Hardly anybody likes going to a hospital. That is about a clear a fact as you can make. The only exceptions are those who work there who take something from helping others, and sickos who get off on the pain of others and themselves.
Not being in that latter camp, it wasn't a thrill that I spent a couple of hours in the out patients clinic this afternoon. The reason being related to something that happened a couple of years ago, when I collapsed at work, had a seizure and wound up in hospital. Some tests later, the verdict seemed to be that it was a one-off. Great. Only it happened again last month.
A lot of people would have us believe that the government want the National Health Service sold off. It seems numerous politicians have connections to private health providers and with the media stating that entering a British hospital gives you a survival rate equal to a British solider on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, the future isn't looking too rosy right now.
The issue for me is, you don't appreciate it until you use it. I wonder how many MPs have had cause to use our NHS hospitals in recent years? Having done so, I'm glad they're there. When I keeled over in the street and some random stranger rang 999, an ambulance arrived, from which two lovely paramedics checked me out and lugged me off to hospital. Here, tests were ran and once it was established my brain wasn't leaking from my nose, I was sent home. All this for the cost of my monthly National Insurance contributions, which won't rise because I had to use the services.
To today, where I was informed that this second fit was a bit of a head-scratcher. As part of solution-seeking, it was proposed that a small monitor be fitted under the skin of my chest - a procedure that takes ten minutes. Initially, this sounded a little bit scary, I admit. I mean, cutting me open, even just a little? Urgh.
But then I thought about it some more. A piece of machinery inside my body - hey, that makes me a cyborg. Kind of. Alright, not much of one, but you've got to make the best of the situation, haven't you? Maybe I'll tell people I'm having an arc reactor fitted. While on the topic, I'd like to tell Stan Lee and Joss Whedon, if they are reading, that I'm more than happy to help out on the next Avengers flick if Downey Jnr becomes too much of a dick to handle.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Thursday, 11 July 2013
Listless Age
No Ripcord has recently published their writers poll of the top 100 albums of the 1990s.I took part and was surprised that a fair number of my picks got in. I won't bore you all with the top 40 I was asked to send away, but the ten highest choices here:
10. The House of Love - Babe Rainbow
9. XTC - Nonsuch
8. Sugar - Copper Blue
7. My Bloody Valentine - Loveless
6. Ride - Nowhere
5. Teenage Fanclub - Bandwagonesque
4. World Party - Goodbye Jumbo
3. Talk Talk - Laughing Stock
2. Mansun - Six
1. Slowdive - Soulvaki
A totally unsurprising list, I'm sure the people who know me will agree. The truth is, I found it tough to think of 40 albums. There was no Radiohead, because they ceased to be relevant to me when I hit my 19th birthday, I found.
Oasis appear, naturally, though they didn't crop up in my list, because I blame them for my complete ambivalence at the time to Britpop. A lot of people here will respond here "Ah, but Definitely Maybe..." to which I can say that I listened back to the whole album recently and bar Live Forever and Slide Away remained fairly unmoved throughout.
The issue, now if probably not back then, is the total lack of groove in the band. Frankly, the rhythm section must be amongst the worst to ever grace the top of the charts. A rhythm guitarist who studied well at Johnny Ramone school of technique, a bassist who rarely strayed beyond the safety of root notes and a drummer... well, this says it best.
Yet all the same, I guess Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee deserve a wedge of credit for taking a bunch of pub players from Burnage and getting the music press to piss themselves bigging them up as the future of rock and roll. Image is everything, of course, and it is amusing in hindsight to think that they were bigged up as a bunch of lads from the hard streets of Manchester. Presumably, any journalist who bought that line had never took a walk around the pleasant (no sarcasm) streets of Burnage. Still, to a lot of London types, the second you head North of Watford, you may as well be in Bandit Country.
Manchester, I fear, has yet to recover from the shadow of Oasis. It's become a city too keen to attach labels of the past to new bands. Everyone has to be the "next Smiths" or next New Order, Joy Division, Stone Roses or Oasis. Like Liverpool, the shackles of history seem to grip tighter as we go along.
