Tuesday, 15 October 2013
Penguin Books has printed 500,000 copies of Neil “Bob The Builder” Morrissey’s memoirs as part of its reputable Penguin Classics imprint.
Morrissey Autobiography: Man Behaving Badly will join an illustrious literary group that includes the likes of Homer’s The Odyssey, Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, and that Dostoyevsky one about the bloke that does a murder and then feels bad about it for 300 pages.
Morrissey’s tome includes considered ruminations on the star’s close friendship with Martin “Doc Martin” Clunes, an anecdote about drinking all night long with John “Cold Feet” Thomson, and an overly graphic account of Morrissey’s steamy adulterous affair with Amanda “Did you ever see that circus-based sitcom she did? That was the worst programme ever shown on television” Holden.
“We accept that this particular commercial escapade may have momentarily cheapened our brand,” confessed a spokesman for Penguin, “but can we fix it? YES WE CAN!”
Thursday, 10 October 2013
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Thursday, 3 October 2013
After a last minute “content disagreement” momentarily put the book on hold, Penguin has confirmed it will publish Morrissey’s autobiography on October 17. Here is an exclusive extract from the eagerly awaited tome:
Friday, 13 September 2013
Speaking to chat-show sex-pest David Letterman, Young explained:
“CDs and MP3s fail to accurately replicate how atrocious I wanted those records to sound, thus diminishing the true horror of my vision. An iTunes MP3 file only contains about 5% of the original audio quality. That means that the versions of Trans and Old Ways that people have been listening to recently have been 95% less diabolical than I intended. When I originally released those albums most consumers were still buying the majority of their music on the LP format. Those listeners could fully appreciate how bad Re-ac-tor was and thankfully the record bombed, just as I hoped. The versions that kids listen to nowadays on their iPods are so diluted it’s no wonder that numerous revisionist idiots are suddenly coming out in favour of my discography circa 1980 to 1989. A few of them even claim my vocoder sounds good! I mean, last week I read a blog by some punk arguing that Everybody’s Rockin’ is an ‘overlooked postmodern rockabilly classic’. It’s not that. It’s ****ing garbage. I wanted it to be ****ing garbage. If I’d wanted people to enjoy it, I’d have made a good album. Clearly you haven’t been hearing it properly.”
Young plans to launch the service in 2014, hoping to compete with the dominance of iTunes. In a promotional video for Pono Music, musicians such as Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Marcus Mumford from Mumford & Sons lent passionate support to Young’s cause. However, critics have noted the video may have been more convincing if Flea hadn’t been bouncing around with his cock out and if Marcus Mumford hadn’t existed.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Following Miley Cyrus’ booty-shaking, twerk-ful routine at the Video Music Awards, we asked our favourite celebs what they thought of the most talked-about event since that time that person did that thing with the thing in front of the thing on Big Brother or whatever...
It was utterly sickening to witness that attractive and talented young woman degrade herself and commodify her own precious body in such a demeaning manner. She was strutting about in her underwear, blankly grinning like some doped-up Amsterdam hooker, a dismal icon of the continuing tyranny of the patriarchy and the escalating pornographication of Western society. Don’t steal my act, bitch!
Why does she keep sticking her tongue out? It looks all massive and weird.
Jesus Christ! What the fuck is that fucking thing coming out of her mouth? It’s creeping me out, man.
One Of The Aliens Off Of The Aliens Films
The moronic crudity of popular culture never fails to astonish my more sophisticated sensibilities. Cyrus’ performance was so soullessly coarse and devoid of sensuality that it almost distracted me from writing my latest paragraph about an ageing author having anal sex with a teenage girl.
A Great American Novelist
Well naturally I didn’t approve of Miss Cyrus’ garishly sexual dance moves and corruptively skimpy costume. But what offended me the most was the appearance of that shit-throated smug c*** Robin Thicke. And I don’t use that kind of language lightly.
The late Mary Whitehouse
Erm... I dunno really... I don’t really know who she is... I didn’t see the VMAs cos I went and sold my TV the other day... I got, like, six hundred quid for it or something, all cos Kate Moss watched an episode of Shameless on it back in 2006... Do you wanna see my shop? ... I say shop, it’s more a rag-and-bone cart, really... Well, I say rag-and-bone cart, it’s actually a stolen shopping trolley with some soggy NMEs sellotaped to the side... It’s got a chipped ceramic bust of Lord Byron in it and an ashtray full of hair... Would you like to buy an ashtray full of hair? Please, please buy my ashtray full of hair...
Remember when I took my top off in the middle of Razorlight’s performance at Bob Geldof’s Live 8? Remember? Anyone? Hello?
You think I give a s*** about that ****ing c***? My Family took her under our wing. We clothed her, we fed her, we made her the biggest star in Hollywood. And how does this c*** repay us? She ****ing leaves the Family behind her and embarks on this two-bit strip act wearing a ****ing leotard with a ****ing distorted rodent on it! She got a beef with the Family? She should do what’s right and settle it with the Family, not go around trashing my personal image in public. It’s a ****ing insult. I’m not saying she’s in danger, but schmucks have been whacked for less.
