Endorsements

"It was the most offended I've ever been by a Killer Whale story." Mrs. Trellis of North Wales

"I liked the video bit, that was quite good." J. Stephenson of Tucson, Arizona.

"Nope, never heard of it." Business Secretary, Vince Cable MP


Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts

Friday, 24 September 2010

Friday Pictorial the Twenty Fifth: Songwriting

I'll apologise for this. It's 18 minutes long and doesn't even get to the original point I was trying to make. Too long, some would say (bastards, goldfish etc.) and it can't all be funny, can it? Also catch this one before the inevitable court case arises. You can say 'I saw that before he was bludgeoned to death by Hollywood lawyers'...




And yes, I do know it's 'Allied Carpets', thank you.

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

The Twenty...

So, the Barclaycard (ahem) Mercury Music Prize was awarded to last night to The XX, a band with songs so good that they were the sountrack to the 2010 General Election (second 'ahem' of the sentence). But instead of definitively answering which album was the best of last year (which, to be fair, the Mercury has never managed yet anyway), the Awards instead threw up more questions.

  1. What was up with Nihal last night?
  2. Seriously. Dark Brown shirt and jacket with BLUE JEANS? What?!
  3. He did some accents too. Why?
  4. He then said "I think the XX is an album already on everyone's coffee tables." Hmm?
  5. Are they? I don't think they are.
  6. Who keeps their albums on a coffee table?
  7. Midlife crisis? (It would explain a lot)
  8. Why didn't Mumford & Sons win?
  9. Again, a serious question. Why?
  10. How come KT Tunstall is immune to Lauren Laverne's contagious pregnancies? It claimed Miranda Sawyer during the course of the evening but not the Scottish singer/songwriter. Why?
In all seriousness, I was very much hoping that Mumford & Sons would win. Their brand of anthemic, alternative folk has proved popular with critics and fans alike and their debut 'Sigh No More' is a fantastic collection of songs. Drawing more from traditional Americana than the British folk scene, Mumford & Sons feature banjo-driven tales of loss, pain and regret. From the hugely catchy 'Little Lion Man' and 'The Cave' to the ethereal title track and the fury and disenchantment of 'Dust Bowl Dance', the quartet display their brilliant songwriting talent. Perhaps the biggest weapon of these young folkies is the voice of Marcus Mumford. Dripping with pain, pathos and righteous indignation, Mumford's subtle, rasping voice could lend credibility to even the most introspective compositions and is on display best in their live performances. I've never had the pleasure of seeing them in the flesh but their televised performances at various festivals and shows are remarkable. Every debt to their fans paid in power, sweat and raw emotion, with each concert played as if it's their last. Do pick it up.

Monday, 28 June 2010

Weekend Stuff...

Well, well, well. How about that for a weekend. A real mixed bag, one might say.

An epic Doctor Who finale, a bollo performance from England's 'Golden Generation' against the Germans and some tremendous sets from a sweltering Glastonbury served up onto the tellybox by Auntie.

First things first, Who was really excellent. It had me thinking 'this is pretty good for the first few minutes' and then Matt Smith said "It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." At which point the entertainment part of my brain blurted out 'Ok, this is the best thing ever'. The performances were towering, the writing nothing short of brilliant and just enough intrigue was left to leave me wondering how I'll get by until the Christmas special.

Second things second, England are a painful team to watch. With my Swiss hopes already dashed by remarkable profligacy in front of goal against Honduras and a rather dubious red card against Chile, I now settled down to watch Capello's unchanged 4-4-2 take on a youthful and exciting German team. England's chances had been talked up by pundits and fans alike, but I (though I must confess I missed the Slovenia game) wasn't so hopeful having seen two uninspired and frankly uninspiring performances against the USA and Algeria. But then, surely this was the moment to step up to the plate and silence the doubters, the moments when things would turn around?

Well, no, not really, as it happened. The positive thinking lasted all of 20 minutes and then 'keeper Manuel Neuer smacked a drop kick 100 yards down the pitch, bouncing over the heads of a hapless Terry and Upson, for Miroslav Klose to slot past a furious David James. Village. The fury was compounded seconds later as dicy German passing led to Lukas Podolski smashing home through David James' legs from the tightest of angles. It was looking as though it could be a cricket score, when a chipped cross from Frank Lampard found the head of Matthew Upson who fired it over a rather flappy Neuer and into the net. The lifeline we'd supposedly been waiting for? It was the much-maligned Lampard who struck again sending a trademark slapshot 0f the crossbar and in. Except well, was it in though? Well, yes it was, but that didn't stop the Uruguayan ref and his assistant failing to notice this.