In conclusion: musically, I found the 1990s a crappy time to grow up. Thank fuck for Eric Cantona, who has more rock and roll in his small finger than Liam Gallagher every could.
10. The House of Love - Babe Rainbow
9. XTC - Nonsuch
8. Sugar - Copper Blue
7. My Bloody Valentine - Loveless
6. Ride - Nowhere
5. Teenage Fanclub - Bandwagonesque
4. World Party - Goodbye Jumbo
3. Talk Talk - Laughing Stock
2. Mansun - Six
1. Slowdive - Soulvaki
A totally unsurprising list, I'm sure the people who know me will agree. The truth is, I found it tough to think of 40 albums. There was no Radiohead, because they ceased to be relevant to me when I hit my 19th birthday, I found.
Oasis appear, naturally, though they didn't crop up in my list, because I blame them for my complete ambivalence at the time to Britpop. A lot of people here will respond here "Ah, but Definitely Maybe..." to which I can say that I listened back to the whole album recently and bar Live Forever and Slide Away remained fairly unmoved throughout.
The issue, now if probably not back then, is the total lack of groove in the band. Frankly, the rhythm section must be amongst the worst to ever grace the top of the charts. A rhythm guitarist who studied well at Johnny Ramone school of technique, a bassist who rarely strayed beyond the safety of root notes and a drummer... well, this says it best.
Yet all the same, I guess Noel Gallagher and Alan McGee deserve a wedge of credit for taking a bunch of pub players from Burnage and getting the music press to piss themselves bigging them up as the future of rock and roll. Image is everything, of course, and it is amusing in hindsight to think that they were bigged up as a bunch of lads from the hard streets of Manchester. Presumably, any journalist who bought that line had never took a walk around the pleasant (no sarcasm) streets of Burnage. Still, to a lot of London types, the second you head North of Watford, you may as well be in Bandit Country.
Manchester, I fear, has yet to recover from the shadow of Oasis. It's become a city too keen to attach labels of the past to new bands. Everyone has to be the "next Smiths" or next New Order, Joy Division, Stone Roses or Oasis. Like Liverpool, the shackles of history seem to grip tighter as we go along.
In conclusion: musically, I found the 1990s a crappy time to grow up. Thank fuck for Eric Cantona, who has more rock and roll in his small finger than Liam Gallagher every could.
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
Attack of the Killer Celebrity Cult Clan
You know, I can dig me a good conspiracy theory as much as anyone. Get talking to me about how John F and Bobby Kennedy were shot by the Illumianti under orders from the Grand Lizard Overlords and I'll sat in rapt attention. I mean, I'll think you're completely hatstand, but I'll listen all the same.
On a similar tint, I was more than amused to read some handwritten notes dotted on Didsbury bus stops stating that Scientology was some kind of genocidal cult. Now, I don't have much time for Travolta and Cruise's personal club anyways, but it did seem a tad extreme. It slipped my mind until yesterday, while waiting for the 84 to Heaton Chapel (obscure reference, non-Manchester readers!) I noticed a new batch of bills have been stuck to the shelter - this time typed up!
I don't know if you can read the text, but it's brilliant in it's total insanity. Giving psychic powers 37,000 people is pretty impressive in itself - but then going and committing genocide against SEVEN BILLION people??! I mean - Pol Pot? Lightweight! Hitler? Amateur! Stalin? Get the fuck out of here! L. Ron Hubbard created a cult that managed to slaughter the equivalent of the ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE WORLD! Brilliant! I guess none of us noticed while that happened.
Mind you, if you want to sign up alongside Beck, you best be prepared for the long game - as our correspondent reckons once you're in, you're committed to a ten billion year contract. Personally, I'm not sure terms of such length would stand up to much scrutiny in court.
On a (slightly) more serious note, you have to be concerned by the standard of grammar in this note, and the others that have sprung up around the area. If this is the work of someone with English as a first language, then you have to wonder about standards in education.