Imagine walking on your hands through the blue sky above a field and then a great mountain. Imagine your toes brush the skies and the birds whisper ancient melodies directly into the ears of your heart. No need to imagine, it’s already happening. I think that answers your question.
Of course, had she been alive in the seventeenth century, that kind of act would’ve got her burned as a witch. Now here’s a catchy little number about the demographic consequences of agrarian economic innovations of the Early Modern Period...
Zounds and gadzooks! Did one catch a glimpse of the promiscuous wagtail’s disrobed ankles?
An Outraged Victorian
I definitely have an opinion on this.
Every Journalist and Blogger
WHY IS EVERYBODY STARING AT A GIRL DANCING IN HER PANTS WHEN WE SHOULD ALL BE DISCUSSING EGYPT??!!!! COME ON, PEOPLE!!!!
What a surprise to see an attention-seeking child turn into an attention-seeking adult.
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
In Utero Remastered (some - but not all - tracks mixed by that maniac Albini)
1) Rape Me (demo)
2) That b-side Dave Grohl sang before he was in Foo Fighters
3) That one about the vagina
4) That one about the vagina (4-track demo)
5) That one about the vagina (Butch Vig remix)
6) Rape Me (Dubstep mix)
7) Jesus Christ I Hate Myself I Really Want To Die Life Is Fucking Unbearable Especially Since I Married That God-Awful Woman But Don’t Worry Ha Ha This Is Just A Tongue-In-Cheek Self-Deprecating Song-Title See I Do Have A Sense Of Humour After All Oh No Hang On A Minute Actually I Really Do Hate Myself And Want To Die So It Isn’t Especially Ironic, Oh Well, Whatever, Never Mind
8) Something by Leadbelly
9) Gallons of Rubbing Alcohol Flow Through The Strip (long version)
10) Private Recording Of Cobain Curled Up Naked In The Shower Screaming In Pain From The Specific Bodily Discomfort of Heroin Withdrawal Coupled With The More General Mental Anguish Of Existential Dread (demo)
11) Don’t Recognise This One It’s Probably A Meat Puppets Cover Or Something
12) Tourette’s (acoustic)
13) Verse - Chorus - Verse- Chorus - Solo - Incoherently Screaming Lyrics That Were Nonsensical In The First Place - Chorus - Feedback - End
14) This Is Just Noise, This Was Never Meant To See The Light Of Day
15) Monosyllabic Cobain interview conducted by an overenthusiastic US radio disc-jockey
16) The cringe-inducing sound of the empty sides of a rotting barrel being scraped and scraped and scraped into sheer oblivion (take #237)
Under-rehearsed live gig further hindered by a sound-desk guy who wasn’t concentrating properly, recorded by some drunkard with a broken boom-box
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Sunday, 7 July 2013
OMG!!!! Kanye is da freakin’ bomb right now. His rhymes, man, I mean, the way he just lays down those rhymes like one cool muthafucker, it’s unreal dude. You feelin’ me? That brutha is so hot right now. Mega props to my homeboy.
Nah. Just not rock ‘n’ roll is it? He thinks he’s havin’ it and all that but he’s not really havin’ it. I’m the one fuckin’ havin’ it. Every day, mate, there’s me fuckin’ havin’ it. Rock ‘n’ roll star, do you know what I mean? Down Knebworth, I’m fuckin’ havin’ it. At the Chelsea Flower Show, I’m fuckin’ havin’ it. For the duration of the extensive Beady Eye three-date tour, I’m fuckin’ havin’ it. Riding a defenceless dog in the pub like an unruly child, there I am, that’s me, FUCKIN’ HAVIN’ IT. Do you know what I mean, shitbag?
Well, although I can categorically confirm that I am down with the hip-hop culture - not to mention grime, garage and crunk - I must say I do prefer the Smiths and the Jam. Especially the ones where they declare that people like me should be strung up on lampposts and decapitated for the good of society. Right, I’m off to play Angry Birds. Laterz.
Yeezus?! That’s a bit offensive isn’t it?
Professor Richard Dawkins
Ralf Hütter (Kraftwerk)
He’s released it on CD?! Sorry, but that’s a little ‘90s for me. He should’ve released a fancy hardback book of sheet music so that fans could play the keyboard parts themselves and bring their own unique, individual voices to lines such as “Shit I’m chillin’ / Tryin’ to stack these millions”.
Why isn’t anybody talking about us anymore? :(
David Bowie, Daft Punk and Boards of Canada
Is he still black? I don’t like him then.
George W. Bush
It’s not got frigging autotune all over the place has it? I’ve had it up to here with autotune. It’s become such a scourge on modern culture I can hardly be-lieeeeeve I invented in the first place.
I’d have preferred less stuff about Porsches, liquor, titties, ass, and West proclaiming himself to be God, and a little more on how we should all bow down to the irrepressible power of Mother Nature and embrace a loose, solitary form of religion in which we develop our own personal relationship with the almighty wind spirits. Also, there wasn’t enough black metal on it.
