zane Lowe, in actual fact) and the nameless, comedy dig at him here in a distraction piece. Quite why I should therefore be singled out as being unsettled by Westwood is a mystery to me. Google searching reveals this, which comprises three hits, one of which is the elidor.blospot.com piece, one of which is the ILM thread, and the other is the esteemed music writer and amateur chef Dave Stelfox's illustrious blog, World Of Stelfox.
The comparison between Zane Lowe and Westwood is based purely on their presentational styles; lots of bombast, lots of shout-outs, lots of enthusiasm and little insight. Which is pretty much the way of most Radio 1 presenters who are in it for the music rather than the celebrity, as it were (Westwood being in it for the music, Chris Moyles being in it for the celebrity, perhaps? But where is the dividing line between the two? Westwood obviously courts celebrity to an extent too otherwise his face would not adorn compilation CDs; and quite possibly he wouldn't have been shot either [which reminds me, did I once say something on ILM about Westwood being shot and how it was unfortunate he didn't die? I don't recall but it's more than possible, tongue-in-cheek or not]; of course today of all days music and celebrity are more symbiotic than ever, a link inescapable by rap-loving clergy offspring and alternative msuic press editors and working class heros alike).
As for any actual dislike for Westwood on my part, I've never met the man, and we might get along swimmingly for all I know. I doubt it however. Do I have a problem with him? I find his (and Zane's) presentational style utterly patronising and unpleasant though. I dislike his perma-amplified delivery, his slipping and sliding transatlantic vowels and his continued appropriation of slang terms which sit awkwardly. But I don't often listen to his show so this is not a problem, particularly. The fact that he posits himsef within a narrow, clichéd cultural milieu is though, especially when that milieu is one which encourages the perpetuation of negative racial stereotypes, which is undoubtedly what he does. Keeping it so real that you get shot is not a positive message to be sending out. Interpolating yourself within a culture in which many young people fnd themselves trapped, therefore perpetuating that entrapment for others, is not a good thing. Choosing to ignore your own heritage in favour of a parodical fetishisation of someone else's, especially a less privileged heritage, smacks of the worst kind of cultural tourism. I'm reminded of a story (a suburban myth?) I've heard about a young man who lives in a hut just off Swansea beach (or wherever), eschewing 21st century life - work, tax, electricity, media, the lot - and has achieved that most enviable (and, frankly, bullshit) 21st century fetishised trait of 'spiritual freedom'. And who's father is a QC in Bristol (or wherever) who pays a generous stipend into a savings account for his errant, idealist, shack-dwelling son. It's very easy to opt-out when you've got a huge parental safety net to fall back upon should you need to. Working class people don't opt-out of society and culture in this way because they simply can't afford to. How do you think they (read 'we') feel when they see this type of thing? Rubbing their faces in it, as it were? This is surely just another way for the upper classes, the Bourgeoisie, to tread on the proletariat again, by removing traditional escape routes and claiming them for themselves. Unsurprisingly this makes me want to set fire to things.
Noel Gallagher, bless his cotton socks, once said something along the lines of if Coldplay weren't in a band they'd have good careers as solicitors or something; I'd have been working in a factory. It doesn't seem fair that they're denying an escape route to some other kids out there who need it (this is paraphrased, obviously, but what Noel said was very close to this). Westwood stepping into the shoes of black culture is the same thing; like it or not, black people in western culture are still not fully allowed to succeed outside of certain areas (namely music and sport), and even within those areas they're only allowed a certain jurisdiction within which to operate (hence the furore in certain parts about "Hey Ya" being an 'indie rock' song and having "nothing to do with hip hop" - eat my fuc, basically, if that's your problem with it, that it doesn't conform to black stereotypes). (This is yet another reason why The Simpsons is one of the greatest achievements of the lae 20th century - Dr Hibbert.) By reinforcing stereotypes and achieveing socio-economic success/stability/wealth, how many people is Tim Westwood keeping down? How many opportunites is he denying? Never mind raising awareness of a culture, never mind the acts he has helped break into the mainstream, never mind whatever. Sub-Marxist? No, post-Marxist. Althusser. Tim Westwood is an ideological state apparatus, as simple as that, and that he appears to be beneficial to the culture he is fetishising on some levels is further affirmation of his ideological rather than full-on repressive status. The subtley dangerous organism is more sinister than the obviously dangerous organism.
As for Will Young being historically important because he sets up the means of achievement and self-fulfillment historically associated with the industrialists and their successors (fighting your way through a field of mostly proletarian contestants, starting on a level playing field with no advantages of privilege) as the default model for the upper middle classes, well... how to put this... I'm terribly sorry if your comfortable, aspirational, middle-class life thus far hasn't brought you spiritual self-fulfillment. Now fuck off and stop stealing ours, you patronising shit. Is this supposed to be funny? So the youthful middle-classes failed to find themselves while scuba-diving off Ko Tao or shitting in a stream in Delhi or herding cattle in the Outback? I really fucking feel for them. I mean really sympathise. All that opportunity and affluence and private education and all those doors held open for you by society and you still aren't happy? I fucking weep. The working class has always been cool but now we're spiritually rich as well, is that it? I'm reminded of Crispian Mills, grandson of Sir John, son of Hayley, ex singer and guitarist with Kula Shaker, commenting that "people in India may be poor but they're happy" so that makes it alright to steal their culture you fucking wanker?! To mope and whine and plead spiritual weakness and dissatisfaction and dissaffection and the curse of privilege?! Fucking damn you. Go to fucking hell (and you know I really mean that because I'm an athiest so hell isn't something I invoke lightly because it doens't exist except for you).
Who is the 'you' I'm damning? The culture surfers or the ones saying culture surfing is a good thing? I doubt I'm actually aiming this directly at Robin because I don't know him, but by [insert something you see as sacrosanct here], this whole ideology sucks maggots from a dead dog's ass. Accuse me of being for the status quo? Of being afraid of the world as it is? Of fearing change? FUCK YOU. I'm not the one promoting the continuation of the oppression of the working class, spoonfeeding them with shite, manipulating their circus games from Simon Cowell down to Will Young, Tim Westwood, the Bourgeousie now at every level, no longer controlling the performers but assuming the roll of performers because as well as money they need the love and affection?! Need to be seen as talented and creative as well as astute? So the monarchy slipped from top spot as the most admired and loved facet of society to be replaced by celebrities, so, fuck it, the ruling classes will damn well make sure it's not those pesky, distasteful proles being idolised as celebrities then! Instead of celebrity making you rich, being rich makes you a celebrity. Is this why my inbox is inundated with spam about Par1s H1lton being fucked in the ass?
