Have a groove over to NoRipcord.com, who have just put up my review of the Wild Swans' rather splendid new album.
http://www.noripcord.com/reviews/music/wild-swans/coldest-winter-hundred-years
After you've read that, strongly consider going out and buying it. It's a superb piece of work.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Put Down The Pen
Something I only just realised today is that authors, like bands or singers, tend to have a short time at the top of their game. They can be fashionable for a time - film adaptations, being asked to appear on radio/TV shows, write columns for broadsheets etc etc - before the relentless ticking of time creeps up leaving you gasping in the wake of the next pretender to the throne.
What got me thinking of this was flicking through Nick Hornby's High Fidelity for the first time in a good few years. From the mid 90s to the early part of the last decade, Hornby had it all rolling in his favour. His debut football-themed autobiography Fever Pitch sold by the shedload and got taken on big-time by a new generation of football supporters to the degree that many old school fans blame him for the sanitation of the game through the 90s. High Fidelity and About A Boy were equally successful follow-ups to the degree that he even got away with having a bunch of essays on his favourite songs published.
All three of his first books, in turn, were made into films, with Colin Firth, John Cusack and Hugh Grant playing the main characters. Given that all the protagonists were, at least in some part, based on Hornby himself, it must have been a buzz to have three handsome devils play the roles.
And yet, and yet... it seems to me, albeit somebody who's rarely had his finger on the cultural heartbeat, that Horny's star has fallen since those heady days. For starters, his third novel, How To Be Good, came across as a load of middle-class toss and for all his supposed love of music, his dismissal of British Sea Power from looking at a picture of them alone gave me the impression he preferred his music to be as safe and predictable as rock music allows.
Re-reading High Fidelity, one thing struck me hard. It's a decent novel, certainly, with some great lines and jokes, but the plot doesn't hold up to much scrutiny - would any self-respecting woman really take back a man who owes her thousands of pounds and cheated on her - and for a novel written by a guy in his mid 30s, it does come across as being the work of a much younger man at times.
All of which is not to take anything away from the chap. He made the top of the pile where countless others didn't and I'm sure his healthy bank balance, collection of awards and writing an album with Ben Folds means he doesn't give a toss what anyone thinks. That said, I do think his music journalism is third rate at best and 31 Songs was one of the most tedious books I've ever read.
What got me thinking of this was flicking through Nick Hornby's High Fidelity for the first time in a good few years. From the mid 90s to the early part of the last decade, Hornby had it all rolling in his favour. His debut football-themed autobiography Fever Pitch sold by the shedload and got taken on big-time by a new generation of football supporters to the degree that many old school fans blame him for the sanitation of the game through the 90s. High Fidelity and About A Boy were equally successful follow-ups to the degree that he even got away with having a bunch of essays on his favourite songs published.
All three of his first books, in turn, were made into films, with Colin Firth, John Cusack and Hugh Grant playing the main characters. Given that all the protagonists were, at least in some part, based on Hornby himself, it must have been a buzz to have three handsome devils play the roles.
And yet, and yet... it seems to me, albeit somebody who's rarely had his finger on the cultural heartbeat, that Horny's star has fallen since those heady days. For starters, his third novel, How To Be Good, came across as a load of middle-class toss and for all his supposed love of music, his dismissal of British Sea Power from looking at a picture of them alone gave me the impression he preferred his music to be as safe and predictable as rock music allows.
Re-reading High Fidelity, one thing struck me hard. It's a decent novel, certainly, with some great lines and jokes, but the plot doesn't hold up to much scrutiny - would any self-respecting woman really take back a man who owes her thousands of pounds and cheated on her - and for a novel written by a guy in his mid 30s, it does come across as being the work of a much younger man at times.
All of which is not to take anything away from the chap. He made the top of the pile where countless others didn't and I'm sure his healthy bank balance, collection of awards and writing an album with Ben Folds means he doesn't give a toss what anyone thinks. That said, I do think his music journalism is third rate at best and 31 Songs was one of the most tedious books I've ever read.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Insult Thy Neighbour
If anything amused me about the whole Joey Barton link with Manchester United non-story, it was the reaction of various United fans on the internet, generally amongst the lines of "I don't care if that Scouse fuck scores a hat trick every game, I don't want to see him in the shirt". You wouldn't get a more extreme response if the club had announced Harold Shipman as the new Club Doctor and hired Fred West to renovate the South Stand.
