spinal bap

Friday, 20 December 2024

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2024

“all you did was expose yourself for the deeply hateful person you truly are which sadly is what music journalism has become these days.” So wrote the live bass player for a creatively washed-up band whose twelfth studio album I reviewed ungenerously earlier this year. It’s a misdiagnosis from where I’m standing. Sitting, rather, with a terrible posture and the exact same expression as the “Trollface” internet meme.

Deeply hateful I may very well be. Especially towards the lacklustre twilight efforts of the reprehensible group in question. The part about music journalism in general, though? It suggests this person spends even less time reading the material they are commenting on than they do playing on tracks by the band of which they are supposed to be a member. Rather, most magazines’ review sections are so crammed with glowing four- and five-star write-ups, they resemble the music industry equivalent of the Argos catalogue. Likewise, the majority of the accumulated professional reviewers’ scores for new albums on the Metacritic website are in the 70-plus category. That’d be a First in university terms. Congratulations! Ivor Novellos for everyone who’s recorded anything!

In his book about a lifetime of watching motion pictures, Todd McEwen writes that “In the end there’ll be nothing left, no movies, nothing electronic, so that descriptions of movies in books is all the saucer men will have access to.” That’s if books even survive but perhaps this applies to the music we describe to the saucer men as well. What happens when the so-called gatekeepers or cultural commentators increasingly sing from the same hymn sheet as the cold numbers? It’ll look like everybody in the whole world loved and lapped up anything that was ever released by Vampire Weekend.

Is that what you want the saucer men to believe?

IS IT?

With that in mind, here are Spinal Bap’s top albums of 2024.

This year’s listicle is dedicated to Neil Kulkarni and Steve Albini.

Charli XCX – Brandt

Who wasn’t ready for 2024’s Brandt Summer? The location? The mansion of an elderly philanthropist. The energy? Genuflecting to the eccentric whims of the wealthy. Luxury but trashy, like hiring a hippie bowler to track down a lost playboy model. All you need is your boss’s rug, an ill-fitting suit and a smile which says, “This isn’t awkward at all”. Brandt summer? Ah hahahahahaha! Wonderful! We’re all, we’re all very fond of it. Very free spirited.

The Last Dinner Farty – Prelude To Ecstasy

The Last Dinner Farty are like Sparks dressed as Marie Antoinette at a masquerade ball hosted by Kate Bush in the house extension she purchased using the profits from her handful of live dates in 2014. Only much worse because that actually sounds quite good. Calm down, everybody! It doesn’t matter whether The Last Dinner Farty are an industry plant, popstar nepo babies, forged by freemasons in a Frankensteinian laboratory, blood relatives of Jools Holland from Later… With Jools Holland, a front for embezzling PPE contracts or something to do with the Charlotte Owen super-injunction. The important thing is they’re absolute pap.

Frank Turner – Underhated

The latest album from England’s worst living songwriter was his “first back home with a global independent label setup” which is media spin for the fact that Polydor couldn’t stand the sight of his irksome beard no more. Plus, his rousing counterfeit Levellers anthems aren’t shifting the units they once did in the age of Ikea horsemeat scandals and Robin Thicke.

As ever, the favourite lyrical subject of this socially minded folk-punk troubadour remains… Frank Turner. He sings to his presumably pre-bearded fifteen-year-old self as well an estranged pen pal of his. He remembers dining in his school’s “cafeteria”. (Putting it that way surely undersells the grandeur of the place.) He describes the psychological impact of the lockdown he immediately, opportunistically and insensitively capitalised on. It was comparable to, he sings, being “punched in the dick for two straight years”. Speak for yourself, Frankie. Those who died can’t. Rub some ointment on your tender manhood and shut up.

When not focusing on himself, this 42-year-old is busy perving over a “girl” who works in a record shop using rhymes most teenage lyricists would cross out of their A5 Pukka Pads. Elsewhere, he looks down his nose at commuters with proper jobs.

The Yungblud for moderately tormented executives who are beginning to grey, Turner makes Doncaster’s richest emo look like the epitome of spotlight-indifferent decorum. ‘Do One’ is about shaking off the (his) haters, so Francis Edward won’t mind Mr Writer complaining that his hooks are needier than Ross Geller on a breadmaking course.

Charli XCX – Brant

Who wasn’t ready for 2024’s Brant Summer? The location? Temperate-zone coasts. The energy? Feeding off eelgrass, seaweed and sea lettuce. Luxury but trashy, like living in a bowl-shaped nest, lined with grass and down, in an elevated location, often near a pond using wet tundra environments for both feeding and breeding. Brant summer? Listed of least concern by the International Union for Conservation of Nature.

MJ Slenderman – Fanning Mireworks

Usually spotted only in blurry photographs, this black-clad and expressionless figure lurks in the shadows of the night, tapping on the windows of the sleepless and haunting the venues of North Carolina. His tentacle-like fingers can extend to intimidate and grab hold of his prey, or else reach one of trickier chords on an acoustic guitar. Proximity to the Slenderman is said to trigger nausea, nosebleeds and even violent insanity, especially if he’s singing that ‘Wristwatch’ single that’s in constant rotation on 6Music. England’s foremost ghost-hunting charlatan, Yvette Fielding, thought she had caught the MJ Slenderman on camera once. Turned out it was just Eef Barzelay from Clem Snide, who was stood in the corner of a cob-webbed basement, doing a wee.