I work at Exeter University, one of the most affluent universities in the country, and, incidentally, where Will Young went. I am involved at various, modest levels with local arts; film makers, musicians, writers, actors, academics etcetera. And I see this kind of affluent culture surfing at every level, creative people left to work shit jobs to support themselves so they can do their work or art or whatever you want to call it, whilst others soak up the 'spirit' of it from a position of privilege. And these people who soak up the spirit are exactly the same ones who fetishise art-as-suffering, who perpetuate retroactive myths, who justify their patronising as patronage. Tell me this isn't wrong? Tell me it isn't wrong that people from priviliged backgrounds are now eschewing their own class heritage in order to usurp that of those less well-off because their own isn't cool enough or spiritual enough? It's bad enough that it's been the case with theatre and art and jazz and eerythign else over the centuries, but now pop music has succumbed too, the last working class art from, the last boon of folk tradition, stolen like everything else and the people doing the stealing think they're doing their victims a favour!
I imagine Dom Passantino, a good mate of mine and fellow Stylus scribe, who happens to come from a working class immigrant family and was also namechecked in the ridiculous swamp of prose above as being one of the people who like Everything In Its Proper Place, who feel most comfortable with a world where the sons of the clergy can be relied upon to live up to the hierarchical values that the industrial bourgeoisie eventually mostly cow-towed to, and who suffer a certain future shock from the world we're in today, is even more pissed off about this than I am. Two generatiosn ago my family were shopworkers and steelworkers in Sheffield. I am the first member of my family to go to university. My mother is a special needs teacher. Chris Martin's father used to employ my father. Am I supposed to sit back and accept the fact that a; my culture is being stolen by my socio-economic superiors and b; I'm being blamed for it myself? Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Make trade fair? Look closer to home first.
12/16/2003 04:00:00 pm
So Auspicious Fish wakes up.
12/16/2003 11:32:00 am
Sunday, December 14, 2003
You are Gonzo the Great.
You love everyone, and still you get shot out of a
cannon on a regular basis. Oh, and you are
completely insane and have a strange
fascination for chickens.
ALSO KNOWN AS:
The Great Gonzo, Gonzo the Great, Just Plain Weird
SPECIES:
Whatever
HOBBIES:
Tapdancing blindfolded on tapioca while balancing a
piano on his nose, backwards, five times fast.
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"From Here to Eternity...with no brakes."
FAVORITE TV SHOW:
"Touched By An Anvil"
QUOTE:
"No parachute? Wow! This is so cool!"
What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
12/14/2003 11:21:00 pm
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Here is a cat attacking a baby.
12/10/2003 07:34:00 pm
Choreographed superheroes.
12/10/2003 07:16:00 pm
Saturday, December 06, 2003
The main problem is that I'm not sure I can be bothered.
12/06/2003 11:09:00 am
Thursday, December 04, 2003
It was... weird.
Did you enjoy it?
Some of it...
Such as?
The mad bits. The bits when things were on fire. The bits when I felt like I was about to die. Of course, those bits were only really good in retrospect.
The course?
Yeah, some of it...
That’s almost invariably the type of response you get if you should deign to ask me about my experiences at university. Where did you go? What did you do? Why did you go there? Did you like it? Did you make many good friends? Northampton. Popular Culture & Philosophy. Because I thought it was near Southampton and I could do Popular Culture & Philosophy. Some of it. Three.
If you know me well then you know I found the university experience… traumatic… You’ll know my oft-repeated claim to have “essentially functioned as an alcoholic” for a year. You’ll know I treated a lot of people like shit. That I thought I was going to die on numerous occasions. That I thought I was going to kill on various others. That James & Olly [who are both linked on the left there] were equally traumatised, in different ways. That Olly and I hated each other for a time. That James is on the other side of the world (I’m still reading, James, and it’s still wonderful). That I’m really shit at keeping in touch. And that I’m not sure why that is. That I never feel guilty and that I never miss anyone.
I’ve been meaning to write about my life between September 1998 and July 2001 since… July 2001. Earlier, even. I think writing about it will help me get a grip on what actually happened and what it means to me, who I am, why I am, etcetera. Plus, quite simply, some of it makes for a good story. So, over the course of the next… however long… I intend to try and make sense of it by recounting it on here. Of course, whether I get around to doing so is another matter entirely…
12/04/2003 07:20:00 pm
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Gimme some new shit...
12/03/2003 11:59:00 pm
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Scrap "Lose Yourself". It's 2002. Substitute "The Jump Off" by Lil Kim.
12/02/2003 02:07:00 pm
Sunday, November 30, 2003
My fragmentory Bubba Sparxxx review...
"postmodernism... self-referential... country-hop... as if Bubba had swalled Timbaland's entire ouvre whole and then regurgitated choice cuts back up into the midst of some sociopathic hoedown... pretty wicked, really..."
11/30/2003 11:05:00 pm
Fuck that list.