I like it.
I like it.
His beats are dope, that’s fo’shizzle. But that line about “eating Asian pussy”, I could’ve done without that.
The late Mary Whitehouse
To be honest, I don’t really understand the rap music. It just sounds like somebody talking moronically over a series of repetitive beats. I prefer the golden oldies: The Rat Pack, Elvis, Andy Williams and the like. Frank Sinatra, now there’s a man who had talent. The rap music just doesn’t have Frank’s touch of class, does it? It’s just a load of undignified scallywags jumping around with massive timepieces dangling round their necks. Pillocks.
It wasn’t graphically misogynist enough for me.
Bret Easton Ellis
I’m concerned for the guy. He’s become so wealthy and famous that he’s completely lost grasp of reality. He’s got no sense of humour or modesty. He’s married some vacuous celebrity with no discernible talent of her own who’s only famous because of her Dad. He doesn’t seem to display any recognition of what ordinary people’s lives are like. His ego is spinning further and further out of control. It’s sad to watch, man, just sad.
The late Michael Jackson
Friday, 24 May 2013
Fairly nondescript mellow intro track with soft, jittering 808 beats, mildly distorted harmonium tones and ripe grapefruit squelches.
Reach For The Dead
Populist wet disco single featuring Nile Rogers, that bloke out of N.E.R.D. and Commander Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. First heard via an electric billboard(of Canada) installed on the streets of Tokyo after a mysterious message appeared on the Cartoon Network’s twitter feed at 6:37am on Record Store Day. Fluffier than ‘Chromakey Dreamcoat’. Taller than Bonaparte.
This one is exactly like waking up in a bath of frozen peas to find both your kidneys have been replaced by the left knees of the Proclaimers twins, a blacked-up Taylor Swift is silently miming the words of Throbbing Gristle’s ‘Persuasion’ into one end of a grimy loofah, while Carl Barat trims his fringe in the mirror with a pair of broken safety scissors. Achingly grotesque.
Filler track only audible to hounds.
Similar to John Cage’s 4’33”. Only not silent. And with greater emphasis on the slide whistle.
Imagine a barbershop quartet dressed up in full Kiss regalia. Now imagine there’s fourteen more of them and they’re all squeezed chock-a-block in that cupboard under the stairs at George Michael’s place. One of them has brought an egg sandwich and the solidified albumin is crumbling out of the cling film at an alarming rate. A baby house spider tries to make its terrified screams audible but is drowned out by the eighteentet’s cramped moans. Imagine Tim Hecker capturing the commotion on his four-track then throwing the results into a clammy landfill.
If having your ears pinched by a blasé farmhand in a bright orange Stetson with half a beard and a penchant for crochet is your idea of fun, look no further.
Will.I.Am guests, unleashing the kind of devastating, take-no-prisoners lyrical flow that can only be attained from twenty-odd years in the professional rap game. Over a primordial rave thump, Will spits such gallantly ingenious lines as “Rub-a-dub-dub / We hit da club”, “I said ‘Yeah?’ / And she said ‘Yeah, yeah!’”, and “You can’t rhyme / Like I can rhyme / ‘Cos when I rhyme / I rhyme all the time”. Danny O’Donoghhue from The Script was also invited to contribute but was too busy sitting in a large red chair jiggling around like a yappy terrier that can’t work out if it needs to ejaculate or shit itself.
Saucier than Donna Summer having an illicit rummage through Prince’s knicker drawer. Could redden the cheeks of even the most jaded octogenarian porn baron.
North American Corpse Desecration
Pleasingly boisterous cover of Agoraphobic Nosebleed’s frantic grind opus.
Split Your Infinities
Clearly indebted to Springsteen and the E Street Band. But less bothered about cars, chicks and headbands. Could do without the rowdy piccolo solo.
Groundbreaking bonus track only accessible after emailing one’s Google password to the Warp Records mailing list. Once unlocked, the listener must connect their ipod to a 3D printer which will then generate a flat-pack music box for self-assembly. Depending on how fast the music box’s handle is turned the resulting noise sounds either like Björk excavating Jim Morrison’s grave with a wooden teaspoon or Dave Lombardo beating himself over the nose with a Sega Megadrive.
Nothing Is Real
Twoism plus ‘Olson’, multiplied by Snoop Lion, minus Laura Marling’s favourite plectrum, divided by Marc Almond, added to 20% of Nick Cave’s moustache equals ‘Nothing Is Real’.
Obligatory dubstep number with mid-point minimalist bugle breakdown. The liner notes credit Cypress Hill’s DJ Muggs with ‘additional production’ and the tap dancer from Tilly and the Wall with ‘encouragingly jaunty 4-4 handclaps’.
Nine long minutes of synthetic birdsong.
Come To Dust
Moon Safari played backwards under a disused railway bridge in the Outer Hebrides while a confectionary-addicted vicar mournfully licks the sugar off his final Fruit Pastille.