That said, I'm glad I'm not a religious man, if apparently Heaven is supposed to be "tardy". What is that supposed to mean? You die and get held in a queue for a millennium of two while they process your request?
There's a certain line in the sand where a conspiracy theory goes from having a certain amount of plausibility (such as, Hitler escaped from Germany and lived it up in South America... well, no body, no proof of death, right?) to being the work of someone who perhaps shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets without correct supervision. I'm assuming you can guess which category this whole gig falls into. I mean, ten out of ten for effort in actually putting this things up around the place, but it never hurts to have an extra sets of eyes to act as a proof reader.
All that said, a tiny part of me (probably the part that thinks I'll still get a game for Manchester United if I finally get into shape) thinks I should take these words to heart, and to keep an eye out for Jason Lee (the actor, not the footballer) to go on some rampage down the high street against all us on non-Hubbard believer heathen scum. Stranger things have happened. Apparently.
On a similar tint, I was more than amused to read some handwritten notes dotted on Didsbury bus stops stating that Scientology was some kind of genocidal cult. Now, I don't have much time for Travolta and Cruise's personal club anyways, but it did seem a tad extreme. It slipped my mind until yesterday, while waiting for the 84 to Heaton Chapel (obscure reference, non-Manchester readers!) I noticed a new batch of bills have been stuck to the shelter - this time typed up!
 |
| I honestly didn't type this up. |
I don't know if you can read the text, but it's brilliant in it's total insanity. Giving psychic powers 37,000 people is pretty impressive in itself - but then going and committing genocide against SEVEN BILLION people??! I mean - Pol Pot? Lightweight! Hitler? Amateur! Stalin? Get the fuck out of here! L. Ron Hubbard created a cult that managed to slaughter the equivalent of the ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE WORLD! Brilliant! I guess none of us noticed while that happened.
Mind you, if you want to sign up alongside Beck, you best be prepared for the long game - as our correspondent reckons once you're in, you're committed to a ten billion year contract. Personally, I'm not sure terms of such length would stand up to much scrutiny in court.
On a (slightly) more serious note, you have to be concerned by the standard of grammar in this note, and the others that have sprung up around the area. If this is the work of someone with English as a first language, then you have to wonder about standards in education.
 |
| I don't even have a printer |
That said, I'm glad I'm not a religious man, if apparently Heaven is supposed to be "tardy". What is that supposed to mean? You die and get held in a queue for a millennium of two while they process your request?
There's a certain line in the sand where a conspiracy theory goes from having a certain amount of plausibility (such as, Hitler escaped from Germany and lived it up in South America... well, no body, no proof of death, right?) to being the work of someone who perhaps shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets without correct supervision. I'm assuming you can guess which category this whole gig falls into. I mean, ten out of ten for effort in actually putting this things up around the place, but it never hurts to have an extra sets of eyes to act as a proof reader.
All that said, a tiny part of me (probably the part that thinks I'll still get a game for Manchester United if I finally get into shape) thinks I should take these words to heart, and to keep an eye out for Jason Lee (the actor, not the footballer) to go on some rampage down the high street against all us on non-Hubbard believer heathen scum. Stranger things have happened. Apparently.
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Summertime in a Stadium
Point One
I hate stadium rock gigs. I hate the idea of them. Tens of thousands of people crammed into somewhere not designed for music, and therein lies the problem. Too many people, which isn't a great environment for a misanthropic miser like me.
Yet there I was, last night, in Hampden Park, Glasgow, surrounded by people, some of whom had quite clearly been on the piss all day and were refreshed to a great degree. A lot of them weren't happy with their position in the crowd and tried to force their way past others. Naturally, this created tension and security were needed on several occasions.
Point Two
All of the above becomes irrelevant when you're at a Bruce Springsteen concert, because he is The Boss and that negates any bad vibes.
Point Three
30 songs over three and a half hour is a lot of work for everyone. But the man himself states that we, as the audience, will leave with our feet and backs sore, our throats hoarse. He's not wrong.