Top 20 albums and top 20 singles of 2003 (REDUX)
Albums (artist – title – score)
1. Manitoba – Up In Flames
2. Outkast – Speakerboxxx/The Love Below
3. Dave Douglas – Freak In
4. Four Tet – Rounds
5. Elbow – Cast Of Thousands
6. Sugababes – Three
7. Missy Elliott – This Is Not A Test!
8. The Clientele – The Violet Hour
9. British Sea Power – The Decline Of
10. Alexander Kowalski – Response
11. Gillian Welch – Soul Journey
12. M83 – Dead Cities, Red Seas And Lost Ghosts
13. Radiohead – Hail To The Thief
14. Basement Jaxx – Kish Kash
15. Dizzee Rascal – Boy In Da Corner
16. Loose Fur – Loose Fur
17. Mogwai – Happy Songs For Happy People
18. DM & Jemini – Ghetto Pop Life
19. The Cooper Temple Clause – Kick Up The Fire And Let The Flames Break Loose
20. Susumu Yokota – Laputa
Singles (artist – title)
1. Lumidee – Never Leave You (Uh-Oh)
2. !!! – Me & Giuliani Down By The School Yard (A True Story)
3. Justin Timberlake – Cry Me A River
4. Outkast – Hey Ya
5. Sugababes – Hole In The Head
6. The Postal Service – Such Great Heights
7. Outkast – Ghettomusick
8. Kelis – Milkshake
9. Eminem – Lose Yourself
10. Snoop Dogg – Beautiful
11. Girls Aloud – Sound Of The Underground
12. Missy Elliott – Pass That Dutch
13. Beyonce – Crazy In Love
14. British Sea Power – Remember Me
15. Richard X vs Liberty X – Being Nobody
16. Siobhan Donaghy – Overrated
17. Basement Jaxx – Lucky Star
18. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps
19. Dizzee Rascal – I Luv U
20. Elephant Man – Fuck You Sign
I fucking hate lists. I hate my crap memory.
11/30/2003 08:20:00 pm
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Here is a dancing Spiderman.
11/29/2003 09:53:00 am
You know, I'm considering switching Dido's "White Flag" for Elephant Man's "Fuck You Sign".
11/29/2003 09:52:00 am
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Top 20 albums and top 20 singles of 2003
Albums
1. Manitoba – Up In Flames
2. Outkast – Speakerboxxx/The Love Below
3. Elbow – Cast Of Thousands
4. Four Tet – Rounds
5. Dave Douglas – Freak In
6. Sugababes – Three
7. British Sea Power – The Decline Of
8. The Clientele – The Violet Hour
9. Missy Elliott – This Is Not A Test!
10. Alexander Kowalski – Response
11. Gillian Welch – Soul Journey
12. M83 – Dead Cities, Red Seas And Lost Ghosts
13. Radiohead – Hail To The Thief
14. Basement Jaxx – Kish Kash
15. Mogwai – Happy Songs For Happy People
16. Bubba Sparxxx – Deliverance
17. Dizzee Rascal – Boy In Da Corner
18. DM & Jemini – Ghetto Pop Life
19. Loose Fur – Loose Fur
20. Susumu Yokota – Laputa
Singles
1. !!! – Me & Giuliani Down By The School Yard (A True Story)
2. Lumidee – Never Leave You (Uh-Oh)
3. Snoop Dogg – Beautiful
4. Outkast – Hey Ya
5. Sugababes – Hole In The Head
6. The Postal Service – Such Great Heights
7. Basement Jaxx – Lucky Star
8. Kelis – Milkshake
9. Missy Elliott – Pass That Dutch
10. Justin Timberlake – Cry Me A River
11. Girls Aloud – Sound Of The Underground
12. Manitoba – Jacknuggeted
13. Beyonce – Crazy In Love
14. British Sea Power – Remember Me
15. Eminem – Lose Yourself
16. Siobhan Donaghy – Overrated
17. Outkast – Ghettomusick
18. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps
19. Dizzee Rascal – I Luv U
20. Dido – White Flag
11/27/2003 09:33:00 pm
Monday, November 17, 2003
I took this.
11/17/2003 10:40:00 pm
Saturday, November 15, 2003
My brain has actually imploded.
11/15/2003 11:19:00 am
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Todd has told me to update this more. Somebody else (hello!) emailed to ask me to elucidate on my love for Lambchop's Is A Woman (which I picked as my album of the year for Stylus 13 months ago); these two phenomenon lead me to believe I should spend more time here. I have, it's fair to say, been lax of late in supplying AusPishFish with content, the reasons for which are myriad and dull. Partly this is due to Stylus's increased staff, popularity and resultant workload for me (still nothing compared to what Todd does - though he doesn't work a full-time job as well), partly it's also down to me spending more time posting to ILX, and partly it's due to me just not being able to find the time, inclination, or words to keep AusPishFish running as it was a few months ago. I need to rectify this. I also need to rectify the fucking annoying pink-pixelisation shimmer that's infected my monitor at home ever since I got broadband, which I'm sure is nothing to do with the PC itself as I swapped monitors for a weekend a while ago and a; the new monitor was fine and didn't 'bleed' at all, and b; my monitor was still fucking pink when used with a different tower. PC World I might be calling in on you soon. You assholes.
Speaking of assholes there's been a major one on the train for the last three weeks or so. I'd quite like to get a gun and shoot him in the face, an act in which I feel I would be more than justified given his inherrent and abhorrent assholeness. How is he such an asshole? I hear you cry. Because of his fucking phone. Not an incessent text-receiver or over-loud morning-commute gossiper, no no no; this wanker is much more disgustingly, insidiously annoying than that. This wanker has an MP3 player on his phone which he listens to incessantly and he refuses to use headphones. Thus this grimy, slick-haired motherfucker in his awful brown leather jacket and beige jeans (which he wears every day) sits at a table seat each day, clutching his noxious Nokia or sickening Siemens or unsavoury Samsung or whaeverthefuckitis, while it bleeds T'Pau and Bonnie Tyler and other assorted crapulent asshole music. Coldplay's "Clocks" creeped into his playlist yesterday. The unblanched rudeness, the unfathomable antisocial thoughtlessness gives rise in me to the desire for great violence, almost as much as when the train is as busy as Bedlam and people will insist on sitting on the aisle-side seat rather than the window, thus causing other paying commuters to stand.
In other news; people who use novelty-shaped post-it notes are probably dangerous psychopaths.
11/06/2003 10:33:00 am
Some points - 1; Someone else had to manufacture Rembrandt's canvasses and paint and brushes, 2; Michelangelo was COMMISSIONED to paint the Sistene Chapel, 3; a guitar is as much a man-made object as a computer.
11/06/2003 09:43:00 am
Sunday, November 02, 2003
If you go to Google Images and search for Nick Southall you get this-
11/02/2003 04:59:00 pm
Sunday, Sunday, here again in tidy attire. You read the colour supplement, the TV guide.
11/02/2003 09:54:00 am
Thursday, October 30, 2003
This is one of the most wonderful threads on ILE in ages.