It all became irrelevant in the second half however as another incisive German counterattack (as a historian it's very, very difficult not to draw parrallels with the Battle of the Bulge and such like...) saw 20 year old Thomas Mueller, one of Germany's most impressive youths along with 21 year old Mesut Oezil, slot home and the quickfire double salvo was completed with another close range finish from the Bayern Muenchen youngster, 3 minutes later. The rout was complete, the misery confounded. Hope was lost the moment that Capello revealed his game-chasing attacking substitution to be Heskey on for Defoe.

It was an abject, miserable performance from the 'golden generation'. Rooney looked as feckless up front as he had done all tournament, Glen Johnson failed to be in the correct defensive position once, Terry and Upson resembled the Chuckle brothers at centre half and all were run rings round by the youthful exuberance of the talented Germans, as painful as that is to say.

An 'inquest' was promised by the commentators. To be fair, Lineker and chums could have summed up the performance simply as 'the Germans were much, much better at football than we were'. Shearer wasn't best pleased either. Hansen declared that the Germans brought 'ideas that England just couldn't cope with'. Yeah, like 'defending'.

The big players didn't perform. It was simple, England weren't a team, they were a collection of egos made to wear the same colour shirt for 90 hopeless, agonising minutes. Rooney is perhaps the greatest villain of all. Knackered and impotent up front, he's made Slovakia's Robert Vittek look like Pele. Hopefully some of the deadwood will have been cleared out in time for the Euros in 2 years time, but don't count on it.

Third things third, Glastonbury has some pretty stonking performances. Obviously on occasions such as these, it is the headliners that draw the most attention. Friday saw Gorillaz deputising for U2 and their crocked, divisive lead singer Bono and, by all accounts, not particularly well. Revellers began to drift away from the Pyramid Stage during a downbeat set which included only a couple of big hits. Contrast this with the other two headliners, Muse and Stevie Wonder, who produced terrific feel-good greatest hits sets (and with my favourite Glasto perfromance of recent memory, last year's epic Bruce Springsteen set) and you can see perhaps why a psyched-up Friday night crowd didn't appreciate a dark, experimental study in melancholia.

Muse were all stadium rock and pyrotechnics, producing a marvellously lively collection of hits from their impressive back catalogue. They finished with a stonking rendition of space western epic Knights of Cydonia prefaced by a snippet of Ennio Morricone's Man With a Harmonica from Once Upon a Time in the West (a personal favourite of mine). Motown legend Stevie Wonder gave a hugely entertaining, light-hearted set, reeling off hit after hit and present Glastonbury founder Michael Eavis with a harmonica during Happy Birthday. Wonder has clearly lost none of his exuberance, giving a wonderful, life-affirming performance to an adoring crowd.

Friday, 18 June 2010

Friday Pictorial the Eighteenth: Reality

Right, the Friday Pictorial returns, although today's is perhaps more of a Friday Audio...torial, Auditorial? I don't know, it's basically more sound than pictures anyway.

In exciting news we have a brand new contributor for this one. None other than the legendary singer/songwriter Mr. Tom Waits! Who I commissioned to write a song about reality TV. This is what happened...

Friday, 11 June 2010

Nearly There...

Ok, so I'm nearly at the end of the crazy hectic week, which means that the Fri Pic is on course for it's scheduled return next week. It's going to be another musical one, seeing as they've proved popular with 100% of followers who posted on last week's Friday post (alright, so it was just Simone that commented, but seeing as no-one else contradicted her and I trust her verdict on all things comedy, it's going to be another song).

So, I don't know whether to tease you or not really... oh go on then, you're all lovely people really. Essentially (pending some more amusing lyrics arriving in my brain at some point over the next week) it's about Big Brother. I'll confess now, that I haven't seen a huge amount of Big Brother, but I imagine that I can mostly fill in the blanks myself. Awful people in an awful house doing awful things on live television. That's about it, right?