The closing piece is a futuristic collaborative symphony featuring a host of Warp Records alumni. Squarepusher provides characteristically fussy, beef-thumbed slap bass. Richard D. James spanks Aphex Twin’s buttocks with a rusty tambourine while headbutting Polygon Window’s grand piano. Chris Morris delivers a tasteless, vaguely satirical narrative about an abducted toddler. In the background, Autechre experiment with a range of specially modified electric toothbrushes. The chap with the hat out of Maximo Park made the coffee. A post-techno counterpart to the Traveling Wilburys’ ‘Handle with Care’.
Take one copy of Geogaddi, one copy of The Campfire Headphase, smash them into a blender, add two diced apples, a pinch of lemon rind, and mix on a high speed for 4-5 mins. Pour the liquid into a bowl and add flour, eggs, butter, and three ex-members of the Bluetones. Bake on a medium heat for eight years or until golden. Leave to stand for twenty minutes before icing with Paul Newman’s Tex Mex Salad Dressing. Chew upon Tomorrow’s Harvest with a childlike wonder.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Hey kids! Are you a fan of platinum-selling, alluringly hairy rock group Biffy Clyro? Have you always wanted want to look just like your heroes? Do you want to be among the first to own an item of pioneering merchandise the likes of which has never seen before?
Then you need the new Biffy Clyro No-shirt Shirt!
The new Biffy Clyro No-shirt Shirt is spun from the highest quality magic cloth which, although definitely, definitely there, is invisible to the eyes of anybody stupid enough to not appreciate or understand the joys of Biffy Clyro. Needless to say, the result of wearing the Biffy Clyro No-shirt Shirt is exactly what you’ve always desired: to the squares who don’t value Biffy Clyro you will look just like your idols Biffy Clyro (i.e. defiantly topless and rebelliously sweaty), whereas the perceptive and intelligent members of ‘Team Biffy’ will profess recognition of your exclusive threads and welcome you into their fold.
The Biffy Clyro No-shirt Shirt retails at £39.99 plus post and packaging.
The Biffy Clyro official webshop takes no responsibility for any Biffy Clyro No-shirt Shirts that are lost in transit or mysteriously disappear from within their still-sealed boxes.
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Record Store Day was founded in 2007 with the intention of boosting the profits of thriving, unscrupulous eBay sellers. Everything was going as intended last Saturday morning when record shops across the world were greeted by lengthy queues of pungent middle-aged men eagerly hoping to lay their hands on some rare, exclusively released vinyl which they would cradle lovingly in their sweaty arms before immediately auctioning online. For the most heroic of these passionate capitalists, nothing would stand between them and their profit. Queues were jumped, bribes offered, weaker, younger and politer customers were shoved, tussled and elbowed out of the way in scenes that would have made that late champion of entrepreneurism and hater of society Margaret Thatcher weep copious tears of sheer pride. Forget the audacious state-funded funeral, this display of unashamed greed and ruthlessness in the pursuit of hard cash was the real tribute to the Iron Lady.
However, one customer decided to make a mockery of this marvellous day of economic exploitation by thoughtlessly deciding to keep the records he purchased. Stephen Pond was near the front of the queue at Pickled Willy Records, Manchester, having arrived at approximately 4.30am a week last Tuesday. In a move that seems completely inexplicable to any level-headed, right-thinking person, Pond only selected releases by his favourite artists: Thurston Moore, Darren Hayman, and Moistboyz. When Pond neglected to rudely demand copies of the rarer and more lucrative products on offer, the cashier stared at the boy in total bewilderment and considered having him sectioned.
Asked what on earth he intended to do with these records, Pond said that he would listen to them regularly, file them alongside the other LPs in his collection, and lend them to his friends.
The organisers of Record Store Day have condemned Pond, saying that actions such as his have the potential to completely ruin the spirit of the event for everybody else. We have been assured that they are working round the clock to prevent a repeat of this unfortunate incident.
Wednesday, 13 March 2013
Sometime last week Spinal Bap was invited to an exclusive playback of David Bowie’s new album The Next Day in a dank hovel in Soho decorated with browned photographs of pre-1989 East Germany. Sony’s PR staff were wearing sinister surgical masks and Hoggle from Labyrinth kept touching my leg. Here is a brief summary of what we heard:
The Next Day
A brash, confident opener on which the 66-year-old demonstrates that he’s back and he means business, and if not business, then at least something. Post-ska strum patterns provide the cadence around which tempestuous cymbals crash harder than cannon fire, autotuned sirens squeal like tortured seals, and the Thin White Duke reads out the final First Division Football League positions of the 1973-74 season in reverse order. Climaxes with a 26-minute trumpet solo played using a freshly-caught jellyfish as a makeshift mute.
A slower-tempo futuristic Afro-ballad with a quasi-Heideggerian twist. Resembles the second Tin Machine album re-recorded by an overly oppressive sixty-man kazoo choir.
The Stars (Are Out Tonight)
Oscar winner Anne Hathaway provides a tearfully intense, slightly mucus-ridden verse on this unashamedly operatic number partly inspired by pseudo-fascist Danish punks Iceage. Faster than ‘Young Americans’. Fluffier than ‘Thursday’s Child’.