10/30/2003 11:19:00 pm
Ian mentions a debate on the Stylus Staff Messageboard about the upcoming end-of-year feature, and all the necessary-but-evil debates about what qualifies, why, when, where, and, most pertinantly, whether the list is supposed to represent your 'favourite' records of the last 12 months, or the 'best'.
I was considering attempting to put together something about my feelings (which err very much on the subjective favourite side of the equation) but I'm not sure that would be helpful. So, in order to further the debate, I've thrown it to I Love Music. I will, however, add a small equation drawn from the initial discussion to this post;
If you're distinguishing between 'favourite' and 'best' then you are effectively saying several things -
1; I have 'poor' taste
2; I also have 'good' judgement
3; The two are not the same thing
4; I know better than myself
5; I do not trust my own reaction to works of art
6; I am prepared to lie about the way I feel in order to appear objective
10/30/2003 08:12:00 pm
Am I happy? What is happy? Am I just getting on with things?
10/30/2003 08:09:00 pm
The joys of public transport...
Only two carriages this morning for the 8.31 from Dawlish, officially the busiest train in the county. But that's OK, because it's half-term, so the College Kids aren't aboard and seats are, if not plentiful, at least available. Anyway... there was a bloke sitting diagonally behind me across the aisle listening to his CD walkman, and as the train slowed to stop at Starcross I could hear for a brief second as the engine quieted a few notes of guitar, second-hand sound drifting in my direction. Can! But what Can? Clear notes of guitar, almost a recognisable solo or riff, suggesting that it was early. Monster Movie? No, no. Not even that early. It took me a few minutes to place it, first in terms of which album it was from, and then, in quick procession, which song. Tago Mago! "Paperhouse"! Wonderful! I was tempted to ask the guy what he was listening to, but didn't, in case I was wrong and it was bad Belgian heavy metal, but I knew it wasn't. Train ettiquette doesn't permit strangers to converse about early 70s German free-jazz-prog-rock. And of course, as mentioned mere seconds ago, the embarassment had it not been Can at all would have been unbearable at that time in the morning. I like to think the chap was actually Phill Brown, who engineered those Talk Talk albums I'm always wittering on about, but the chances of him being on the 8.31 from Dawlish are somewhat remote, so in all probability it was just some bloke who likes Can.
As I was walking down the aisle to leave the train at Exeter St. Davids I noticed another man reading Phillip Pullman's Northern Lights, and felt that, for once, the cultural intake of my fellow commuters matched my own, which gave me a sense of connection to the morning journey that I've seldom felt. The world's not such a bad place after all.
10/30/2003 03:25:00 pm
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Doesn't this totally devalue the way you felt before though, all the angst and rage and so on, by being a very simple and obvious solution to it? A solution that you knew existed. Doesn't the fact that emotional involvement and sexual contact have combined to ameliorate, alleviate, cure, end your existential angst, make that same angst seem so much less profound now? Did the angst complicate and delay the facilitation of the solution?
In other words; good on you, buddy.
10/28/2003 02:25:00 pm
Thursday, October 23, 2003
And what's more, if you are scared of spiders then you will always, subconsciously, be on the look-out for spiders, and thus see more spiders than the people who are not afraid of spiders see.
10/23/2003 08:37:00 pm
The below is also, of course, part of the reason why I am an asshole.
10/23/2003 08:28:00 pm
There are three tragic things about the recent (apparent) suicides of singer-songwriters Matthew Jay and Elliott Smith, and the “music world’s loss” isn’t any of them. The first tragedy is the loss of two human beings; sons, brothers, lovers, friends and more, no doubt, to the various and individual people around them. I cannot begin to comprehend how the people who actually knew these two young men (24 and 34 respectively, almost the same as me and my eldest brother) feel, and I shan’t do them a disservice or disrespect by even trying.
The second tragedy is that they will no doubt be added to the pantheon of musicians, pop and rock stars, who led sad or crazed lives and who died early. The myth of the romantic soul shall remain undimmed; the artistic temperament too fragile and beautiful for this world, chewed up and spat out by the music industry. It stretches back to Keats. No; it stretches back to Jesus. Lennon, Cobain, Joplin, Hendrix, Drake, both Buckleys, Coltrane, Aaliyah even. You can count James Dean too. Canonised by death. Is it a basic human need, to try and understand death by mythologizing it, by making those who die young somehow seem more special and wondrous and delicate than the rest of us? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s a capitalist thing, the need to use somebody’s myth and image to market what little product they managed to create in a short lifetime to as large an audience as possible? No. I’m not that cynical. The fetishisation of the talented young deceased will continue, I’m afraid, and it makes me sick to my stomach.
The third tragedy isn’t a third at all, but a refraction of the second. Or, rather, the second is a refraction of the third, which is the simple fact that here we have the lives of two young men, two amongst thousands every year, who felt unable to continue living in this world. People who thought, for whatever reason, that they had no option, no chance, no reason, to make their life into whatever they felt they needed or wanted in order to make it worth prolonging being alive. Two young men who felt so bad, in fact, that they had to desperately stop being alive.
I can’t pretend to understand depression. I am, I think, to aware (read ‘solipsistic’) to find myself in a position where I felt I no longer had control enough over my own life to make it worthwhile. I have felt low. I have felt my feet slipping into the undertow. I have wanted to run away or leave or break things or change who I am and who sees who I am. But I know that’s nothing. I’ve seen too many people I care about be reduced to real and persistent mental and emotional anguish, anguish so severe that it requires medication, counselling, and training to ameliorate. Not cure; ameliorate. (As much as I can care about anyone after being raised to think in a language where the self-singular pronoun is privileged over and above any group or singular ‘other’ pronoun, capitalised, no less, I, made more important than you or them or us. And a language where I can make no linguistic distinction between a friend and a stranger, between someone who sells me a train ticket and someone I share a bed with; they are all you. You can claim the English language is the richest in the world but compared to the French, with tu and vous to distinguish between and demonstrate affection towards people other than yourself, our single, dismissive you is a barbaric and damaging term.) I don’t like the term clinical depression but the fact is that 50% of people in the western world (and we think we’re so civilised because we have phones that you can play games on) will experience a period of it at some time; clinical because it is diagnosed and treated. God only knows how many people who feel the same or worse, who should go to a doctor or counsellor, never do.