Anywho, if you have any phrases, verbs, nouns or proverbs etc. you'd like me to include in the song, leave a comment and I'll try and crowbar... ahem, I mean, seamlessly weave them into the tune.

Friday, 28 May 2010

Friday Pictorial the Seventeenth: Football

Well, World Cup fever is taking hold and everyone's been putting out their songs to spur on England. I can't help but feel, however, that many of them aren't looking at it in the right way.
To that end here is the Friday Pictorial unofficial World Cup song...


Wednesday, 26 May 2010

Eurovision...

This is a very, very brief one to discuss the imminent arrival (as Ken Bruce keeps reminding me) of the Eurovision Song Contest. Last year us Twitter folk had a jolly excellent time ribbing the contestants and getting drunk, I can only hope the same will happen this year.

I can't say I'm a font of all knowledge for Eurovision, but handily this article from the Guardian gives you the 'Ones to Watch' (not necessarily because they're good). My favourite bit from it concerns Belgian entry 'Me and My Guitar'

'Me And My Guitar is so relentlessly insipid that it would probably struggle to soundtrack a John Lewis advert. Tom Dice's acoustic wimpery doesn't stand a hope of winning Eurovision, but all's not lost - if he enters the Song Played Over The Final Scene Of An Episode Of Scrubs Contest, he'll probably walk it.'

I quite like that one really (compared to the other Eurovision songs, that is) but then for me the fun of Eurovision is just taking the piss out of it really. You don't want the acts to be any good. You want the Russian woman with a green screen that ages her as much as you've aged over the course of the dirge, or a Latvian woman crossing a bridge of midgets while extolling the virtues of the Balkan oil reserves. That's why Wogan was so brilliant at voicing the whole affair, because he said what you were thinking, namely "what the fuck is this?!" Norton put up a decent effort last year, to be fair, slipping in the odd wry remark, but the only way to watch, in my view, is beverage in hand with thousands of fellow tweeps hurling abuse at the equally drunk presenters and the poor fellows foolish enough to carry the weight of national expectation with song titles like 'What For? (Only Mr. God Knows Why)', probably a phrase that could be applied to the contest itself.

Friday, 21 May 2010

Friday Pictorial the Sixteenth: Music

It's fair to say that I don't often receive requests for the Friday Pictorial, but in this case I did. In a past life I used to create little musical comedy numbers and it just so happens that one of you lovely followers asked for a Pictorial based around one of those. As ever, I aim to please, so here you are.



Just to clarify again. The statements in the video are just for comedic purposes and in no way should anyone alert lawyers/release hounds etc.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Cultureballs...

Well what a triumphant few days it's been for culture. Whenever people start talking about Jedward I have a real Bernard Black "Oh God, you're still alive" cringe moment. I still cannot grasp how this patently rubbish pair of Ellen Page-faced, Paul Phoenix-coiffured pillocks are still carving out a career and enjoying popularity. A look at their twitter feed (appropriately titled Planet Jedward, because such preposterousness simply cannot exist on Earth) give you a curious insight into the maddening, surrealist nightmare than can presume only exist in the mind of Salvador Dali.

Happy St. Jedward's Day!

Who are these fuckers that they can collar a patron saint's day for personal gain. I suppose that St. Patrick's Day is the only day in the calendar in which one meets the criteria of drunkeness to be able to handle Jedward as a concept. What does seem apparent is that they have some kind of secretary to craft most of the tweets with the exceptions of those like the following:

Are record company dropped us today. We our devestated.
Speaking on behalf of humanity I can only say that we our sorry and offer are deepest condolences... or alternatively:

EDWARD WENT TO SLEEP LAST NIGHT WITH BUBBLE GUM! AND HE WOKE UP AND THE BUBBLE GUM WAS EVERYWHERE!
The ones with horrific grammatical inconsistencies or entirely in block capitals appear to be directly from the arse's mouth. The one that has to absolute take the biscuit however is this ridiculous Swiftian notion.

Yep, they have a pet kangaroo, a pet fucking kangaroo. Never has the domain Twitpic been more appropriate. What is this world they live in where you type entirely in block capitals, where the laws of grammar have no significance whatsoever, where one can own a marsupial as a pet? What is this bizarre fucking reverse-Orwellian hell? I almost envy them... almost.