Love is Lost
Jokey filler piece featuring ex-Walker Brothers singer Scott Walker making infantile fart sounds with his armpit. Unlikely to secure the Grammy.
Where Are We Now?
The location is modern Berlin. Bowie once knew the city but has not visited in years. Many of the streets have changed since the late ‘70s. Besides, back then Bowie was so high that all the roads throbbed orange and the Charlottenburg Palace resembled a giant effigy of the eagle from the Muppets with thousands of tiny almonds crawling out of his eyes. It’s the present day and Bowie’s satnav has broken. He didn’t think to bring a map. “Where are we now? / Where are we now?” he croons in vain to his unresponsive computerised compass. Possibly a commentary on mankind’s emasculating reliance on technology and consequent depletion of traditional survival instincts. Would be more effective if it didn’t sound like ‘Funny Little Fat Man’ off of Derek or whatever.
Carnal Fecophelia Due To Prolonged Exposure To Methane
Surprisingly rootsy cover of Cattle Decapitation’s deathgrind classic. Poignantly brutal.
If You Can See Me
Not entirely dissimilar to Erasure’s Vince Clarke boiling the disembodied carcass of Cream’s racist Clapton in a purple G-Funk tuba.
I’d Rather Be High
Iggy Pop makes a welcome return to the Bowie fold, providing characteristically ragged backing vocals. However, the grizzled Stooge now sings exclusively in French while looking like a cross between Jennifer Aniston’s rotting corpse and one of the Californian Raisins. Lou Reed was also invited to jam in the studio but was denied entry when he turned up with Lars Ulrich and a several tai chi instructors.
Boss Of Me
On which Bowie attempts, with moderate dividends, to replicate the sound of Dillinger Escape Plan kicking Danny Elfman’s cellist down the stairs of Jay-Z’s skyscraper. Ricky Gervais contributes to the ambience. He only plays xylophone but still manages to do it in an obnoxious, bullying way.
Dancing Out In Space
A mind-blowing, hair-raising, masterpiece vaguely reminiscent of the song widely considered to be Bowie’s greatest musical achievement. In some respects, it may even surpass ‘Everyone Says Hi’.
How Does the Grass Grow?
Starts thrillingly. An underlying ‘Jean Genie’ glam-tinged stomp joins a Low-esque sense of isolated melancholia accompanied by ambiguous, post-PC hints towards China Girl’s orientalist outlook. Goes downhill towards the end when the track becomes immersed in a Sunn O)))-tinged migraine-inducing bass drone while Bowie repeatedly howls the phrase “Fluoxymesterone sandwich” until he sounds like a demonic porcupine is trying to force its way out of his throat. Was Eno involved?
(You Will) Set The World On Fire
Epic. Bombastic. Heroic. Inspirational. Primal. Jaw-droppingly profound. Not a million miles from Andrew WK’s ‘Make Sex’.
You Feel So Lonely You Could Die
Awful. Just awful. The kind of unequivocally objectionable novelty record you’d think would be below Bowie. A horrible cross between ‘Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’, ‘Is This The Way To Amarillo’, and ‘Spiegel im Spiegel’ by Arvo Pärt. B-side material at best.
HeatCovering those classic Bowie themes of alienation and identity, ‘Heat’ closes the album in style with its brilliantly odd string arrangement. The track is let down, however, by Bowie shamelessly thieving lyrics from Azealia Banks’ hit ‘212’. Did he really think he could sing “I’m a rude b****, n****, what are you made up of / I’m-a eat your food up, boo” and get away with it?
An admirable addition to the Bowie canon, The Next Day doesn’t quite reach the dizzy heights of Never Let Me Down, but as a disorientating cocktail of meta-panoramic Romani beats and multi-sculptural bebop pleonasms, the record would certainly have Andy Warhol saying “hmm, kinda half neat”.
Friday, 1 March 2013
The Roman Catholic Church was thrown into disarray this week when it emerged that Mike Connelly was leaving the legendary Michigan noise group Wolf Eyes.
Although it is unusual for somebody to relinquish such a distinguished post, Connelly’s move is not without precedent. In 2005, Aaron Dilloway stepped down as the band’s guitarist to relocate to Nepal, whereas original Wolf Eyes drummer Pope Gregory XII resigned in July 1415 in order to end the Western Schism that had divided the Catholic Church for nearly forty years (although he also cited “musical differences”).
Connelly has proven popular with traditional Catholics but his reign has not lacked controversy. His first Wolf Eyes appearance was on Human Animal, released in 2006 by the relatively mainstream label Sub Pop. The record polarized fans with its opening side of uncharacteristically restrained music. Other critics felt that Connelly failed to use his influential position as a prominent member of Wolf Eyes to properly address the ongoing Roman Catholic child-abuse scandal.
Connelly’s departure has proven particularly traumatic to the young and teenage girls who make up the bulk of Wolf Eyes’ fanbase. In the UK, the Samaritans have even set up a special hotline for distraught fans.