1000 Eyes – Duality

Who nose how to pick an album of the year? Does 1000 Eyes’ Duality have a sniff at winning? S’not sure it’s number one as it has the odd (t)issue. 1000 Eyes don’t blow it, with their ambient noisetrils, and they clearly have a good scent of humour. Nose. Nose. Schnozz. Nose. NOSE. NOSES. HOOTERS. THERE’S TOO MANY NOSES ON THE COVER. HOW MANY? NOBODY NOSE! HOW DOES THIS BAND SMELL?

Tuesday, 19 December 2023

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2023

All across the land every magazine, website, record shop, public house and branch of Pavers shoeshops have topped their end-of-year charts with a certain Irish folk act. For one year only, everyone is in agreement. It’s like we’re being asked to Lankum together. Why now? This band’s been going for ages, you bunch of Johnny-Lankum-latelys. Are they really at their peak or is the best yet to Lankum? “Should we wear black tie to any of the multiple awards ceremonies we’ve been invited to?” asked the Dublin fourpiece. “Don’t worry,” they were told. “Lankum as you are.” The musicians were also concerned about what time to turn up because they only Lankum out at night. Don’t let them on the karaoke microphone! Unless you want to hear a morbidly droning version of ‘Lankum On Eileen’. Sick of hearing about this band already? Here Lankums that sinking feeling. Don’t worry, though. A change is gonna Lankum...

…because there is one list this season which promises not to include that band at all. Spinal Bap’s Top Five Albums of 2023! LANKUM ON FEEL THE NOIZE!!!

Blur – The Ballad Of Darren Hayman

The ninth album from the knees-up fourpiece coincided with their first live shows since whenever their last ones were. Savvily, the bass-playing farmer of the group managed to synchronise Blur’s latest comeback with the launch of his undrinkable ‘Britpop’ wine. Not a very imaginative name, that. He never was the brightest beetlebulb in the country house. How about ‘There’s Nero d’Avola Way’? Or the more straightforward ‘This Is A Merlot’? It pairs nicely with the cheeses Alex James also produces. Like ‘Charmless Manchego’.

The Ballad Of Darren Hayman was a concept album about another bloke from Essex who can’t stop writing concept albums. For those who haven’t been following the ex-Hefner member’s solo career, the overriding themes of Mr. Hayman’s countless albums have included astronauts, relationships, villages, the English Civil Wars, relationships, outdoor swimming pools, relationships, other villages, indoor swimming pools, indoor fireworks, relationships, London, relationships, the political writings of William Morris, towns, trains, Outer London, cafes, seasides, that bit of London you always meant to visit but haven’t got around to seeing yet and relationships.

There is a rumour he will be returning the favour by writing a whole album about Blur. Its working title is Country Sad Ballad Hayman and it is said to include ‘The Hymn For The Coffee & TV’.

Andre 3000 – New Kazoo, Son?

A true artist follows their creative instinct rather than capitulating to audience expectations. That’s why, when everybody was hoping for his first album of new age flute-based material, the ex-Outkast rapper confounded his followers by releasing an album recorded entirely on the kazoo. “I wanted to make a flute album, because in a way you really do want to please your fans,” explained Andre 3000. And yet his heart kept being drawn back to the kazoo, not least due to his love for the solo section on Ringo Starr’s version of ‘You’re Sixteen’. Following Andre’s half‑decade quest to master the instrument, the result was nearly 90 minutes of unlistenable parping.

The National – The First Two Pages Of Frankenstein Are A Lot More Interesting Than Listening To Our Boring Ballads

Matt Berninger took this album title from the novel he turned to when suffering from writer’s block, a condition from which he claims to have recovered. The lyrics are full of other suggestions for things to do if you’re having trouble sticking with the record’s 47 feeble minutes of sad-dad softrock. Better bands are mentioned, for instance, like Afghan Whigs and New Order. Put them on instead. Failing that, you could investigate the work of those who guested on The National’s record: Phoebe Bridgers, Sufjan Stevens or Taylor Swift. Much more fun. As if to rub in the salt, the band released another album in 2023, which included the song ‘Turn Off The House’. Turn off the stereo, more like.

Metallica – 72 Seasonings

Refusing to run out of ideas, the world’s biggest metal band turned to the massive spice rack in one of their fancy mansions for inspiration. You could say it was about thyme. The outcome was easily their best record since 1983’s herbcore thrash classic Dill ‘Em All. Built around appropriately spicy riffs were heavy numbers such as ‘Fenugreek & Destroy’, ‘Bad Mustard Seed’ and ‘The Four Horseradishmen’. There was a relatable poignancy to this album too, especially the aftermath of a particularly hot curry that’s described in the verses of ‘Jalapeño Remorse’. The band proved they could still bring it down a notch with ballads like ‘Fade To Black Pepper’, ‘Cardamomma Said’ and ‘Hero Of The Bay Leaf’.

Bonus tracks included a re-recording of the title track from Metallica’s second album, ‘…And Justice For Allspice’, and a cover of the classic Diamond Head tune ‘Am I Chervil?’

Lankum – Lankum Rain Or Lankum Shine

Oh, sod it. Fine. Lankum are in this list too. Well, you know what they say. If you can’t beat ‘em…

LANKUM!