Other victories for culture this week include pensioner sex on This Morning. Yup, it's sex week on the light daytime magazine show. Cue staggering professionalism in the face of extreme repressed childish giggling on the part of Schofield as he rattles through a link that wouldn't look out of place in a Tinto Brass flick, an embarrassed looking Holly Willoughby, tabloid outrage and a witty dismissal by Zoe Williams in the Guardian (I seem to quote her a lot, I think it's perhaps because she's so delightfully appalled by most of the topics I choose to blog about). Having sex problems? Don't worry because Dr. Chris Steele and Tracey Cox are here to listen to your dysfunctions, live on national television. I'll be frank, I'm not appalled really, though I am staggered that the 500 or so people that have complained to OFCOM (don't even get me started) seem to own TVs that can't be turned off and only provide one channel.

Among the topics tackled include toys in the bedroom (and I don't mean the Playstation), Tracey Cox's guide to sex positions and the tastefully titled "My Vagina Fell Apart After Birth". The Sex Position Guide was actually rather tamely hilarious, with a ludicrous X-Factor, Carl Orff (late of this parish - see Friday Pictorial: Sport) backed introduction, featuring rather amusing imagery and a sheepish (but amused) looking pair of presenters, followed by the aptly named Cox introducing two fully-clothed couples, one young and one not. Willoughby looked somewhere between righteous indignation, embarrassment and amusement as 'the Scissors' were demonstrated statically (no movement allowed pre-watershed, you see).

Culture is in the process of eating itself and soon we'll all be covered in homogenous reality/talent vomit, but until then we get to enjoy the last days of Rome as old people sex makes it onto daytime TV and the annual tradition of the 'St. Patrick's Day beating of Jedward with the Blarney Stone' begins. Happy hedonistic destruction everyone!

Sunday, 10 January 2010

Music 2009 - Exception 2

Ok, so my memory isn't as good as it should be.

When The Darkness exploded in a shower of drugs, drink and sitar solos in 2006, few would have expected frontman Justin Hawkins to burst back onto the scene, louder than ever a mere 2 years later. Singles surfaced in 2008 and in 2009 the comeback was complete with 'Red Light Fever', the debut effort from Hot Leg featuring the not inconsiderable rock talents of singer/songwriter/guitarist Hawkins, well-known circuit lead guitarist Pete 'Liquid Guitar Hands' Rinaldi and the impressive rhythm section of bassist Samuel SJ Stokes and renowned jazz and session drummer Darby Todd. It was nothing short of a supergroup and since hearing Trojan Guitar (the first single) way back in 2008 I had high hopes for legging-clad, big hair Man Rock. These hopes proved to be well founded when I've Met Jesus, released in December 2008 claimed the coveted title of Christmas number 1 in the Man Rock charts. So Red Light Fever had much to live up to. Could it handle the shirtless, hairsprayed pressure?

The album opens at full pelt with Chickens. Todd thrashes the drum opening and the distorted guitar slams straight in, before moving to a choppier rhythm in the verses. Vocally fans of The Darkness will know what to expect from Hawkins and here his patented 'truth larynx' ascends to dizzying new heights - anyone whose ever listened to the output of Dutch prog rock band Focus will find something of the Thijs van Leer shriek in this one. As one would expect the solos are still here and exquisite harmonies are the order of the day, albeit all too briefly. The end features a synth breakdown, before we get to hear some classic Rinaldi shredding, which is a key feature of the album.

You Can't Hurt Me Any More opens with big powerchords and the steady rhythm that were present on so many Darkness tunes, but that isn't a bad thing. The foot-tapping drums and guitar are here to stay and I missed them during those 2 years in the wilderness. The lyrics are classic Hawkins - touches of dark humour and a memorable chorus. We're treated to another harmony solo and some Hawkins legato before a final chorus and guitar ending.

Ashamed is a magnificent, catchy character assassination of reality TV, featuring the guest vocals of Hawkins' Eurovision partner, Beverlei Brown, who entwines her soaring vocals with Hawkins', who manages to abstain from the blistering falsetto for much of the song. Brown's soulful second verse breakdown adds a layer of funk to the track, while the ascending guitar pre-chorus drives the song onwards towards the chorus, which you will be singing to yourself for many days to come.