My own personal response was that putting all other matters aside, he just isn't good enough if the team are set to have any chance on the Mission: Impossible-esque task of getting up to Barcelona standard. Though I did enjoy that his response to Frank Lampard moving tables during an England squad breakfast rather than sit with young Joseph was "I wasn't going to nick your breakfast, you fat prick".
Those other matters, however, seem to be that a) He used to play for Manchester City b) he has been something of a thug in the past and c) He's from the Merseyside area.
All of which reminded me of how in this country we do like our rivalries. I'm from Cumbria, so we didn't like "that lot" down South. I'm from West Cumbria, so we didn't like "that lot" from Carlisle, thinking they saw us as a bunch of rural hicks. Then, I'm from Whitehaven, so we didn't like the "Jam Eaters" (long story) from Workington. It went as far as when I was a young nipper and we moved to a shiny new housing estate, the kids on my street instantly formed a rivalry with those on the next street, which mainly consisted of throwing tiny rocks at each other from a distance of about 100 yards. Well, we were only about six at the time.
I often wonder whether this happens in other countries? Take Liverpool and Manchester - only 30-odd miles apart, yet with very distinctive accents. Joy Division could never have been scousers, but equally the Bunnymen couldn't have been Manc or Salford lads. Is the difference between, say, Dusseldorf and Cologne as wide? I'm not even referring to the extreme kinds of nationalism that we've sadly seen in the last few days, but a need to create any kind of rivarily no matter how small - do the people of this rock in the North Sea just like a scrap (even if only just verbally) that much?
My own personal response was that putting all other matters aside, he just isn't good enough if the team are set to have any chance on the Mission: Impossible-esque task of getting up to Barcelona standard. Though I did enjoy that his response to Frank Lampard moving tables during an England squad breakfast rather than sit with young Joseph was "I wasn't going to nick your breakfast, you fat prick".
Those other matters, however, seem to be that a) He used to play for Manchester City b) he has been something of a thug in the past and c) He's from the Merseyside area.
All of which reminded me of how in this country we do like our rivalries. I'm from Cumbria, so we didn't like "that lot" down South. I'm from West Cumbria, so we didn't like "that lot" from Carlisle, thinking they saw us as a bunch of rural hicks. Then, I'm from Whitehaven, so we didn't like the "Jam Eaters" (long story) from Workington. It went as far as when I was a young nipper and we moved to a shiny new housing estate, the kids on my street instantly formed a rivalry with those on the next street, which mainly consisted of throwing tiny rocks at each other from a distance of about 100 yards. Well, we were only about six at the time.
I often wonder whether this happens in other countries? Take Liverpool and Manchester - only 30-odd miles apart, yet with very distinctive accents. Joy Division could never have been scousers, but equally the Bunnymen couldn't have been Manc or Salford lads. Is the difference between, say, Dusseldorf and Cologne as wide? I'm not even referring to the extreme kinds of nationalism that we've sadly seen in the last few days, but a need to create any kind of rivarily no matter how small - do the people of this rock in the North Sea just like a scrap (even if only just verbally) that much?
Thursday, 21 July 2011
Old Tricks for New Order
While taking it nice and easy during a week long break from work, I had the sadness to read an interview with the original four members of New Order conducted to promote their latest compilation album.
Sad because it seems Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner have still not buried the hatchet from whatever petty squabble caused the break up of the band a couple of years ago. Interviewed separately (Bernard with Stephen Morris and Gillian Gilbert), they share a few barbs with Hooky calling his old chum "a twat" and Sumner talking over his disappointment of the bassist's supposed exploiting of the history of their bands and the Factory label.
First things first, as a huge fan of Joy Division/New Order, I too found Hooky forming a band to play the old material a little bit off. But that's just me - it's his music and I'm not going to say a man should be denied the chance to make a wedge. After all, nobody is forcing me to go watch a sub-karaoke version of New Dawn Fades.