What you find is the day after, when you weigh up the whole experience and look for negatives, is that he didn't play a few of your favourites. Where was Hungry Heart, Bruce? Where was The River and Born in the USA? He can't please everyone though, can he? What he did do was provide a strong mix of his life's work, sticking with what he'd recorded with the E Street Band (I don't recall anything from Human Touch or Lucky Town, for instance) except for two tracks from his wonderful acoustic album Nebraska - but even Atlantic City and Johnny 99 were re-imagined as rockers, the latter revved up into the kind of thing you'd expect from Jerry Lee Lewis.
There were no encores of any of that shit. The band - now including a four piece horn section, backing singers and a percussionist - come on at half seven and don't stop till eleven, when they all leave the stage so that the man we're here to see can do a "rock and roll lullaby" that is Thunder Road acoustic, with the crowd singing the sax solo at the end.
Point Four
Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici are gone, but their band leader keeps their memories living on. Clemons' nephew Jake now plays in the band, which is a cool touch and at one point, during Dancing in the Dark, Springsteen grabs a girl who had a sign saying "I want to dance with Jake" and lets her do so. In the spirit of Courtney Cox, naturally.
What this does show is that the man seems to, at least, give a fuck about us punters. You hear nightmare stories of Dylan, for example, being a surly sod all through his gigs, never playing the hits. Springsteen appears to demand of himself that he has to guarantee everyone who bought a ticket a classic night out. The man does not stop throughout. When he does Twist and Shout and you think his voice is about to give way, he steps it up for one last time and blasts out Shout. If rock and roll needed a single representative to explain it to an alien race, this is the man.
Point Five
There's a story that when Elvis Costello was asked about whether he'd ever had a religious experience, he answered that he hadn't, but he had heard Al Green sing. In the same way, Don Draper once stated that Jesus is "either lives in your heart, or he doesn't". Jesus has never lived in my heart, but when I see Bruce Springsteen do his thing, giving it all he's got like it's his last gig ever, then I think that's I'd take the Boss over JC anytime.
I hate stadium rock gigs. I hate the idea of them. Tens of thousands of people crammed into somewhere not designed for music, and therein lies the problem. Too many people, which isn't a great environment for a misanthropic miser like me.
Yet there I was, last night, in Hampden Park, Glasgow, surrounded by people, some of whom had quite clearly been on the piss all day and were refreshed to a great degree. A lot of them weren't happy with their position in the crowd and tried to force their way past others. Naturally, this created tension and security were needed on several occasions.
Point Two
All of the above becomes irrelevant when you're at a Bruce Springsteen concert, because he is The Boss and that negates any bad vibes.
Point Three
30 songs over three and a half hour is a lot of work for everyone. But the man himself states that we, as the audience, will leave with our feet and backs sore, our throats hoarse. He's not wrong.
What you find is the day after, when you weigh up the whole experience and look for negatives, is that he didn't play a few of your favourites. Where was Hungry Heart, Bruce? Where was The River and Born in the USA? He can't please everyone though, can he? What he did do was provide a strong mix of his life's work, sticking with what he'd recorded with the E Street Band (I don't recall anything from Human Touch or Lucky Town, for instance) except for two tracks from his wonderful acoustic album Nebraska - but even Atlantic City and Johnny 99 were re-imagined as rockers, the latter revved up into the kind of thing you'd expect from Jerry Lee Lewis.
There were no encores of any of that shit. The band - now including a four piece horn section, backing singers and a percussionist - come on at half seven and don't stop till eleven, when they all leave the stage so that the man we're here to see can do a "rock and roll lullaby" that is Thunder Road acoustic, with the crowd singing the sax solo at the end.
Point Four
Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici are gone, but their band leader keeps their memories living on. Clemons' nephew Jake now plays in the band, which is a cool touch and at one point, during Dancing in the Dark, Springsteen grabs a girl who had a sign saying "I want to dance with Jake" and lets her do so. In the spirit of Courtney Cox, naturally.