Wednesday, 21 December 2022

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2022

“Comedy is now legal on Twitter,” declared Elon Musk shortly before losing his position as the world’s richest wally. The way things are going, hopefully he’ll tumble down the rankings faster than a bank holiday cheese-chaser on Cooper’s Hill in Gloucestershire and be forced to go on the game. You’d think a thrice divorcee with a South African accent and slappable forehead would be a niche kink but there are plenty of fanboys out there with cryptocurrency to splash and an involuntary celibacy predicament. The Musked One also swore to suspend parody accounts, which seemed a counterintuitive way to decriminalise humour. What he really wanted to stop were posts that mocked him, his ill-informed beliefs and those of his three friends (Joe Rogan; Russell Brand; a line drawing named Dilbert). He may be almost as wealthy as Bernard Arnault, but Musk’s skin remains thinner than an unpeeled chorizo’s.

So before he outlaws punching upwards altogether, let’s crack on with the annual shoddy rundown of crappy albums. And if any touchy plutocrats out there don’t like it, you can always purchase this blog at a mere sum of 44 billion dweebcoins. Then you can write PARODY across it in virtual marker pen or simply run it into the ground quicker than I can.

Arcade Fire – WEE

“WE can’t wait to be in a room with you and sing it together as it’s meant to be heard,” tweeted Arcade Fire when plugging their first album since lockdown. “WE works better when we do it together.” The sentiment was dampened slightly when looking closer at their account. They have over 90,000 followers on Twitter. How many accounts do they follow back? A. Big. Fat. ZERO! They have this in common with Peter Hitchens, a man who’s turned his nose up so many times his face is now frozen in permanent condescension.

Followers: 949.6k
Following: 0

#together

Since the album’s release, a series of allegations against singer Win Butler have painted some of WEE’s lyrics in an unfortunate new light. “Lookout kid, trust your body / You can dance, and you can shake.” Sorry, Edwin. I’m not really interested. “It’s not up to you.” Pardon? “You and me could be we! Could be weeeeeeee!” Leave people alone, you PartyRing-hatted weasel.

Kanye Westphalia – Dondaseeinskampf Zwei

In 2022 Yeezy went more batshit than Bruce Wayne’s ensuite. After a series of increasingly antisemitic pronouncements he declared his outright hard-on for Hitler, a fascist who’d condemn West as racially inferior and might even have struggled to appreciate the lyrical flow on My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. According to Ye, Adolf did invent highways and microphones though, which suggests the rapper has read fewer history books than the number of successful bids he’ll have at the White House.

Highlights on his eleventh studio album included ‘Jesus Volks’, ‘Blutorden On The Leaves’, ‘Devil In A New Dresden’, ‘Through The Wehrmacht’, ‘Heimkehr (featuring Chris Martin Bormann)’, and ‘Heideggers In Paris’.

Muse – Willy Of The People

Muse singer Matt Bellamy has renounced his beliefs in chemtrails, spiked tap water, UFO botty probes, The Moon Landings Directed By Stanley Kubrick, the Earth’s flatness, Paul McCartney’s deadness and 9/11’s inside-jobness. Well, he says he has. Which isn’t necessarily the same thing. What hasn’t changed is his approach to writing bombastically overproduced songs that could have some sort of socio-political sentiment behind them but are vague enough that any interpretation can be projected onto them by anybody on the spectrum from homemade jam bottling Green Party flyerers to QAnon nail-bomb enthusiasts. Cast thy net wide, Bell-am-end, over that oceanwide demographic, for Muse can be all things to all men. The Incel Bee Gees. Reclaim Party Rasmus. Neil Oliver’s Sparks. Momentum Freddie Mercury. Centrist Dad Tool. 4chan A-ha…

Incidentally, chances are Kanye West listens to Muse. All the time, Muse are playing in his blinged headphones. If not using one of his own songs (which admittedly is more likely) he'll probably choose Muse as the theme music to his next presidential campaign. Desecration! Liberation! Kill or be killed! Another world war! Lebensraum! Podkulachnik! Scaramouche! Scaramouche!

Bard Act – The Overcoat

A northern man wearing a long jacket, glasses and a ruff recites Shakespeare over a post-punk backing band. Some critics considered it a little dated.

Bruce NoSpringChickenSteen - Only The Long Decline

Less of The Boss these days than David Brent when he still turns up to the office after being fired, Bruce has reached the Johnny Cash American Recordings stage of showbusiness. Propped in front of the microphone by Ron Aniello and told to sing some old R&B hits, Bruce did exactly what he was told thereby undermining all those male rockist types who vaunt his “authentic” superiority over karaoke talent show singers and Crazy Frog.

To rub further salt in the earholes, Springsteen defended Ticketmaster’s cynical “dynamic pricing” model on the basis that “Well, I’m old.” Come on, Bruce! That’s the same excuse that codgers use when asking non-whites where they really come from or refusing to learn the preferred pronouns of the perfectly friendly milkperson.

Liam Gallagher – C’mon, You Know, Aussie, C’mon

Liam Gallagher records a 45-minute version of the theme tune to Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket. Still not the dullest or most derivative thing he’s ever sung.