The fadeout of Blue by Bark Psychosis might just be the saddest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. At least today, anyway.
I had Matthew Jay’s first two EPs, but gave them away a year or more ago because, while I thought they were pretty enough in their way, I couldn’t care for them. I have only ever, to my knowledge, heard one Elliott Smith song (“Baby Britain”), which was on a compilation CD made by Embrace and given out to fans who attended one of their secret gigs a couple of years ago, and which I remember thinking was wonderful. Not, however, wonderful enough for me to go out and buy his records.
Olly, this is why I’m worried about you, and why I alternately want to walk away from you or kick your arse. Who you are really is only limited by your imagination and your ability to see through what you imagine into actuality.
10/23/2003 08:27:00 pm
Any ends necessary that don't fuck up anybody else. Balance and bravery.
10/23/2003 11:54:00 am
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Decide who you want to be and take steps to make that who you are. Do something differently every day. Notice when a situation arises which necessitates you respond, and pledge not to respond in the manner which is typical of you. Do not be bound to system and definition because of who you think you are. Be aware at every second that you do not have to be acting the way you are acting. Reduce all angles to zero.
"If you are ten degrees and walk a mile from your origin then you may appear broad but it is an illusion. If you are no degrees, zero, then you have no origin and you are as broad as you are non-existent. With OK Computer Radiohead opened up to 180 degrees and walked a mile and appeared to be everything. Where do you go from there? Back upon yourself? No. You dissolve yourself, you become no degrees, and you become no degrees by going full circle, reaching 360 and closing."
Dissolve yourself. At this point you can go in any direction and the direction is decided by YOU.
A conversation between young Sam and I. Which just happens to be, in a roundabout way, about this kind of thing.
From last January...
Are we talking extreme existential desolation here? Nihilism as result of existential hopelessness, voidness of the soul, post-God lack of purpose? My favourite subject. Taxi Driver, Keep The Aspidistra Flying, Fight Club, Nausea, The Outsider, hooray! Urban masculine postmodern existential miserablist ennui! All the protagonists and all the writers are male! Because we, men, aeselfish wee bastards! Oh yes! Guilty at our lack of success, beauty, at repulsed by our repugnant laziness and selfishness and lack of drive and passiona nd commitment, crippled by our inferiority complexes, we invent existentialism! "I am not lazy, I am not selfish, I am deeply sensitive and profound and in great philosophical pain at all times..." I love it. And I also hate it. William and I regularly discuss at length techniques for living in a modern world and not succumbing, aggreeing that the best way is to get to the bottom of the existential trough and then bounce back up again (both of us having seemingly done this - my particular rock bottom was reached in a strange confluence of drugs, drink, Sartre, perfume, ecological disgust and complete absence of faith and hope = great fun!), realising on the return journey just what a twat you've been. The point at which nihilism occurs as a possible alternative/way out/solution is, I believe, just before you hit the bottom of the trough.
But isn't nihilism as idealism = purposelessness as purpose? The belief that no principles or beliefs can have meaning is in itself a belief and does in itself have a meaning! Isn't therefore the pursuit of nihilism an effort in itself and therefore un-nihilistic? Is it something that requires conscious thought or is it achieved by regressing to the idiot savant state, or Deleuze & Guitarri's condition of the schizophrenic? And at that point are you nihilistic or do you just act in a way which is nihilistic? And is there, at root, a difference?
But anyway. How to bounce back up? Become Zen! Yes yes yes. Abdicate from the Western duality of mind(spirit/soul) and body, of art and science, of romantic and classical! Yes yes yes. Seriously, I read The Tao Te Ching and The Tao Of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff, plus some Debord and Heidegger and lots of stuff about Buddhism and so on and so forth, thought about things a lot until I came to the conclusion that it's not that bad. All these things that piss you off (the mundanity of most discourse, the insincerity of everyday communication, the insidiousness of business, the ulterior/interior motives of government, the dehumanising effects of city life, the unstoppable flow of capitalism, the creation within us of false and disproportionate desires [we're not all gonna be beautiful artists, rock stars, writers, monarchs footballers], pollution, any of it, all of it), you can avoid some of them (don't like living in the city? Don't live there! There is always a way out) and those you can't avoid you can live with, and even enjoy some of them (those petty, redundant conversations - just 'cos they're petty doesn't mean they're evil, doesn't mean they can't be enjoyed or productive). Culture itself does not make anyone into a pariah, it can't, it's a thingy, it doesn't exist, it's just a collection of stuff we do. You make yourself into a pariah and therefore you can unmake yourself into a pariah too. And you keep reading and you keep listening and looking, and you see the people who are getting on with their lives and are happy and you don't copy what they do so much as how they do it, because it's not about events or objects or articles but rather about approaches. Nihilism! Yay! It's escapable, and existential angst which causes it is escapable too!
are you nihilistic or do you just act in a way which is nihilistic? And is there, at root, a difference?
A mate of mine kept on cheating on his girlfriend, and everytime he'd do it, he'd ring me the next day and say "but I'm not a bad person am I? I don't mean to do it!" After a while I got bored of this little roleplay, and replied, very sensibly, "if cheating on one's girlfriend makes one a bad person, then you ARE a bad person, simply because you do cheat on your girlfriend. The intention matters not one jot." We try and seperate the 'being' from the 'acting' when really they are one and the same, the 'being' in our logic tied to the 'soul' and the acting tied to the 'body', when there is no duality between the two! Stop talking about your liver or your legs or your ears as if you bought them and realise that they are you and you are them and that that is not a big thing, it's just the way it is and they can change and you can change and nothing is immutable! Yes yes yes!
Nihilism = bad for you, and objectionable, and yet you still quite enjoy it, like wallowing in self-pity or picking a really bad scab. It gives you an excuse to be shit and to be a shit, takes off any of that oh so burdonsome weight of expectation, for a little while at least. Cos you either grow out of it or you die! A|nd the weight of expectation is never really gone anyway, never really divorced, it just gets hidden, and it'll come back. After all, that's why you're a nihilist, isn't it? Getting rid of the weight of expectation means embracing now and not the future or the past, and nihilism is about not even embracing now, not embracing anything, except futility, and that's wrong, because now isn't futile! Now is great!