And if anything, Hooky could also respond with the fact that the band are promoting yet another compilation. I mean, really - for Joy Division we already have Substance, the Heart and Soul box set from a few years ago and some "Best Of" that was rushed out on the back of the Control movie. New Order has Substance, The Best Of, Singles and International. Plus the Retro box set that seemed to have been compiled to piss off as many fans as possible. Surely knocking out more of the same, using the gimmick of putting material of both bands on the same album for the first time, is equally as shameless a mining of the past as getting some of your mates from the pub to churn out Unknown Pleasures to the punters.
At times like this, what we have to remember is the music. The various members of our favourite bands can crap on their legacy with their rows and reissues, but before we let it get to us, we need to just play the songs. A run through of Lowlife or Technique or anything from Substance is enough to allay our fears and prove that, yes, New Order really were one of the best bands of their or any time.
Sad because it seems Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner have still not buried the hatchet from whatever petty squabble caused the break up of the band a couple of years ago. Interviewed separately (Bernard with Stephen Morris and Gillian Gilbert), they share a few barbs with Hooky calling his old chum "a twat" and Sumner talking over his disappointment of the bassist's supposed exploiting of the history of their bands and the Factory label.
First things first, as a huge fan of Joy Division/New Order, I too found Hooky forming a band to play the old material a little bit off. But that's just me - it's his music and I'm not going to say a man should be denied the chance to make a wedge. After all, nobody is forcing me to go watch a sub-karaoke version of New Dawn Fades.
And if anything, Hooky could also respond with the fact that the band are promoting yet another compilation. I mean, really - for Joy Division we already have Substance, the Heart and Soul box set from a few years ago and some "Best Of" that was rushed out on the back of the Control movie. New Order has Substance, The Best Of, Singles and International. Plus the Retro box set that seemed to have been compiled to piss off as many fans as possible. Surely knocking out more of the same, using the gimmick of putting material of both bands on the same album for the first time, is equally as shameless a mining of the past as getting some of your mates from the pub to churn out Unknown Pleasures to the punters.
At times like this, what we have to remember is the music. The various members of our favourite bands can crap on their legacy with their rows and reissues, but before we let it get to us, we need to just play the songs. A run through of Lowlife or Technique or anything from Substance is enough to allay our fears and prove that, yes, New Order really were one of the best bands of their or any time.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
To Live and Die in L.A.
What with having no interest at all (and even a mild contempt towards) the whole L.A. scene between the end of the 60s and the mid 70s, Warren Zevon quietly passed under my radar. Sure, I knew Werewolves of London, Lawyers, Guns and Money and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner. I'd even heard some of his work in the latter period of his life: I Was In The House When The House Burned Down is a great song.
But that seemed enough, somehow. He was slightly tainted by association with my own prejudices. I mean, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie provided the rhythm track on Werewolves. Fleetwood Mac? Fuck off! But no matter, there'd been an inkling of wanting to find out more from reading a few articles before his death and when I got the chance to borrow I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon, I decided to take it.
"Dirty" being the key word here: narrated by Crystal Zevon, his wife through the 70s and mother to his daughter, it features interviews with the cast of people who drifted in and out of our man's life. And given that life covered being a songwriter for the Turtles, half of a folk duo and bandleader for the Everly Brothers before he got his own record deal, there's a lot of people involved.
From early on, he had an interesting life. The son of a gangster involved with some heavy people, he picked up on music quickly and even managed to talk to the composer Stravinsky on a couple of occasions in his youth. By the time we're in the late 60s, he's making a name as a songwriter and building up a solid alcohol habit that would build into horrific addiction by the 70s.
It's this side of his personality that is the most interesting throughout the first half of the book. Tales of his drinking binges are legion and shocking - it's amazing that he managed some kind of functionality as a working musician throughout this time. Apparently, shortly before his death he insisted his ex-wife write this book and leave nothing out, and she certainly doesn't. We see his at times petty personality, constantly getting into conflict with those who want to help his career, such as Jackson Browne. Most harrowing of all are the times he beats up his wife during his worst periods as a drunk.
It's this aspect that can make it hard to sympathise with Zevon as a human being. By his then wife's accounts, he was capable of hitting her, then passing out in a heap and remembering nothing when he woke up. In an equally dark moment, she confesses that in her own battle with a drink problem years later, she had hit their daughter with no memory of it when the drunken fog lifted.
Doubtless Zevon's alcoholism affected his career to the degree that after his second album Excitable Boy, his fortunes went into freefall that only a few albums later, he was dropped by his label, leaving him to sink further into his bad habits. Only an intervention by close friends and family sees him sober up, and even then after a few false starts.