Kiefer Sutherland – Blur Streets

It took just 24 hours for this O.G. nepo baby to record a bunch of Blur songs in the style of The Streets. Once ridiculed for his ropey English accent as a Roman senator in the period spear-fest Pompeii, the Young Guns star still managed sound more convincingly cockney than either Albarn or Skinner.

Carctic Monkcars – THE CAR

Alexandcar Turncar wasn’t old enough to own a driver’s license when his band first formed. Twenty years on, he finally got round to writing a fully automobile-related, road tripping concept albrum. He had dabbled in similar ideas on previous singles ‘Corvette You Look Good On The Dancefloor’, ‘When Datsun Goes Down’, ‘Suck It And SEAT’ and ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re Hyundai?’ But now it was time to really hand the wheel over to his petrol-headed imagination. And the only thing that was going to stop him was Charli XCX climbing all over his bonnet in a tiny bikini with a J.G. Ballard novel in her hand, its pages dripping in various bodily fluids.

‘The red car and the blue car had a race,’ Turncar crooned in randomly fluctuating notes over pseudo-John Barry orchestration. ‘All red wants to do is stuff his face,’ he continued, mixing his tenses slightly to prove his maverick rule-breaking abilities. ‘He eats everything he sees / From trucks to prickly trees,’ continued the wise lyricist, presumably meaning cacti. ‘But smart old blue he took The Milky Way…’ It was an instant classic. A tale of greed, hubris, temperance and heroism, Aesop-like in its simplicity. It made listeners feel confident that their waistlines would barely expand, even as they shovelled the endorsed brand of sugary snack into their insatiable faces. Enjoy your tubs of Mars Celebrations this Christmas, folks. At least it wasn’t as much of an overpriced, tooth-ruining rip-off as Tranquility Base Hotel Chocolat.

This year’s listicle is dedicated to Victor Lewis-Smith.

Monday, 20 December 2021

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2021!

The return of gigs. The return of people talking too loudly over the top of gigs. The cancellation of gigs all over again. Lorde’s bum on the beach. Rick Astley singing Smiths songs for some reason. What a year we’ve just had. But if there’s one thing that got us through it, besides mass vaccination and two ageing comedians gradually catching some fish together, then it was heavily marketed music! Without further ado, here are Spinal Bap’s top albums of the last twelve months.

Bobby Gillespie & Jehnny Beth – Utopian Ashes

When promoting this unbearable collection of duets, Bobby Gillespie announced his ambition to put “pain back into music”. The Primal Screamer didn’t think there was a lot of it about, you see. Presumably because he’s the only person in the country who’s never heard of Adele.

Gillespie also yearned to make an “honest” record, so he quickly roped in Jehnny Beth (not her real name), who he’d met at a glitzy fashion show, for a concept album about a fictional break-up. Incidentally, Beth has never quite been able to shake-off the possibly unfair accusations that her former band, Savages, were manufactured. Whether they were or not doesn’t really matter. Some manufactured bands are superb (Sugababes) whereas plenty of non-manufactured ones are utter plop (Arcade Fire). It always felt like Savages were a manufactured band, who were pretending not to be, which is the only important thing.

In March, the shittest duo since Sting and Shaggy revealed the video for ‘Remember We Were Lovers’, in which the platonic pair proved they were one horse away from a Lloyds Bank advert. Utopian Ashes ran with the theme of the single, providing no respite whatsoever from the half-baked, sexless Gainsbourgisms.

Bobby wanted to put the pain back into music. It’s a painful experience, all right. You wouldn’t want to inflict these ballads on Westlife’s aunts.

Black Country, Worn Road – Not For The First Time

Talking over post-rock backing tracks hasn’t been quite this massive since the indie message-board boom of 2003. Of course, twiddly-widdly Tortoise instrumentals aren’t quite irritating enough on their own. Better let a man named Isaac, with a gargling voice like another man named Isaac (the one from Modest Mouse), talk over the top about Cambridge science fairs and Cirque du Soleil. By the way, if you fancy yourself as a poet then maybe try to think of a better name for your opening instrumental than ‘Instrumental’. Come on, man! Did Mogwai ever resort to that? No! They come up with proper, grown-up titles like ‘Elvis Bacon’, ‘We’re The Spry’ and ‘Where’d You Put That Footstool, Susan?’ Oh, and don’t just let your gherkin dangle out of your dressing gown by mentioning Slint in your lyrics, for Britt’s sake! It’s not like Louisville’s finest were singing – sorry, talking – in their tracks about “Minutemen this” and “Minutemen that”, is it? Have some decorum.

Hercules – The Tears Of Rod Stewart

Talk about a comeback attempt. Last we heard of him, Hercules had been hunting down Cerberus, the hound of Hades, in between reciting numbers from The Great Athenian Songbook. The dulcetly toned hero returned in 2021 with his thirteenth labour: to rerecord the appalling songs of Rod Stewart. It was Hercules’ most challenging task to date. A mythical figure from ancient history, often portrayed in skimpy outfits to show off his calves, with a hairstyle that’s not been in fashion since 300BC, Rod Stewart was once singer in The Faces. Hercules tried his best to complete this daunting mission but fifty seconds into ‘Kookooaramabama’, when required to consider Rod’s lines about sex being “cool” and sex being “nice”, the heroic figure decided this was too gruelling even for him and immediately surrendered his soul to the underworld.