So, to conclude, nihilism = dud. Getting out of nihilism = classic.
-- Nick Southall (n.j.southall@ex.ac.uk), January 22nd, 2003.
For more...
Next, read The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart.
You do not have to be the way you think you are.
10/22/2003 07:38:00 pm
Oliver, fucking stop it. Stop painting yourself into a fatalistic, paranoid corner. I shall elaborate tonight. But for now, just fucking stop it.
10/22/2003 03:35:00 pm
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Version 150.
10/21/2003 08:59:00 am
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Comedy bomb. Yes, I like the idea of that.
10/18/2003 11:49:00 am
Friday, October 17, 2003
Consider this a moment...
You are in a war, a dirty, long-fought desert war which has seen the death of many men both friend and foe. You are alone in a horizonless plain, shot and bleeding slowly to death. No, not alone. The only other living being is the man who shot you. Consider his nature. Is he a bad man? Is he a man who believes he is good? Is he a good man?
The bad man sees you, bleeding slowly and painfully to death, his own bullet lodged deep beneath an artery, your life-force flowing quickly from you, your nerve endings caught in the agonising space between excrutiating pain and the relief of blissful numbness. He knows you will take an age to die, alone and in pain. The bad man shoots you in the head and kills you instantly, before turning and walking away.
The man who believes he is good sees you, bleeding slowly and painfully to death, his own bullet lodged deep beneath an artery, your life-force flowing quickly from you, your nerve endings caught in the agonising space between excrutiating pain and the relief of blissful numbness. he knows you will take an age to die, alone and in pain. The man who believes he is good says he cannot shoot you again, that you must think about what you have done, that you must make peace with your god, before turning and walking away.
The good man sees you, bleeding slowly and painfully to death, his own bullet lodged deep beneath an artery, your life-force flowing quickly from you, your nerve endings caught in the agonising space between excrutiating pain and the relief of blissful numbness. He knows you will take an age to die, alone and in pain. The good man shoots you in the head and kills you instantly, before turning and walking away.
Where is the bad man and where is the good man?
10/17/2003 09:16:00 pm
Nick sits at the computer in his bedroom, tapping at the keys, pausing and retracing his digital steps every few seconds as his slightly drunken fingers hit the wrong keys, Massive Attack's remix of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's "Mustt Mustt" schloozing from the small, fake-wood speakers positioned to either side of his flatscreen monitor (digital interference flashing pink as he illegally downloads more music), each speaker a light brown box, some nine inches high, powered by the small, glass-fronted Sony minisystem which sits, pushed shamefully into a corner, atop the chest-of-drawers to his left. Cables spiderweb behind and beside the dressing tabnle which masquerades as a desk. Nick considers whether he is a cultural tourist, an athiest fake, stealing pleasure from devotional music created in a world which is almost entirely other to him. If they want Coca-Cola then I can want Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, he thinks. Is that wrong? I never liked Coke anyway... Nick doesn't understand the words (now past Mustt Mustt and onto the less Westernised Devotional and Love Songs) and cannot ever hope to, but the swirling, magnificent arc of Fateh Khan's voice, the endless surge of tabla-based percussion and the droning, heart-yanking instrumentation beneath the rhythm does something in his chest and guts and the back of his head that makes such considerations seem trivial. Who cares about right and rite and understanding and religion when there is this?
10/17/2003 09:09:00 pm
Olly, you're a beautiful man. Thank you. x
10/17/2003 09:09:00 pm
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Olly - you left an html tag open somewhere.
10/15/2003 06:35:00 pm
I'm at work. I feel exactly the same as yesterday, which is that I suspect I am about to be ill but am not really ill yet. My tonsils are swollen slightly and a touch sore. It's a very strange condition. Oh well, there are Maya Deren films to be catalogued and screenings of Kiarostami (sic) films to be arranged and no doubt this afternoon there will be discussions of Pink Floyd's early output to have with Billy (as well as discussions over whether he wants copies of Massive Attack, .O.Rang, Mouse On Mars, Can or all of these...). My S L S K name, should you wish to peruse my folders, is frighteningly obvious, writ in big orange letters at the top of the page...
Sam is as wracked with confusion and multiplicity as any other 16-year-old, he's just got more fonts for its expression. Sam, I never knew why I liked anything until recent- no, I still don't know why I like anything, not really, I'm just very good at making up reasons by lying, bullshitting and blagging. The "some of this may not be true" caveat at the beginning is purely wonderful. We always need to be reminded. Make your life a fiction.
10/15/2003 10:23:00 am
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
In other news, I've just watched one of my favourite scenes in movie history again; the moment in Blue Velvet when Dean Stockwell's narcissistically louché and threateningly camp drug-dealer-come-pimp mimes along with Roy Orbison's strange and beautiful "In Dreams", using what looks like a miner's lamp as a fake microphone, his smoking-jacket-suited frame draped against a doorway. Dennis Hopper's Frank Booth, the very essence of psychotic for the rest of the film, stands only inches from Stockwell, his being wracked by some inner turmoil and long-repressed trauma, mouthing every word. Is it a homoerotic scene? Very possibly you could read it that way, but the charge between the two men is emotional rather than physical. The balance of power between the two men is strange; moments before Stockwell begins his performance he pops a pill in Frank's mouth, like a mother feeding a helpless infant, but it's Frank's inner furnace and his resultant inability to remain incapacitated by the allure and emotional resonance of the song that ends Stockwell's mime, positing power very much in his hands, giving the audience jurisdiction over the actor. Who the director and stage-manager of this spooked, cathartic rendition are is up for debate; Frank stands apart from Kyle Machlachlan's idealist hero and his own henchmen who form the bulk of the audience, but the performance is till very much for Frank, everyone else's presence is merely incidental.
10/14/2003 11:24:00 am
Argh.
10/14/2003 10:59:00 am
I want to buy some new jeans and some shoes and I need to sort out a new mobile phone.
10/14/2003 10:59:00 am
Damn you, germs! I have things to do!