What this does show is that the man seems to, at least, give a fuck about us punters. You hear nightmare stories of Dylan, for example, being a surly sod all through his gigs, never playing the hits. Springsteen appears to demand of himself that he has to guarantee everyone who bought a ticket a classic night out. The man does not stop throughout. When he does Twist and Shout and you think his voice is about to give way, he steps it up for one last time and blasts out Shout. If rock and roll needed a single representative to explain it to an alien race, this is the man.
Point Five
There's a story that when Elvis Costello was asked about whether he'd ever had a religious experience, he answered that he hadn't, but he had heard Al Green sing. In the same way, Don Draper once stated that Jesus is "either lives in your heart, or he doesn't". Jesus has never lived in my heart, but when I see Bruce Springsteen do his thing, giving it all he's got like it's his last gig ever, then I think that's I'd take the Boss over JC anytime.
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Break From The Idle
I've written the best part of nowt recently, and health reasons mean I'm not likely to do much for a little while yet. However, I did manage to put together a review of the Teardrop Explodes' superb second album Wilder a few weeks ago and No Ripcord have just published it.
Take a read, if you want.
Take a read, if you want.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
The White Noise Revisited
It's entirely my own fault. When possible, I try to stand right at the front at a gig - in the main part, this is because I like having the barrier to lean on, so I don't get a bad back from being stood in one place too long. I also like feeling close to the music, and the people involved, observing their playing techniques and the like. Tragic as this sounds, this habit also allowed me to shake hands with Morrissey once, a moment that rakes in my all time Personal Top Ten.
Attending a gig last night, I did the same. But I wasn't watching Joan Baez or the Durutti Column here. No, I was stood right in front of Bob Fucking Mould! And that means noise. A lot of beautiful, fast noise. As a result, my ears are still ringing.
Nevermind. Bob has long been a strong proponent of the power trio, starting with Husker Du, then with Sugar and now teaming with up bassist Jason Narducy and drummer Jon Wurster to record Silver Age and embark on this current tour. The album is a return to Mould's vein of fast rock music with power-pop references thrown in. My advice would be to go listen to it if you liked the last few Husker Du albums and most of what he did with Sugar.
Prior to the main attraction, support act North Atlantic Oscillation did their 30 minute set. From Scotland (a clue being one member having the St Andrews cross on his forearm), their music is interesting enough, with enough electronic effects that you feel it must take hours to set up all the wires, their main issue is that they lack any kind of on-stage personality. I can imagine they come across a lot better on CD.
Then the main attraction. Yes, so Mould is 52 years old and looks like Alexi Sayle's skinnier brother, but that doesn't mean he still can't rock like a bastard. The band jump right in by playing the entire first half of Sugar's Copper Blue album. Another album you really, really need to hear if you haven't done already.
As stated at the start, they were loud, with pretty much no let up throughout. Mould has made albums with an acoustic or electronic slant, but this is pure power trio rock, with no slowing down throughout. If it at times the volume seems hard work for the audience, the sheer hard work the three put in up there on stage puts it in context. I don't think I've ever seen a band sweat so much - it was dripping from the guitars, the drummer's shirt was drenched by the end and Mould's glasses actually had perspiration congealing on them by the end, so that it looked like they were covered in milk.
Alongside the Sugar material, there's a fair chunk of the new album and a healthy amount of Husker Du classics. So, so what if the ringing in my ears might keep me up for a few nights? I saw Bob Mould do what he does best.
Attending a gig last night, I did the same. But I wasn't watching Joan Baez or the Durutti Column here. No, I was stood right in front of Bob Fucking Mould! And that means noise. A lot of beautiful, fast noise. As a result, my ears are still ringing.
Nevermind. Bob has long been a strong proponent of the power trio, starting with Husker Du, then with Sugar and now teaming with up bassist Jason Narducy and drummer Jon Wurster to record Silver Age and embark on this current tour. The album is a return to Mould's vein of fast rock music with power-pop references thrown in. My advice would be to go listen to it if you liked the last few Husker Du albums and most of what he did with Sugar.