Nick Cave & Warren Buffett – Cashage

Not content with raking it in from dubious online merchandise and Peaky Blinders soundtrack dosh, Nick Cave found the collaborator of a lifetime when he hooked up with Warren Buffett, one of the ten wealthiest people in the world. Hoping to out-twat Elon Musk in the billionaires without dignity stakes, Buffett was only too happy to don a pair of tight trousers and have a fiddle.

Eric Clapton – Bumper Bootleg CD Box Set From eBay

Are you searching for that perfect gift to mildly distract your loved ones while also irritating one of the worst men in rock? Then why not buy (and then sell again) this exhaustive collection of unauthorised live recordings from the man whose 2010 eponymously titled album contained just one self-penned song among a load of old blues covers? The new career-spanning multidisc bootleg set includes ropey concert renditions of other songs the petty plagiarist didn’t write such as ‘I Shot The Sheriff’ and ‘Little Wing’. The tracklist also features the rare spoken-word tracks ‘Britain is becoming overcrowded and Enoch will stop it and send them all back’ (1976) and ‘My views have cost me all my friends apart from Van Morrison’ (2021). Spinal Bap is not responsible for the cost of any sudden legal fees.

Gary “Ebenezer” Barlow – The Dream Of A Christmas Carol

Ebenezer Barlow was a meanspirited and selfish old man. He was cruel to those who worked for him, frowned at kindness wherever he saw it, and resented paying tax.

One wintery night he was visited by the ghost of an old business partner, Jason Orange. “But you’re not even dead!” exclaimed Barlow. “I might as well be,” replied Orange, “judging by the lack of texts you’ve sent me over the last few years. Besides, oranges are traditional at Christmas.” The white-haired ghoul then warned Barlow that he would be visited by three more ghosts, before the morning came.

The first of these spirits, The Ghost Of Christmas Past, was a wiry figure with paper-thin skin who appeared to be young and old at the same time, a bit like Cliff Richard. The ghost showed Barlow scenes from his lonely childhood, when he had been bullied for being a tight sod with his dinner money and enjoying the music of Cliff Richard. Barlow was also forced to relive the moment when a young Cheshire lass he’d been courting decided to end the relationship because she realised that Barlow would never love her as much as he loved his own money or his collection of Cliff Richard calendars. Observing this sorry scene from the olden days, Barlow hoped the ghost hadn’t brought him back for good.

The next spirit was a loud, boisterous, jolly giant, obviously played by Brian Blessed. He took Barlow to a jubilant party attended by all the members of Take That, even Robbie. “My invitation must’ve got lost in post,” muttered Barlow. Before he could add “Royal Mail’s extremely busy this time of year,” a toast was made in his honour. “I think it’s time we all raised a glass to the smirk-faced goon,” announced Mark Owen. “…Who couldn’t be here tonight for personal reasons,” added Howard. “The reasons being that none of us wanted him here!” hooted Robbie. “Tight-fisted wanker with turd-like eyebrows,” slurred a very drunk Lulu.

The Ghost Of Brian Blessed then took Barlow on a tour of all the local hospitals which are forced to operate on a shoestring budget because of greedy, penny pinching misers like himself. This took up most of the night. “I officially apologised to anyone who was offended by my financial arrangements,” grumbled the dodger in question.

Finally, Barlow was visited by The Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come, a blank-faced and skeletal figure who said very little at all, or at least very little of any substance. The ghost reminded Barlow of Amanda Holden. The spirit’s sticklike finger pointed towards a poorly attended funeral. James Corden was there, of course, but only because he can’t resist a free buffet. As thin as one of the many Twiglets that Corden had just stuffed into his leering mouth, the spirit’s finger then gestured towards the gravestone of the un-mourned man. “Here lies GARY BARLOW,” it read, “who used to be in a boy band with Robbie Williams and once wrote a song for Matt Cardle from The X-Factor.”

Confronted by his future lack of legacy, Barlow fell to his knees and began to sob. “Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it!” he cried. “It’s not what you’ve said that’s the problem,” said a passing Sam Fender, who was just on his way to help out at the orphanage after dropping off some donations at the food bank. “It’s your actions that are the issue. Your morals, or lack of. Your greediness. Your absence of empathy for your fellow man. Your inhumanity. Your continued support for the Conservative Party.” “Oh, I’m not changing any of that,” replied Barlow and ordered the biggest turkey in the shop to consume all by himself. Fender let out a deep and despairing groan. “I guess everything changes but you,” he sighed.

Friday, 8 January 2021

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2020!

With venues closed for the foreseeable and several legends dead from Covid, some say now is not the time to be snide about music but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. And certainly not while Gary Barlow and Cliff Richard remain on the loose, making insincere charity appeals from their gold-plated tax havens. Looking more wrinkly than ever with his strained voice now clearly unable to pant its way through his own decades-old hits, your gran’s favourite singer really struggled when duetting with Cliff.

Here are Spinal Bap’s top albums of 2020. Look on my blurbs, ye Mighty, and despair.

Gary Barlow – Music Played By Humans

While most musicians acted responsibly in the face of a pandemic by refraining from gigs and staying at home to create quirky bedroom pop and soothing ambient soundscapes, Gary Barlow decided now was the moment to come into contact with more people than he’s ever worked with before. For his album of sub-Bublé drivel he packed a whole orchestra into the recording studio where they were able to share ideas, harmonies and lethal respiratory droplets.