Though the rest of the 80s and 90s, Zevon continues to play to a committed audience, still helped out by friends who remain loyal despite his at times testing personality. The drink problem being gone seems to help the emergence of a case of OCD, which he improbably shares with his neighbour - one Billy Bob Thornton. Girlfriends come and go, in no part due to his apparent addiction to shagging any woman who offers themselves.
Given the book starts with an account of his last moments alive from a close friend, by the time we reach the year 2000, the spectre of the terminal cancer that would kill him looms over. Faced with death, he returns to heavy drinking but still manages to record a final album featuring the likes of Bruce Springsteen (a long time admirer of his work). More importantly, he lives long enough to see the birth of his twin grandchildren.
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon is not an easy read. It possibly shows how much someone can get away with when other people regard them as a genius. Has it made me want to hear more of his music? Perhaps, in the hope it can help me understand a very troubled man who still managed to touch a lot of people.
But that seemed enough, somehow. He was slightly tainted by association with my own prejudices. I mean, Mick Fleetwood and John McVie provided the rhythm track on Werewolves. Fleetwood Mac? Fuck off! But no matter, there'd been an inkling of wanting to find out more from reading a few articles before his death and when I got the chance to borrow I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon, I decided to take it.
"Dirty" being the key word here: narrated by Crystal Zevon, his wife through the 70s and mother to his daughter, it features interviews with the cast of people who drifted in and out of our man's life. And given that life covered being a songwriter for the Turtles, half of a folk duo and bandleader for the Everly Brothers before he got his own record deal, there's a lot of people involved.
From early on, he had an interesting life. The son of a gangster involved with some heavy people, he picked up on music quickly and even managed to talk to the composer Stravinsky on a couple of occasions in his youth. By the time we're in the late 60s, he's making a name as a songwriter and building up a solid alcohol habit that would build into horrific addiction by the 70s.
It's this side of his personality that is the most interesting throughout the first half of the book. Tales of his drinking binges are legion and shocking - it's amazing that he managed some kind of functionality as a working musician throughout this time. Apparently, shortly before his death he insisted his ex-wife write this book and leave nothing out, and she certainly doesn't. We see his at times petty personality, constantly getting into conflict with those who want to help his career, such as Jackson Browne. Most harrowing of all are the times he beats up his wife during his worst periods as a drunk.
It's this aspect that can make it hard to sympathise with Zevon as a human being. By his then wife's accounts, he was capable of hitting her, then passing out in a heap and remembering nothing when he woke up. In an equally dark moment, she confesses that in her own battle with a drink problem years later, she had hit their daughter with no memory of it when the drunken fog lifted.
Doubtless Zevon's alcoholism affected his career to the degree that after his second album Excitable Boy, his fortunes went into freefall that only a few albums later, he was dropped by his label, leaving him to sink further into his bad habits. Only an intervention by close friends and family sees him sober up, and even then after a few false starts.
Though the rest of the 80s and 90s, Zevon continues to play to a committed audience, still helped out by friends who remain loyal despite his at times testing personality. The drink problem being gone seems to help the emergence of a case of OCD, which he improbably shares with his neighbour - one Billy Bob Thornton. Girlfriends come and go, in no part due to his apparent addiction to shagging any woman who offers themselves.
Given the book starts with an account of his last moments alive from a close friend, by the time we reach the year 2000, the spectre of the terminal cancer that would kill him looms over. Faced with death, he returns to heavy drinking but still manages to record a final album featuring the likes of Bruce Springsteen (a long time admirer of his work). More importantly, he lives long enough to see the birth of his twin grandchildren.
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon is not an easy read. It possibly shows how much someone can get away with when other people regard them as a genius. Has it made me want to hear more of his music? Perhaps, in the hope it can help me understand a very troubled man who still managed to touch a lot of people.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Shock of Daylight
For a while now, I've been trying to get hold of albums by The Sound, a band who went through the 80s fighting bad odds and general indifference from the general public.
Though most of their work was re-issued some years ago on the Renascent label, who also did fine work with the Comsat Angels and the Wild Swans, it seems to have gone out of print since and CD copies seem to be selling for up to £50.