I've Met Jesus, the triumphant Man Rock Christmas number 1, is another clever piece of writing by Hawkins with a witty pay-off. Musically it's a mix of classic rock powerchords and chicken-picking with a frantic solo by Rinaldi in which he showcases his impeccable technique and ability to blend tasteful melody with super-quick tapping and shred skills.

Trojan Guitar, the single which first piqued my interest all those years ago now, is a remarkable blend of medieval balladry, fantasy and rock. Lyrically it is very much fantasy nonsense, but Hawkins has turned this into an artisan skill of late. It features a genius pre-chorus harmony riff and rousing chorus, before a solo trade-off between Hawkins and Rinaldi , which weaves between harmony and individual showmanship. Todd then hammers the drums, crashing towards an upbeat bridge, only for the levels to drop for an emotional, fingerpicked folk ballad to arrive, before that riff kicks in again like a trebuchet hurling rocks at a wall of sound. There's still plenty of time for another, more restrained solo before we end with a final blast of the riff. Weighing in at a hefty 5.25 it's the epic song of the album, but it certainly has enough variety to hold the listener's interest.

Cocktails is another classic Hawkins track lyrically. Though the man himself may be more likely to plump for a cup of green tea and a workout in the gym these days, the track is about the decadence of the cocktail (as well as being a handy excuse to shout 'cock' in the chorus). It opens with a blast of synthesisers in E, reminiscent of the experimentation on The Darkness' final album before shifting to a heavy chorus in F#. La Roux and Little Boots can take notice of this - this is 80s revival. Rinaldi again gets to exercise his considerable chops during the solos and the whole tihing is neatly tied up in under 4 minutes. As one might guess, this was a single from the album.

Gay in the 80s is somewhat of a curio and is synthesiser-led for much of the track. As for content, I needn't explain much here, the title pretty much sums it up. It's another track with a smattering of humour and campness that Hawkins does so well and there's another blistering solo. Again: see 80s revival...

Prima Donna is an excellent track with a nifty hammer on and pull off opening riff and witty lyrics (perhaps not unconnected to Hawkins experiences in a certain other band already alluded to elsewhere). It has a sweet acoustic bridge towards the end which divides the stinging guitar solos and is another solid album track.

Whichever Way You Wanna Give It is another up-tempo track with a funky chorus riff and driving percussion. Todd is just one of those drummers that has you thrashing at your desk with you bare hands, trying to keep up with the cymbal crashes. It has a wonderful sense of fun about it and is another one that will inexplicably pop into your head and stay there, whether you like it or not.

Kissing in the Wind is for my money the highlight of the album. It begins with a melancholy piano introduction before Todd's drums kick in. The verse features Stokes' bassline exposed for much of the time and gives a rare opportunity to hear the rhythm section working perfectly together, without being drowned out by heavy distortion. The build-up to the chorus is full of Queen-like multi-tracked vocals and preposterous (in the best way possible) vaudevillian backings and the chorus itself is classic ballad fayre, familiar to anyone who heard Love Is Only A Feeling, Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time and the other Darkness ballads. On the second verse there's a cheeky mandolin run and it occurs to me that this was the one track where creativity was entirely uninhibited and 'anything goes'. This is confirmed by the bridge which features a falsetto chorus and reintroduction of the piano opening before breaking into a... harpsichord solo. I would venture that this is the only contemporary rock record released last year to feature a harpsichord solo and the world of music is poorer for that fact. It's astounding, the blend of baroque and Man Rock (Barock, if you will) knocked me off my feet and is only fleeting before the guitar solos kicks in, but for a few beautiful seconds I was gifted a view of a world in which Rameau and Thin Lizzy existed in perfect harmony. More please.

Red Light Fever only clocks in at a little over 35 minutes, but it doesn't let up once for the entire duration. It's pounding, melodic Man Rock of the highest quality. Even the b-sides to the singles were tremendous. Cupboard Love - a bittersweet tale of relationship featuring the most astonishing piece of double-tapping you will ever hear in your life from Liquid Guitar Hands himself - and Automatic - yep, that's right, a cover of the Pointer Sisters song, but you owe it to yourself to hear this version - being the highlights.

Sadly all seems to have gone quiet on the Leg front with Hawkins spending much of last autumn and winter in America, laying down tracks for artists including Meatloaf and Adam Lambert. But put on your leggings and your headband and hope that Hot Leg return triumphmant later this year for a new release.