Gary Barlow, who is definitely human, reasoned he had grown tired of music that relies on computer technology and progress. In an interview with BBC Radio 2, he said:

“MUSIC PLAYED BY HUMANS IS GARY BARLOW’S FIRST SOLO ALBUM IN SEVEN YEARS. STOP. GARY BARLOW WROTE MOST OF THE SONGS HIMSELF. STOP. GARY BARLOW WORKED WITH AN ORCHESTRA ON THE WHOLE ALBUM. STOP. ALL OF THE INSTRUMENTS WERE PLAYED BY PUNY HUMANS. STOP. GARY BARLOW IS A MEMBER OF TAKE THAT. STOP. GARY BARLOW WAS BIG IN THE 1990s. STOP. GARY BARLOW’S FAVOURITE SPICE GIRLS SONG IS STOP. STOP.”

Gary Barlow – Music Played By Animals

You may remember that back in 2016 the crackpot cosmic orderer Noel Edmonds decided to launch a radio station exclusively for pets. More recently Edmonds hooked up with everyone’s least favourite tax-dodging crooner for this album performed by animals. Gary Barlow was delighted to work on the project, having been a massive fan of Noel’s House Party and especially its bizarre mascot Mr. Blobby. With his clumsy balloon-like physique and amusing habit of repeating his own name in a ridiculous voice, Gary Barlow used to be a member of Take That. While most musicians were acting responsibly in the face of a pandemic by refraining from gigs and staying at home to create quirky bedroom pop and soothing ambient soundscapes, Barlow and Edmonds packed a whole animal orchestra into the recording studio, including several Chinese bats and queasy-looking pangolin.

Gary Barlow - Music Played By A Handmaid

It is well known that in her horrific dystopian novel The Handmaid’s Tale Margaret Atwood included only things that have already happened in human history, most of these having occurred within the music industry. A stickler for tradition and pining to create the kind of music he grew up with, Gary Barlow went back-to-basics on his latest record. He enslaved one of his few remaining fertile friends, dictated what she should wear and forced her at gunpoint to perform take after take until she started coughing up blood. “As a long-term supporter of the Conservative Party I have always admired Phil Spector’s working methods,” said Barlow, “and have long been fascinated by how he got such incredible performances out of his singers.”

Idles - Ultra Mono (XS/S/M/L/XL/XXL)

In September 2020 Idles continued their innovative approach to the music business by releasing a new album to promote their latest line of t-shirts. Soon enough the t-shirts were analysed in painstaking detail by Anthony Fantano, the world’s least entertaining rock critic. In a 20-minute video uploaded to his like-and-subscribe-like-and-subscribe-like-and-subscribe YouTube channel The Piddle Drops, Fantano praised the passion and intelligence that singer Joe Talbot had put into the band’s t-shirts. “With their past merch Idles would often shroud the political points they were making in a bit of absurdism or deliver a story where the point didn’t come across until you finished reading the back of the t-shirt,” the skinheaded vlogger explained. “In the case of their new t-shirts, though, the messaging and topics are way more straightforward, much more in-your-face and to-the-point.” Aptly one of the t-shirts had a cock on it.

Sunday, 22 December 2019

SPINAL BAP'S TOP ALBUMS OF 2019

Lana Del Boy - Nicholas Fucking Lyndhurst!
In 2019 the artist formerly known as Lizzy Grant formed an exciting new superduo with Sir David Jason, a national treasure formerly known as funny. Just like in Still Open All Hours, there was no room for comedy here. In its place, Lana Del Boy’s debut album offered harmonious heartache and emotional sincerity aplenty, all anchored around an eye-opening conceptual portrayal of the life and times of Nicholas Lyndhurst from Goodnight Sweetheart. Nicholas Fucking Lyndhurst! was patently influenced by Lana’s appearance on last year’s Wanderer by Cat Power, but the idea that this was some cut-priced, knocked-off, second-hand LP from a mush in Shepherd’s Bush was as daft as a Trigger.

In fact, deep and meaningful engagement was made with the album’s muse, i.e. New Tricks star Nicholas Lyndhurst. The oblique efforts made by the album’s principal protagonist to negotiate the fault lines of working-class community spirit in a moment of hyper-individualism and his angular vacillation between traditional familial commitments and new patterns of cultural capital typified the cross-cultural relationships of late modernity. You plonker. Because of the lacklustre quality of the singing, acting and punchlines on display, Lana Del Boy has been associated with abject apathy. However, Nicholas Fucking Lyndhurst! ended on a more positive note than expected. “Hope is a dangerous thing for a Trotter like me to have,” went its lyrics, juxtaposing the capacity to thrive with the fear of survival. Crucially, on understanding hope more fully through the prism of Nicholas “Butterflies” Lyndhurst, Lana concludes, “But I have it, I have it, I have it. This time next year we will be millionaires. Mange tout! Mange tout! Lovely jubbly! Pukka! Pukka! Pukka!”

The Murder Capital – When I Have Furs
Definitely the most exciting band ever seen by anyone since the previous most exciting band seen by anyone. They move around stage! Can you imagine? I even saw the singer smoke a fag once. While the band were playing! Pow!!! Take that, nanny state! Stick it to the man! Which man? Not the man at Philip Morris International. The other man. You know, that guy. The person running an independent venue on extremely tight overheads who is worrying about losing their licence as a result of The Health Act 2006. That prissy bellend!