Writing on the band’s Facebook page, one anguished Catholic wrote: “I haven’t been this distressed since I found out that Robbie had left Take That. Or that Stephen Gately was gay. Or that Mariah Carey was black. I’ve been a Wolf Eyes superfan for years. I’ve got an original copy of the Throat Virus Alive CD-R and I first saw them perform back in 1999, supporting Backstreet Boys at the MEN Arena. I realise that Mike will still be touring and releasing music with his other projects like Hair Police and Failing Lights, but they simply don’t match the aural splendour of Wolf Eyes. I mean, they just sound like noise to me.”
The Catholic Church is expected to announce Connelly’s successor shortly, with many predicting the appointment of Cardinal “Crazy” Jim Baljo.
Monday, 4 February 2013
She Found Now
Having collaborated with the likes of Primal Scream and Patti Smith, it’s clear that Kevin Shields has an unwavering desire to keep up with the times. It’s no surprise, then, to hear Nicki Minaj and M.I.A. on m b v’s joyous opening number. First performed at My Bloody Valentine’s half-time Super Bowl extravaganza, ‘She Found Now’ is an urgently contemporary disco number which proves that even in middle age Shields remains the incontestable queen of the dance floor.
My Bloody Valentine have been working on this album for over a decade, and apparently this track took longer than any other to complete. Like many of us, Shields developed an appreciation of dubstep in the mid-noughties and consequently became obsessed with incorporating elements of this exciting new genre into his own band’s sound. After spending two years painstakingly mastering ‘Only Tomorrow’, the track was sent to Burial for remixing. Shields then added further instrumentation before sending the song to Skrillex, who obligingly re-remixed the track. Still unhappy with the results, Shields then spent eight months without sleep overdubbing the WOBWOBWOBs with some pleasantly meditative guitar washes. The result speaks for itself.
Who Sees You
During My Bloody Valentine’s hiatus, Shields sporadically toured with Glaswegian electro-rock heroes Primal Scream. Shields returned the gesture by asking ‘Scream frontman Bobby Gillespie to supply guest vocals for this jarringly anarchic cyber-punk anthem. For this track, the lyrical themes explored by Gillespie include: “Bombs bombs bombs... Suicide Sid got a date with the reaper... He’s like a death-wish junkie Jesus with a shotgun syringe... maaan... Hey! Come on! Come aaaaaaaaawwwwn!... Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Street fightin’ satisfaction! Alright!... Revolution needle / Revolution needle... Prostitute baby burning Cadillac zombies... thriftstore, sidewalk, aluminium bluuuuuuuuues...” Aluminium is pronounced the American way. The vocals were recorded in Gillespie’s home in Islington, N1. Kate Moss attended the recording session for no reason whatsoever.
A faithful cover of Pig Destroyer’s uncompromising grindcore classic. Startlingly guttural vocal turn from Bilinda Butcher.
If I Am
Ah, the nervously anticipated Chris Brown duet. Should this woman-beater be forgiven? Should Brown have shown more remorse? Should Kevin Shields have him back? Should we care? Moral qualms aside, a pleasant enough melody but Kevin overdoes it with the autotune.
Ah, the nervously anticipated Lance Armstrong duet. Should this massive drug cheater be forgiven? Should Armstrong have shown more remorse? Should Kevin Shields have him back? Should we care? Moral qualms aside, a pleasant enough melody but Armstrong’s overly vigorous employment of the percussive modified handlebar bell suggests he might still be doping.
In Another Way
Finally betraying their age, My Bloody Valentine’s ‘In Another Way’ seems a little too stuck in the past. With such an inventive, unrelenting flow, Kendrick Lamar’s verse is indisputably fresh. Unfortunately, the guest chorus belted out by an unruly Heather Small is soooooo 1993.
A bit of a Creation Records reunion this one. ‘Nothing Is’ features a special extended MBV line-up including the blokes from Teenage Fanclub, a couple of Boo Radleys, the drummer from Ride, Kevin Rowland (in ladies’ knickers), Alan McGee (hyperbolically grunting), and Liam Gallagher of The Beady Eyes. They don’t really gel.
Semi-acoustic Hawaiian ukulele number with soft brass accompaniment. Unfortunately, the lack of feedback means you can actually hear Kevin and Bilinda’s weak, weak voices.
m b v is pretty similar to the band’s previous releases only with greater emphasis on post-rhythmic quasi-industrial caucasian ragga.
Thursday, 31 January 2013
Having already secured cultural infamy through such acts as befriending lepers, demanding a prostitute wash his feet (without even paying for her services), and staging elaborate public exorcisms, Jesus of Nazareth has caused further controversy this week by comparing himself to the much-loved singer Chris Brown.
Following an altercation with Satan over a parking space in West Hollywood, Jesus posted a picture of the R&B superstar on the internet with the rambling caption:
“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way as you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? Haters be haters, you feel me?”
Satan tweeted that the incident may have a detrimental effect on his performance at this month’s Grammys.