Fifty quid! Now, I want them pretty bad, but not to the point of spending a big chunk of my weeky disposable income on one album. I suppose it shows how highly regarded they've become since their spint in 1987.
Starting out as Punk band the Outsiders, they earned some notices for being self-released but didn't earn much praise. By the end of the 70s, Borland had formed the Sound with bassist Graham Bailey, keyboard player Max Mayers (replacing Bi Marshall after the first album) and drummer Mike Dudley.
Like the other bands mentioned above and the Chameleons, listening to their songs on youtube confuses me to how they didn't cross over. All excellent musicians, singer/guitarist Adrian Borland also had a great voice and a knack for a memorable tune. Following the band's split, he would released several solo albums and produced Felt's final album, the excellent Me and a Monkey on the Moon.
Sadly, Max Mayers would die in 1993 from an AIDS related condition and Borland's long battle with mental illness, which had contributed to the spilt of the band and continued to plague him throughout the rest of his life, caused him to take his own life in 1999.
Here's a couple of my favourite Sound tunes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdA159Apd4I&feature=related - A New Way of Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1hrznPdsjk - Counting the Days
Though most of their work was re-issued some years ago on the Renascent label, who also did fine work with the Comsat Angels and the Wild Swans, it seems to have gone out of print since and CD copies seem to be selling for up to £50.
Fifty quid! Now, I want them pretty bad, but not to the point of spending a big chunk of my weeky disposable income on one album. I suppose it shows how highly regarded they've become since their spint in 1987.
Starting out as Punk band the Outsiders, they earned some notices for being self-released but didn't earn much praise. By the end of the 70s, Borland had formed the Sound with bassist Graham Bailey, keyboard player Max Mayers (replacing Bi Marshall after the first album) and drummer Mike Dudley.
Like the other bands mentioned above and the Chameleons, listening to their songs on youtube confuses me to how they didn't cross over. All excellent musicians, singer/guitarist Adrian Borland also had a great voice and a knack for a memorable tune. Following the band's split, he would released several solo albums and produced Felt's final album, the excellent Me and a Monkey on the Moon.
Sadly, Max Mayers would die in 1993 from an AIDS related condition and Borland's long battle with mental illness, which had contributed to the spilt of the band and continued to plague him throughout the rest of his life, caused him to take his own life in 1999.
Here's a couple of my favourite Sound tunes:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdA159Apd4I&feature=related - A New Way of Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1hrznPdsjk - Counting the Days
Friday, 8 July 2011
Off to Silicon Heaven
Old adage: things aren't built to last anymore. I've recently found out to my (financial) cost just how fucking true this is when my Playstation 3 packed in and went to the great gameshop in the sky, a victim of the infamous 'Yellow Light of Death'.
Now, on one level this is just frustrating on what I have lost: my as-yet-unfinished 100 hours playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins Lost! My unbeaten record stats on Buzz! Lost! My achievements on games such as Alpha Protocol and Grand Theft Auto IV. Lost forever! It's very hard to take, believe me. Of course, on the other hand it's an excuse to play all these games again, but it's still very irritating.
But what got to me most of all was when I shared my woe was various others, on replying to their question of how long I had owned the PS3 with "about four years", they came back with "wow, not bad then". It seems in terms of lifespan of this model, I've done well, bearing in mind that while I may not hammer the games for hours every day, I did put some serious hours in and it also acted as my DVD player.
Now, the fact that a machine I paid £260 for some years ago should conk out in less than half a decade seems a bit off to me. After all, my PS2 (bought in 2001) and my PS1 (bought second hand in 1999) still work fine. Man, even my Sega Master System that I got for Christmas sometime in the late 1980s still chugs along quite happily.
The problem, it would appear, is that my PS3 had a failure in being able to cool itself, meaning many microchips got fried. Naturally, I've gone out and bought a new model at some expense. I'm a complete bloody idiot like that. Note, mind you, that I stumped up the extra £70 for a new one, not second hand. Because I learnt that the problem that cursed me can only be sussed by ripping open the console. Let this be a warning to anyone reading - lest the Yellow Light of Death strikes you down.
Now, on one level this is just frustrating on what I have lost: my as-yet-unfinished 100 hours playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins Lost! My unbeaten record stats on Buzz! Lost! My achievements on games such as Alpha Protocol and Grand Theft Auto IV. Lost forever! It's very hard to take, believe me. Of course, on the other hand it's an excuse to play all these games again, but it's still very irritating.