The Murder Capital wear clothes! But clothes on steroids! And have I told you how much they run around? But it’s like running around... on steroids! Much like the Olympics. And they have shiny boots to boot. Shiny boots on steroids!

When I Have Furs is a crushing reminder of the perpetual, circular crisis of masculinity, a predicament embodied yet ultimately contradicted by this collection of shouty, broody, swaggery men dressed as the cast of an ambitious but ultimately under-cooked youth theatre production of a Quadrophenia/Peaky Blinders mash-up who were hastily costumed in whatever could be found during a speedy trolly dash at a local ~~charity~~ vintage shop.

When these young men perform, they are gazed on lovingly by a similarly clad yet more sombre bunch of formerly shouty, broody, swaggery men who are imagining the time when they dressed more flamboyantly and watched previous shouty, broody, swaggery men in their youth, or were shouty, broody, swaggery men in their youth who in turn saw other generations of shouty, broody, swaggery men in their youth… As the man who didn’t dress cool has explained: “Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. There is no hesitation. This is your situation. Continue a blank generation. Blank generation. Same old Blank Generation. Grooving blank generation. Swinging blank generation. Repetition, repetition, repetition.” And as the bearded scruff Karl Marx told us: history repeats itself, first as tragedy then as farce, then as farts.

Amehnda Palmeh - There Will Be No Intermehssion

Paid for in advance by her misguided fans, this was the latest in a long line of crowdfunded vanity projects from the millionaire wife of Neil “poverty is a terrible thing now please watch my new television series on the tax-avoiding media platform Amazon Prime” Gaiman. The album was 77 minutes longer than feasibly endurable but its lyrics did address some important topics. Alas, the fact that the objectionable Madame Backfire was singing about them meant the songs automatically converted even the most level-headed listeners into the gun-toting murderers of perceived heathens and instilled in most normally empathetic observers the sudden the urge to grab the p***y of the nearest unsuspecting stranger before signing up to ISIS.

To make matters worse, Palmeh was so outraged that The Guardian neglected to cover her latest mehsterwerk that Her Mehjesty’s subsequent project is said to be a streampunk rock-opera based around Yotam Ottolenghi’s recipe for home-baked brioche. Its working title is Let Them Eat Cake.

Janet Weiss - I’d Like To Play My Drums Please And You Should Appreciate That Percussion Is An Important Part Of Making Art As A Collaborative Process
Janet Weiss would like to play the drums. Drums are important. They are part of the music. Drums are at least as important as the music, the words, the guitar solos, and that synth you just bought off a man with a mad haircut. Let Janet play the drums. The drums count. The drums are part of the process. We like the drums and the drumming. We like drummers. You can’t just force out a living, breathing human drummer. You can’t just replace them with an inanimate object that doesn’t possess any kind of brain or soul, like a drum machine or Tommy Lee. Where are the drums? St Vincent’s drums are rubbish. Let Janet play the fucking drums. THE DRUMS! THE FUCKING DRUMS! Remember when Janet played the drums? DRUMS! DRUM! DRUMS! DRUMMY DRUMMITY DRUM DRUMS!

Boyd’s Sons Of Nubya’s Collective Moses Featuring Theon’s Ezra’s Kamaal - That London Jazz Album That I Must Really Get Round To listening To
In a scene marked by collaboration and synergetic musical connection, Boyd’s Sons Of Nubya’s Collective Moses Featuring Theon’s Ezra’s Kamaal really exemplifies the energetic remoulding of jazz with its connections to the grime and afrobeat music that flow through the capital city’s veins. I think. I mean, I haven’t listened to it and I haven’t even visited London for a few years now because I live in West Worcestershire. But I like to think if I were there, and if I had listened to it, it would be exactly the kind of album and scene that I like to imagine is really exciting and thriving. It’s hard to tell when I’m just reading about them in the back pages of The Sunday Telegraph while waiting for space to clear around the reduced ready meals in a Waitrose in rural England.

Bill Callahan - A Sheep Singing About A Shepherd In A Sheepskin Vest Who’s Counting Sheep To Get To Sleep
“A song is just three chords and the truth,” as Howard from the Halifax adverts once said. He never asked for this much truth though, nor in quite so much personal detail. Ever since everybody started reading the autobiographical so-called novels of Karl Ove Knausgård and documenting their every brunch on Instagram, it’s been assumed that any thought that passes through any human’s brain is actually worth sharing with the public. In the music world, it was Mark Kozelek who pioneered the craze for singing-what-you-see, a genre now known as post-Catchphrase. Phil Elverum added tragedy and depth to the genre by singing of the death of his wife in intimate and uncomfortable detail. Now the bloke once known as Smog is at it as well, banging on for 20 tracks about everything that’s happened to him since the last album - birth, death, life, love, marriage, bicycles... - as if he’s the first person in history to experience such matters. He’s even written a song about writing, called ‘Writing’.

Have you ever seen Family Guy? It’s that cartoon for adults whose minds are too underdeveloped for South Park. Anyway, one early episode features a parody of Randy Newman. In this caricatured depiction, the famous LA musician plays his piano and sings words that merely describe exactly what is happening, in real-time, in front of his eyes at that very moment. We are all Family Guy Randy Newman now.