Prior to the main attraction, support act North Atlantic Oscillation did their 30 minute set. From Scotland (a clue being one member having the St Andrews cross on his forearm), their music is interesting enough, with enough electronic effects that you feel it must take hours to set up all the wires, their main issue is that they lack any kind of on-stage personality. I can imagine they come across a lot better on CD.
Then the main attraction. Yes, so Mould is 52 years old and looks like Alexi Sayle's skinnier brother, but that doesn't mean he still can't rock like a bastard. The band jump right in by playing the entire first half of Sugar's Copper Blue album. Another album you really, really need to hear if you haven't done already.
As stated at the start, they were loud, with pretty much no let up throughout. Mould has made albums with an acoustic or electronic slant, but this is pure power trio rock, with no slowing down throughout. If it at times the volume seems hard work for the audience, the sheer hard work the three put in up there on stage puts it in context. I don't think I've ever seen a band sweat so much - it was dripping from the guitars, the drummer's shirt was drenched by the end and Mould's glasses actually had perspiration congealing on them by the end, so that it looked like they were covered in milk.
Alongside the Sugar material, there's a fair chunk of the new album and a healthy amount of Husker Du classics. So, so what if the ringing in my ears might keep me up for a few nights? I saw Bob Mould do what he does best.
Saturday, 18 May 2013
Frank Talking
As I pointed out not long after I decided (why?) to write this blog, Frank Castle aka The Punisher is one of my favourite comic book creations.
As any geek knows, attempts to get Frank on film have been mixed. The 2004 one with Thomas Jane wasn't too shabby, suffering perhaps by changing the location from New York to Florida (due to being cheaper to film there), but Jane did a fine job. He was better still when he voiced the character in a video game the following year.
To his dues, he backed out of a sequel due to feeling the script wasn't any cop. Judging by Punisher: War Zone, he was right. As a fan of the character, it must have been a bit of a downer. Still, he got to play a guy with a massive penis for a few years in Hung, so at least the work was still rolling in. Until last year, where he decided to revisit the terror of criminals everywhere in a short film.
Dirty Laundry was apparently made for very little, with Jane and Ron Perlman putting their time in for free. It's a sign of how out of the loop I am that I only got round to watching it. My verdict? It's pretty damn good, with a level of violence straight from the comic books. There's rumours of a Punisher TV series in development - if Marvel or whoever has any sense, they'd get Jane involved. The man looks the part to a tee. The issue comes with whether any TV network has the balls to not shackle Frank down with PG standards. We want to see him cutting the guts out of sex traffickers, throwing people from the top of skyscrapers. Stuff like that.
You can Dirty Laundry it on youtube. Be warned though, there's some pretty extreme punishment to be seen.
As any geek knows, attempts to get Frank on film have been mixed. The 2004 one with Thomas Jane wasn't too shabby, suffering perhaps by changing the location from New York to Florida (due to being cheaper to film there), but Jane did a fine job. He was better still when he voiced the character in a video game the following year.
To his dues, he backed out of a sequel due to feeling the script wasn't any cop. Judging by Punisher: War Zone, he was right. As a fan of the character, it must have been a bit of a downer. Still, he got to play a guy with a massive penis for a few years in Hung, so at least the work was still rolling in. Until last year, where he decided to revisit the terror of criminals everywhere in a short film.
Dirty Laundry was apparently made for very little, with Jane and Ron Perlman putting their time in for free. It's a sign of how out of the loop I am that I only got round to watching it. My verdict? It's pretty damn good, with a level of violence straight from the comic books. There's rumours of a Punisher TV series in development - if Marvel or whoever has any sense, they'd get Jane involved. The man looks the part to a tee. The issue comes with whether any TV network has the balls to not shackle Frank down with PG standards. We want to see him cutting the guts out of sex traffickers, throwing people from the top of skyscrapers. Stuff like that.
You can Dirty Laundry it on youtube. Be warned though, there's some pretty extreme punishment to be seen.
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