But what got to me most of all was when I shared my woe was various others, on replying to their question of how long I had owned the PS3 with "about four years", they came back with "wow, not bad then". It seems in terms of lifespan of this model, I've done well, bearing in mind that while I may not hammer the games for hours every day, I did put some serious hours in and it also acted as my DVD player.
Now, the fact that a machine I paid £260 for some years ago should conk out in less than half a decade seems a bit off to me. After all, my PS2 (bought in 2001) and my PS1 (bought second hand in 1999) still work fine. Man, even my Sega Master System that I got for Christmas sometime in the late 1980s still chugs along quite happily.
The problem, it would appear, is that my PS3 had a failure in being able to cool itself, meaning many microchips got fried. Naturally, I've gone out and bought a new model at some expense. I'm a complete bloody idiot like that. Note, mind you, that I stumped up the extra £70 for a new one, not second hand. Because I learnt that the problem that cursed me can only be sussed by ripping open the console. Let this be a warning to anyone reading - lest the Yellow Light of Death strikes you down.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
News Breakdown
Despite all the revelations about phone tapping and the like, I was as surprised as anyone when the news came through today that the News of the World would cease to be. After all, this is a publication that has being going for 168 years.
Naturally, it'll be a source of celebration for a lot of people. Normally, I would be one of them. After all, the NOTW has, at least in my lifetime, being more of a comic than a newspaper with the current scandal putting on a more sinister edge. But people thinking this is the first blow in a series to topple the Murdoch empire are doubtlessly deluded.
For one, I'll be extremely surprised if Murdoch's BSkyB deal is knocked back. After all, this is a man who has politicians of all persuasions in his pocket. Secondly, expect either the Sun to go seven days a week or a new News International Sunday rag to be launched in a couple of months.
Sure, there may be a sacrificial lamb or two thrown to the lions. But the main point will be that the money will start flowing again and life will go on as before in Medialand. I'm hoping I'm wrong here, of course, and I'm hoping the British public take News International to task - shame my cynicism thinks otherwise. On the other side of the coin, full marks to the Guardian for some top notch investigative journalism.
Naturally, it'll be a source of celebration for a lot of people. Normally, I would be one of them. After all, the NOTW has, at least in my lifetime, being more of a comic than a newspaper with the current scandal putting on a more sinister edge. But people thinking this is the first blow in a series to topple the Murdoch empire are doubtlessly deluded.
For one, I'll be extremely surprised if Murdoch's BSkyB deal is knocked back. After all, this is a man who has politicians of all persuasions in his pocket. Secondly, expect either the Sun to go seven days a week or a new News International Sunday rag to be launched in a couple of months.
Sure, there may be a sacrificial lamb or two thrown to the lions. But the main point will be that the money will start flowing again and life will go on as before in Medialand. I'm hoping I'm wrong here, of course, and I'm hoping the British public take News International to task - shame my cynicism thinks otherwise. On the other side of the coin, full marks to the Guardian for some top notch investigative journalism.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Turning Away
Let's be honest, Top Gear needs to be put out of its misery. That's not coming from a long-time critic of the show: I'm someone who used to consider it one of the best shows on the box, but that age has long since passed.
Only an hour or so after watching the second of the new series on Sunday, I struggled to remember anything of what had passed. There was something about a car being called a "Growler" that led to a series of jokes that would doubtless make a ten year boy in 1980 guffaw like Finbarr Saunders but left me sighing at the predictability of it all and how Clarkson was getting paid a huge wedge for this.
Then there was something about hot hatches, the only part of which I recall was them driving them round the Monaco GP with F1's answer to Andy Warhol dishing out advice. It paled badly compared to their brilliant "Buy a Porsche for £1500" challenge or the one where they bought a trio of British-made cars from the 70s. Familiarity breeds contempt, though, and Top Gear has long since passed that point so that to parody it would be pointless.
But really, BBC, the cow has long been milked to the point where she's a mangled out thing, riddled with BSE and struggling to stay on its feet in a field covered with its own shit. Not even the cast look that interested anymore - James May for one seems like he'd much rather be doing his own thing rather than playing perpetual straightman. Can't say I blame him, either, even if James May's Man Lab was one of the most wretched things I'd seen on my television since Bernard Manning threw a seven.