Lizzo - Cuz I Luvvie
People who review albums and don’t make music themselves should be unemployed. People who discover a rotting hamster carcass floating around in their vegetable soup and complain to the waiter about its inedibility but haven’t established a restaurant empire themselves should be burnt alive in a pizza oven. With anchovies! People who express an opinion on the practicality of manoeuvring a transit van through Luton Airport multi-story car park and haven’t studied architecture for seven years in advance of their negative comment should be thrown immediately from the top of the building’s roof. Historians of the Second World War who write groundbreaking biographies of Joseph Stalin based on extensive research and previously unearthed documents that have only just come to light and haven’t served in a prominent position as a member of the Soviet Union’s Politburo of the 1930s should be exiled to the Siberian gulag. People who Lizzo glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

Kate Tempest - The Book Of Traps And Lessons (Sorry. Did I Say Book? I Meant Album. The Album Of Traps And Lessons. It’s A Bit Like A Book Though Isn’t It Cos I Just Talk All The Way Through It. The Book Of Traps And Lessons: The Audiobook.)
There once was a poet called Kate
To whose sanctimony we all could relate
Finally! A poet who’s cool
Unlike the ones learnt at school
Even your English teacher thinks that she’s great
Oh.
Wait...

Weezer - Weezer (The Imperial Purple Album)
Rivers Cuomo and his chums continue to work their way through the Farrow & Ball chart. This isn’t a paint-by-numbers covers record, though. Weezer prove quite the dab hand. Indeed, theirs is a brush with greatness. Of course, when they combine their blue album with a red album they will be marooned. But which colour-themed Weezer album is best? Lets call this one a draw. Forget the titles for a minute, because let’s face it they’re all beige. How many members of Weezer does it take to paint a wall? Depends on how hard you throw them.

Dave - Psychodrama (For the Record)
Every Prime Minister is expected to cash-in on their time in Number 10. Eschewing tradition, David Cameron chose to release his memoirs via the medium of his debut rap album. At first, the work appears smooth and efficient. The initial psychodrama at the heart of the piece is centred around the scrapes and japes of old school-chums gently ribbing each other. After a while, however, the record deepens to expose the inner thoughts of a chaotic, vain individual who is entirely lacking in principle. Once the psychodrama of the public school stutters and slips - almost whimsically or accidentally - onto a wider stage, a different picture unfolds. Here, the more traumatic and material drama of unrepentant austerity, structural violence and catastrophic delusion prevails, and it is documented by Dave in often harrowing detail. It makes for raw, tough and bewildering listening with a shattering fallout. After Dave has delivered this crushing state-of-the-nation address and the final track draws to a close after an exhausting six-year running time, Dave doesn’t so much drop the microphone as turn his back to it, walking into the distance and singing the album’s final, devastating words, addressed less to his captivated audience than only to himself: “Doo Doo, Doo Doo...”

Thursday, 21 February 2019

CHARACTER FROM NICK CAVE NOVEL WRITES HEARTWARMING LETTER TO 10-YEAR-OLD FAN

Euchrid Eucrow, the protagonist in Nick Cave’s debut novel And The Ass Saw The Angel, has penned a touching reply to a 10-year-old fan who wrote to the character asking for advice.

“Dear Euchrid,” wrote the boy, “all that my idiot schoolmates listen to is chart music and the only books they own have been written by that camp bloke off Little Britain. Many of them still believe in Santa Claus, the cretins, and they write to him regularly. But I believe in you, Euchrid, so I am writing to ask if you have any advice for me? Mummy says the only reason I’m disruptive in class is because I’m cleverer than all the other children.”

Eucrow’s empowering response can be read below:

As ah dictate this here letter, ah am up to mah feeble chest in quicksand and so ah believe ah had better make this a brief consultation, most unlike mah creator’s first novel. As ah am certain you are already aware, ah am a mute who speaks in a southern states dialect so our two situations are rather different. Come to think of it, how does a cottonpickin’ mute even begin dictating a letter? Anyhow. Mah pa was a cruel man and like most women mah momma was a drunken bitch-whore... Like you, ah was always different from mah fellow townsfolk and to cut a very long story short, here ah find mahself in a patch of God’s own sinking sand awaiting mah unfortunate fate.

Advice? Blessed advice. Mah chief instruction is to scribble down material inspired by the Old Testament. Pen lyrics about murdering females in the most cowardly way. Glamorise criminals, thieves, ruffians, villains, rogues, scoundrels, executioners, and Kylie Minogue. Form a troupe of wandering minstrels. Attack members of your own audience. They’ve paid you to busk, and they can goddamn pay again... with a suckerpunch to the temples! Embrace opium; it is a well-known creative aid and helps maintain a strict routine. Write an incomprehensible novel about a no-good mute such as I. Follow it up with a dark sex comedy set in the old country about a bedraggled old pervert who's obsessed with Avril Lavigne’s pert buttocks. How old did you say you were, again? Photograph your wife as naked as the day she was born for an album cover, while you stand fully suited in close approximation of the sleeve to Spinal Tap’s Smell The Glove. The world is waiting for you, kid.

As for me, death’s delights are a-coming and ah had better prepare mahself for mah almighty reckoning. Oh, and don’t forget to befriend Will Self. Amen!