10/14/2003 10:59:00 am
And maybe for a couple of days after that.
10/14/2003 10:59:00 am
But also, probably, no work tomorrow.
10/14/2003 10:59:00 am
That means no football.
10/14/2003 10:58:00 am
Asshat.
My tonsils have swollen up overnight.
10/14/2003 10:58:00 am
Monday, October 13, 2003
Sheath has arrived; many many thanks to the person concerned. (Actually got here Friday, I'm just forgetful.)
10/13/2003 10:01:00 am
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Addendum to below post; a chair would've been good. If I'd been able to sit down I'd have loved it. If I'd been able to sit down and if the sound had been a bit better and between a bit and a lot quieter - the cavern is a cavern, the bass in there reverbs like a Hippo giving oral (it hurts my head like a hundred dogs!). And if maybe the Cavern's typical crowd wasn't quite so rock/punk oriented; I'm not sure they knew what to do with Four Tet live, although people were obviously enjoying it. At least the bits when he wasn't pitch-shifting backwards samples and bottom-end filtersweeps so that they made a; your head ring like a fire-alarm and b; your stomach threaten to collapse on the floor.
10/12/2003 12:44:00 am
Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity
No...
Four Tet Live @ Exeter's Cavern Club, October 11th 2003
Or...
Why Electronic Music Doesn't Really Work Live, Especially in a RockTM Venue
I mean what are you meant to do? Dance? Pogo? Sing-a-long? Nod your head? Cheer when you recognise a bit of a song from his latest critically-acclaimed album, no matter how mangled-up and spasticated Kieron has chanced to make it this evening? Get really high? Retreat to the bar? Chat up student girls in vest-tops? I saw people doing all these things. None of them looked convinced (especially the student girls).
So what's the problem? Well, for a start, visually, to watch Four Tet is essentially to watch someone play a computer game whilst nodding their head to abstract techno.
Ah fuck it.
It's nearly quarter to one in the morning and I can't actually focus on the fucking screen. I need to go to bed. Tomorrow I have to watch Brazil eat Jamaica and write about Luke Vibert. I have lots of interesting thoughts about Four Tet live which I'll edit into this post when I can be arsed.
Good night and God Bless.
10/12/2003 12:25:00 am
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Go to a gig today. I'm off to see Four Tet this evening. Not quite a band, but there you go.
10/11/2003 10:57:00 am
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
For fuck's sake, like; I know I'm cool, I know I know a lot, I know I sit in the corner with 600 CDs above my desk, I know I'm tapping away on the keyboard as if I don't care about you (and believe me, most of the time I don't), I know you're 18 or 19 or fucking 57 and away at university for the first time and it's scary and you've never really used a library and I know I work here but I am not fucking psychic; I cannot tell what you want if you just come up to me sheepishly with something in your hand and stand 3 feet away looking at your fucking new shoes and don't say anything to me. I am not MAGICAL. Not for you, anyway.
Working in university libraries is fun.
10/08/2003 01:50:00 pm
A litany of shit.
In descending order of nastiness, stupidity and disrepute...
1 2 3 4 5 6
I think it's fair to say that professional football in this country is slipping rapidly down a very dark hole.
10/08/2003 11:07:00 am
What a surprise, blogger's a bit fucked.
10/08/2003 11:00:00 am
I saw a real, live badger last night, running down the back road from Teignmouth golf course to Dawlish Water, causing me to crawl along at 10mph as he weaved across the road. I must've followed him (blame Kenneth Grahame, but all badgers from now on are anthropomorphised as male) for half a mile before he ducked through a hedge. I've only ever seen dead badgers before.
10/08/2003 09:22:00 am
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
How many ways do I love you, Mouse On Mars? Many, many ways.
Only seven of us turned up tonight, fucking pathetic, just 'cos they lost last Sunday (I never play on Sundays, who the fuck wants to get bodychecked by fat men when they could be eating crumpets, eh?- last season I made two appearances, one as substitute striker [my natural position, being selfish and lazy and possessing a thunderous and occasionally accurate right-foot] and one as rightback [not my natural position]; I scored one goal, which was when I came on upfront- moral of the tale?- never ask Nick to play in defence). But only five of the people on the next pitch turned up too, so Steve switched over and we took them on. Had we concentrated we could've scored 20, as it was we won 8-2. Billy challenged me to score seven but after a spectacular left-foot volley went an inch wide, and another left-foot shot rifled off the post I started having fun rather than concentrating, as we all did, indulging in foolish dribbles and chipped passes for team-mates to volley clear of the fence. I did score one though, the opener, a proper head-down Ronaldo burst. Billy headed a corner clear, I picked the ball up and went at their only defender who'd hung back, left him on his arse and nutmegged the keeper with satisfying aplomb FORZA! Man, I love scoring goals. Love love love scoring goals, love nutmegging people, squeezing through gaps I shouldn't be allowed to get through, picking out instant, ad-libbed passes to my brother for him to score from, turning past people, surprising people by how fast I can be when I do run, how sturdy I am when I'm barged, but most of all I love love love scoring goals, and I love scoring spectacular goals best of all, turning the keeper, smashing the back of the net out, diddling defenders and stroking it home left-footed. Don't get me wrong; I'm shit, but I enjoy it.
10/07/2003 11:20:00 pm
Monday, October 06, 2003
Marcel Duchamp. The link is on the left near the bottom. I actually read it for about 15 minutes too, which is a record, and what's more I enhoyed it. Olly, have a gander; you're not the only disaffected youth in a job he hates. But you knew that anyway.
Lisa it's your birthday...