This is not the first time Jesus has divulged his God complex. He has previously likened himself to Bono (NME Godlike Genius Award winner 2001), Noel Gallagher (NME Godlike Genius Award 2012), John Lennon (NME Ultimate Musical Icon 2012), and Jonah son of Amittai (NME Best Dressed Solo Artist c. 760 BC).
To the bafflement of many, Christ’s continued indiscretions have failed to significantly diminish his popularity and he maintains a large following. The bulk of his support is said to come from pre-pubescent and teenage girls, undereducated people from poorer backgrounds, the mentally ill, and certain prominent members of the Afro-American community.
Jesus is currently working on his next studio parable, the follow-up to last year’s The Rich Fool.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
The cover of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ forthcoming album Mosquito has provoked some extreme reactions among fans. We asked a selection of today’s biggest stars for their own response to the artwork...
No way mate. I’m not havin’ it. Looks like Peter Crouch tackling Weetabix Rooney with a jar of fuckin’ flubber.
Totes amazeballs! It is well sick and proper random. It like literally blew my mind, you know? It literally melted my face off, you feelin’ me? I’m well gonna use it as my new screensaver. Massive lols! xxx
Fuckin’ freaky, man. Reminds me of that time I woke up to see a fuckin’ six foot fuckin’ psychedelic bug thing trying to bite Dom Joly’s arse off. Few years later I cleaned myself up and went on I’m a Celebrity.
Oh boy! Jeez! I mean, when I first saw it my eyes popped out on their stalks about three feet in front of my face and my brain began spinning at a million miles an hour and my jaw dropped open like a cartoon dog looking at a massive bone and then I just stared and stared and stared at it until the image was burned onto my retinas enabling me to close my eyes and continue to stare at it some more. Intense, man, intense. Another quadruple espresso, anyone?
John from Jedward
I must confess that in a peculiarly befuddling way I admire the provocative tone of post-structural impudence. It’s managed to achieve an intriguing sense of unconventionality, even within the idiosyncratic, informal context of the genre it purports to inhabit. It’s almost like Salvador Dali trying to organise a Roman orgy for Jeff Koons’ birthday party in Jake and Dinos Chapman’s dustbin. It’s such a terrible pity that we can’t transport the canvas back in time to discover how Charles Baudelaire might have felt about such a vibrant piece. Now that would be positively enlightening.
Edward from Jedward
Ralf Hütter (Kraftwerk)
It’s pretty bad-ass, there’s no denying that, but what kind of message is it trying to send to impressionable young women? It’d be better if it was a picture of my naked, famished body with distant, pouting face and dead, dead eyes.
Eeeeeew! Gross! I can’t even look at it. It’s giving me goose-bumps all over. Put it away! Put it away, pleeeeeeease! It’s disgusting. Thanks a bunch Yeah Yeah Yeahs, I’m going to have nightmares for weeks.
Alex Webster (Cannibal Corpse)
Not bad, but there’s a bit too much going on for me. I’d have preferred a grainy black and white photograph of an abandoned shed. And what kind of title is Mosquito? They should’ve called it something catchy like Huzzah! Une élégie pour la mort de télégraphique X7E$#clic0///
Mike Moya (Godspeed You! Black Emperor)
Dude, why didn’t they put an erect cock on it? Or at the very least a big old pair of titties? Punk rock, man, punk rock.
OMG it’s fully monged. Is it based on a sketch of Warwick Davis that Karl Pilkington drew in crayon on the back of a napkin during a hilarious exotic holiday? Bloody love those guys. One’s small and the other pretends to be retarded. Fucking genius. ALL YOU HATERZ ARE JUST JEALOUS OF MY SUCCESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, we had done so many takes of ‘Helter Skelter’ that Ringo, the poor fellow, was really starting to suffer. So by the time we reached the eighteenth take or thereabouts, he’d had just about enough of the whole palaver and was absolutely dying for a mug of warm Ribena. All of a sudden, he stood up behind his kit, hurled his drumsticks across the room, and shouted “I’ve got blisters all down my thumbs” or something along those lines. We caught the outburst on tape, of course, and it seemed to fit the mood of the track quite aptly, so we included it in the final mix. What was the question again?
Yeah... um... kinda... I dunno... I mean, cool insect, I suppose... I like purple, anyway... so... um...
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Bruce Banner Del Rey - Born to Dye
This time last year you couldn’t move without hearing Banner Del Rey’s massively successful reimagining of Gary Jules’ massively successful reimagining of Tears for Fears’ ‘Mad World’. Yet the triumph of ‘Video Games’ created a monster, as in the face of unprecedented media attention and intense public fascination cracks soon appeared in Del Rey’s comatose-cool exterior. The pressure became too much during a BBC filming when Del Rey finally snapped, exploded into a violent anti-social rage, covered her body in green pigment and tore Jools Holland’s face off. The popular television icon, known for his musical talents, love of old-fashioned big-band era swing tunes and dithering presenting style, was just 84 years old. As a consequence, Bruce Banner Del Rey’s follow-up single Ripped Blue Jeans squeezed into the UK Singles Chart at Number 32.