I'd imagine, however, that most the people involved with making the show are getting a fair old slice of Licence Fee, and to be fair, I'm led to believe that it's sold out to most of the world, making the Beeb a decent return. Yet, as with Have I Got News For You (an edition of which I watched the other night for ten minutes before I realised it was a repeat from about six months ago) it needs sent to Broadcasting Retirement Home. Clarkson can focus on writing tiresome right-wing tabloid articles, May can make a working Nuclear Sub from playdoh and Hammond can go back to laughing at people getting muddy on Total Wipeout.
Only an hour or so after watching the second of the new series on Sunday, I struggled to remember anything of what had passed. There was something about a car being called a "Growler" that led to a series of jokes that would doubtless make a ten year boy in 1980 guffaw like Finbarr Saunders but left me sighing at the predictability of it all and how Clarkson was getting paid a huge wedge for this.
Then there was something about hot hatches, the only part of which I recall was them driving them round the Monaco GP with F1's answer to Andy Warhol dishing out advice. It paled badly compared to their brilliant "Buy a Porsche for £1500" challenge or the one where they bought a trio of British-made cars from the 70s. Familiarity breeds contempt, though, and Top Gear has long since passed that point so that to parody it would be pointless.
But really, BBC, the cow has long been milked to the point where she's a mangled out thing, riddled with BSE and struggling to stay on its feet in a field covered with its own shit. Not even the cast look that interested anymore - James May for one seems like he'd much rather be doing his own thing rather than playing perpetual straightman. Can't say I blame him, either, even if James May's Man Lab was one of the most wretched things I'd seen on my television since Bernard Manning threw a seven.
I'd imagine, however, that most the people involved with making the show are getting a fair old slice of Licence Fee, and to be fair, I'm led to believe that it's sold out to most of the world, making the Beeb a decent return. Yet, as with Have I Got News For You (an edition of which I watched the other night for ten minutes before I realised it was a repeat from about six months ago) it needs sent to Broadcasting Retirement Home. Clarkson can focus on writing tiresome right-wing tabloid articles, May can make a working Nuclear Sub from playdoh and Hammond can go back to laughing at people getting muddy on Total Wipeout.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Pure Pop for Now People
Amongst all my recent upheaval, one of the constant sources of joy has been listening to the Go-Betweens' album 16 Lovers Lane, the last recorded in their initial incarnation before their comeback at the start of the 21st century.
To set the story: by 1988, the band had been going for ten years or so, based around the songwriting talents of vocalist/guitarists Robert Forster and Grant McLennan (initially the bassist), who met while studying in Brisbane, Australia. In time for their first album, 1981's Send Me a Lullaby, they were joined by drummer Lindy Morrison. Next album Before Hollywood set them up as critics' darlings thanks to sublime songs like McLennan's autobiographical Cattle and Cane.
Bassist Robert Vickers was signed up in time for 1984's Spring Hill Fair, which contained the band's first "how the fuck was that not a hit?" moment with Bachelor Kisses. Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express continued this theme and 1987's Tallulah did no better despite wonderful pop songs such as Right Here and Bye Bye Pride. The band were also joined by talented multi-instrumentalist Amanda Brown on this album, McLennan subsequently starting a relationship with her that would dominate his own writing for the next few years.
By 1988, the band, in Foster's words, had to have a hit. The band relocated from London to their native Australia, with Vickers electing to leave to live in New York. He was replaced by John Willsteed, whose penchant for a more rock and roll lifestyle would later cause issues. But with the pressure on, the band managed to create their most consistently brilliant album.
Staring with Love Goes On!, the tone is set early on for a lyrical direction based around, well, love. McLennan is generally excited about his new love (Quiet Heart has an intensity about it that someone like Bono could only dream of achieving) while Foster seems to take the opposite stance: the closing Dive For Your Memory mourns over loss - perhaps towards his one time lover and bandmate, Lindy Morrison: the lines "When I hear you saying we stood no chance/I dive for your memory/We stood that chance" have a wonderful sad poignancy.