I find the episode of The Simpsons where Bart turns Homer's shirt pink in the wash, which leads to Homer being institutionalised and meeting a brickie from New Jersey who pretends to be Michael Jackson, almost unbearably affecting. Still, after seeing it probably half-a-dozen times over the years, the bit at the end where Bart and 'Michael' sing Lisa a birthday song ("Lisa it's your birthday! / happy birthday, Lisa!") accompanied by piano and wastepaper-basket-bongos, makes me want to cry. Which, for anyone who experiences actual real emotions like an actual real human being, is the equivalent of crying lots and lots. I am always hideously aware of situations which should or could make me cry, and thus I never actually do cry, because if you know it's going to happen it's contrived and therefiore meaningless. Which is, of course, shit, but there you go. I've cried a few times over the last 18 days. I have, if you didn't know (if you care), split up with my girlfriend of the last two-and-a-bit years, which is why AusPishFish has been somewhat erratic of late (apologies to anybody who caught the incredibly profane post that appeared for 30 minutes last Tuesday at approximately 11.30pm - I know at least a couple of people did; rest assured that I have calmed down and avoided smashing the person concerned's face into tiny fucking bloody pieces with a bat, though I've still dreamt about doing it a couple of times). I shan't go into the reasons (they are long and boring and miserable and not at all like a soap opera) for fear of upsetting anyone any more than has already happened. But anyway, yeah, that song in that episode; makes me want to cry.
10/06/2003 08:56:00 pm
Maybe I ought to... Nah. Sod it. Read James' blog, the link is on the left near the top.
10/06/2003 08:29:00 pm
Drugs are bad, kids. Even natural ones.
10/06/2003 09:20:00 am
Sunday, October 05, 2003
"You're too beautiful to love these plastic things, my friend..."
10/05/2003 10:36:00 pm
I hate Philip Larkin, miserable shithead that he is/was.
This Be The Verse
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself."
10/05/2003 11:22:00 am
Friday, October 03, 2003
Read the world through the eyes of a 12-year-old AOL user.
My next review will be squeezed through this.
10/03/2003 04:32:00 pm
Kill yr pussy.
10/03/2003 11:40:00 am
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Oh yeah, I stuck my Amazon Wishlist at the bottom of the links. This means buy me things.
10/02/2003 01:18:00 pm
It's all about the reverb and the bass, you see. "Where The Geese Go". Only you can't hear the bass when you read the lyrics... But if you know the tune you'll get it.
10/02/2003 01:16:00 pm
I love Sam, but he's wrong about The Clientele. I ripped (should I say that, RIAA?- I spend thousands of pounds a year on music and fully intend to buy a real copy later in the year, so eat my fuc) The Violet Hour from S0ulseek over the weekend (my user name is guessable if you want anything - or you can always email me), and it's a lovely, woozy, warm record. I made the mistake(?) last night of listenign to it as I was going through dozens and dozens of photographs on my old computer and deleting them, so I can sell it, and the wash of nostalgia that ensued was only just the right side of bearable. The photos, for what it's worth, were all from two to two-and-a-half years ago, and most of them are of people and things from university. The nostalgia wash was compounded by a 45-minute phone call from Olly. To have kept the photos would have involved saving them all to floppy disk and transferring them to the new computer, which, frankly, I couldn't be bothered with. They're only pictures. I think it's good to clean out your closet every so often.
I was going to write about the actual Clientele record, but seem to have avoided doing so. I promise I will later.
10/02/2003 10:59:00 am
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
...
9/30/2003 11:43:00 pm
...
9/30/2003 11:21:00 pm
I shall write what I want, when I want, and where I want. I suggest you don't pick scabs, but rather let them heal. I can't keep quiet forever.
9/30/2003 11:15:00 pm
I'm contemplating stopping AusPishFish, or at least having a sabbatical. Hmmm...
9/30/2003 04:23:00 pm
Catholic girl.
9/30/2003 09:09:00 am
Monday, September 29, 2003
Goodbye, Marcello, at least from this written incarnation. And good luck too, though I don't think it's much needed.
9/29/2003 11:22:00 pm
Jewish girl, I want to kiss you.
9/29/2003 10:57:00 pm
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Maybe normal service won't ever resume.
9/28/2003 11:37:00 am
Saturday, September 27, 2003
From someone, via Ian...
"Back in lifeguard training they told us a drowning person will hold a potential rescuer underwater to keep afloat. You cannot love and need someone at the same time."
9/27/2003 09:27:00 pm
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Hmmm... I don't know what to write. I don't know if I should write anything. After last night I'm almost unspeakably angry, but at the same time I'm very relaxed about it. If I thought about it what would happen? I might cry, or I might break shit. I don't know. I spent 6 hours today being trained on Avid DV software and my brain's a bit fried.
Normal service will resume at some point, I promise. I've got to sort out Cakewalk Plasma first though... Why can't I sort out these Mark Hollis drums to loop properly?!
9/25/2003 08:49:00 pm
For all the fucked-up children of the world...
It's not our job to fix broken people. It's just our job to try and prevent people becoming broken in the first place.
9/25/2003 09:17:00 am
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Oh, and thanks to anybody and everybody who's emailed me over the last few days. Unless of course it was to ask if I wanted my penis enlarged.
x
9/24/2003 01:12:00 pm
Should anybody want a link in the sidebar, drop me an email with your URL and I'll add you. I'm hideously slow and out-of-touch with these kinds of things, and so need some prompting.
9/24/2003 01:11:00 pm
Ben linked.
9/24/2003 12:57:00 pm
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Outkast.
9/23/2003 09:18:00 am
Monday, September 22, 2003
So there I was, walking down to the trainstation, having skipped breaks and lunch again so I could leave early, when a £2 coin dropped from the heavens. No one around. No pocket or purse to have fallen from. Just an alley, and me. And a £2 coin. Magic?
9/22/2003 05:17:00 pm
Throughout all this I've been trying to review Speakerboxxx/The Love Below and failing. Marcello nails it all gloriously (though perhaps a little harsh on Big Boi) so I don't have to. But I still have to for Stylus.
Ugn.
9/22/2003 02:19:00 pm
I'm so tired.
9/22/2003 02:00:00 pm
What's the ettiquette as far as spilling guts goes on the blogosphere? Not that I feel part of the blogosphere anyway... It's not my universe, the concerns are not my concerns... Can I just open up here, where anyone can read it, anyone especially you? I've always been one for sorting things out in my own head before I say anything, do anything, emotionally at least, those sudden vents are always about stuff and never about stuff... Her's is still the only phone number I know off by heart apart from my childhood home. I just don't want to ring it anymore... Not at the moment. My head's been tight- no, aching for a week, ten days, two weeks. I'm not sure. I don't know. We'll see.
9/22/2003 09:46:00 am
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