The Weeknd at Bernie’s - Trilogy
Abel Tesfaye’s promising career was thrown into doubt when the owner of his recording studio suddenly keeled over and died. Unwilling to let this minor setback stand in the way of success, Tesfaye failed to inform the authorities, choosing instead to carry on as usual by sticking a pair of sunglasses on the studio owner’s face and propping him up on the sofa. This hilarious Edgar Allan Poe-meets-‘80s Yuppie Comedy dilemma led Tesfaye towards the dark, morally-troubled sound of The Weeknd’s unsettling take on R&B. If only the likes of R. Kelly or Michael Jackson had been forced to conceal similarly sinister aspects of their private lives, they might have been inspired to create material of substance instead of such generically insipid chart barf.
Seth MacFarlane - Music is Better than Words
Rihanna - Unapologetic
Unfortunately, the music on this record was overshadowed by the controversy over its duet featuring the cupboard door that Rihanna accidentally walked into back in 2009. The album’s lyrics were also interpreted as addressing Rihanna’s ongoing dysfunctional relationship with the cupboard door she accidentally walked into. Many have condemned the cupboard door, believing that Rihanna should strictly and permanently disassociate herself from the door and that consumers should boycott the door’s solo records. Others have expressed concern that while the seemingly unforgivable cupboard door that Rihanna walked into continues to be the target of hostile condemnation, white cupboard doors that have been involved in similar incidents (Sean Connery, Charlie Sheen, Geoffrey Boycott) have not attracted the same sustained levels of public and press disdain.
Lame Impata - Groanerism
If you’re a broadsheet music critic who thinks that The xx are the spookiest band you’ve ever heard, white boys with long hair are in some way exotic, and The Rolling Stones are still worth writing about, you might describe this album as ‘psychedelic’. If you’ve actually spent any proportion of your life listening to psychedelic music recorded by anyone else in the past forty years, it might seem a little... tame.
Bat for Lashes - The Haunted Man
2012 saw Natasha Khan drop the hipster headdresses, and all other clothes for that matter. When Lana Del Rey poses naked in GQ it reeks of seedy, misogynistic exploitation but when Khan does it on the front of her album cover it’s a forceful image of female empowerment. In fact, this image of female empowerment was so forceful that most listeners immediately forgot what the actual music was like. “LAAAAAURAAAA / SUPERSTAAAAR / LAAAAAAURAAAA / SUPERSTAAAAAR” or something.
Pat Cower - Sun
On which Chan Marshall overcame adversity to peddle more cheese than Bradley Wiggins on a cheddar BMX.
Swans - The Lazier
“Well guys, this is gonna be the best goddam motherf***ing double album this degenerate, stinking goddam Earth ever f***ing witnessed.”
“It sure is Michael, we’ve really hit our stride, I mean... hold up, did you say double album?”
“You heard goddam right there, son.”
“Call me sir. I’d prefer it if you called me sir. Keep you in your place, you goddam worm.”
“Sorry sir. I mean, the idea of a double album sounds great. It’s just that, you know, we’ve not got a lot of studio time left and it looks to me like we’ve only got eleven songs. I’m not sure that’s really enough for a double album.”
“You goddam pigshit asshole. Do I have to think of everything? Only eleven songs? Big f***ing deal. Just drag three or four songs out to the twenty or thirty minute mark and hey c***ing presto, we got ourselves a goddam f***ing double album and I can go put my feet up and you can go suck a f***ing chicken dick.”
“Sure sir, sounds great. Erm... how?”
“HOW? HOW!? Jesus, you’re even c***ing dumber than I thought. It’s f***ing easier than getting your **** ****ed at a goddam nympho whorehouse, you insect. You pick a chord at the beginning, the middle, or the end of the song. You play that chord. Then you play it again. Then you play it again. Then you play it and again and again and again, like six hundred times or whatever, and you’ve gone and got yourself a goddam awe-inspiring Swans epic right there, lapped up by greedy fans and insatiable critics alike.”
“Sure Mr Gira...”
“Sure sir, it’s just we’ve already done that on at least two tracks. Is there any other way we could...”
“You got goddam horseshit in your ears, kid? Chimes. F***ing chimes. Stick in a f***ing extended, repetitive f***ing chimes bit. It’ll sound like a f***ing evil church or something. God, I hate established religion. Have I mentioned that I hate established religion? I goddam hate all established systems of f***ing religion.”
“What about all established systems of Swans songs?”
“Do you want this amplifier shoved so far up your ass I can power my Gibson by punching you in the face, you goddam sticking piece of buffalo spunk?”
“No sir. Sorry sir. One other thing, now that you’re our only vocalist, are you at all worried that the album might be a little samey? I mean your monotonously authoritative baritone is great and all but it can get a little tedious without the balancing femininity of Jarboe, and over the course of not just a single album but a whole double album...”
“F*** off. We’ll stick Karen O and that f***ing Mormon couple off Low on it. And Jarboe. Get me Jarboe.”
“And some bagpipes.”