Streets of Your Town, the lead single, is naturally the centrepiece. Again, you're left wondering how it wasn't a massive hit: catchy as hell chorus, great vocals, ringing guitars that sound like summer with a dark undertone from lyrics talking of a place "full of battered wives". It's follow-up (and fellow non-hit) Was There Anything I Could Do? was cut from the same cloth.
Yet it's the less obvious songs that are the soul of 16 Lovers Lane. Forster's Clouds and I'm All Right are beautiful - his voice, which I always thought an acquired taste that at times held back their more 'pop' songs - works at it's absolute best. The latter song in particular is one I've listened to three or four times in a row.
If there's a criticism to be had of the album, it's not because of the band - who all play superbly - or the songwriting - which is peerless - but in the "80's" style production that at times comes dangerously close to drowning the songs. See also the Wild Swan's excellent Bringing Home The Ashes album from the same time. Several songs feature drum machines which just sound bloody dreadful and you'd love to have heard Morrison put down some more natural sounds instead.
Despite the songs and the usual critical raves, 16 Lovers Lane didn't push the band into the big leagues. Internal tensions and basic frustration caused the band to break up a year or so later. McLennan and Foster produced a series of solo albums before reconvening (with a new rhythm section) for three well-received Go-Betweens albums. Sadly, Grant McLennan died of a heart attack in 2006. 16 Lovers Lane stands a testament to his brilliant songwriting talent.
To set the story: by 1988, the band had been going for ten years or so, based around the songwriting talents of vocalist/guitarists Robert Forster and Grant McLennan (initially the bassist), who met while studying in Brisbane, Australia. In time for their first album, 1981's Send Me a Lullaby, they were joined by drummer Lindy Morrison. Next album Before Hollywood set them up as critics' darlings thanks to sublime songs like McLennan's autobiographical Cattle and Cane.
Bassist Robert Vickers was signed up in time for 1984's Spring Hill Fair, which contained the band's first "how the fuck was that not a hit?" moment with Bachelor Kisses. Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express continued this theme and 1987's Tallulah did no better despite wonderful pop songs such as Right Here and Bye Bye Pride. The band were also joined by talented multi-instrumentalist Amanda Brown on this album, McLennan subsequently starting a relationship with her that would dominate his own writing for the next few years.
By 1988, the band, in Foster's words, had to have a hit. The band relocated from London to their native Australia, with Vickers electing to leave to live in New York. He was replaced by John Willsteed, whose penchant for a more rock and roll lifestyle would later cause issues. But with the pressure on, the band managed to create their most consistently brilliant album.
Staring with Love Goes On!, the tone is set early on for a lyrical direction based around, well, love. McLennan is generally excited about his new love (Quiet Heart has an intensity about it that someone like Bono could only dream of achieving) while Foster seems to take the opposite stance: the closing Dive For Your Memory mourns over loss - perhaps towards his one time lover and bandmate, Lindy Morrison: the lines "When I hear you saying we stood no chance/I dive for your memory/We stood that chance" have a wonderful sad poignancy.
Streets of Your Town, the lead single, is naturally the centrepiece. Again, you're left wondering how it wasn't a massive hit: catchy as hell chorus, great vocals, ringing guitars that sound like summer with a dark undertone from lyrics talking of a place "full of battered wives". It's follow-up (and fellow non-hit) Was There Anything I Could Do? was cut from the same cloth.
Yet it's the less obvious songs that are the soul of 16 Lovers Lane. Forster's Clouds and I'm All Right are beautiful - his voice, which I always thought an acquired taste that at times held back their more 'pop' songs - works at it's absolute best. The latter song in particular is one I've listened to three or four times in a row.
If there's a criticism to be had of the album, it's not because of the band - who all play superbly - or the songwriting - which is peerless - but in the "80's" style production that at times comes dangerously close to drowning the songs. See also the Wild Swan's excellent Bringing Home The Ashes album from the same time. Several songs feature drum machines which just sound bloody dreadful and you'd love to have heard Morrison put down some more natural sounds instead.
Despite the songs and the usual critical raves, 16 Lovers Lane didn't push the band into the big leagues. Internal tensions and basic frustration caused the band to break up a year or so later. McLennan and Foster produced a series of solo albums before reconvening (with a new rhythm section) for three well-received Go-Betweens albums. Sadly, Grant McLennan died of a heart attack in 2006. 16 Lovers Lane stands a testament to his brilliant songwriting talent.
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