Another 12 months have gone past, in the manner of months since time began. And it's time for the annual random music post. Yes - we have been here before. In fact, this is the fifth year - which is practically forever in Internet Years. I know. I'm practically a sodding tradition, aren't I?
What do you need to do? It's really easy. Get hold of your iPod or other music playing device. Hit the 'Shuffle' button. Then tell us about the first five that come along. It's as simple as that. And no cheating - of something embarrassing comes along, you can't just hit 'next' until you get a cooler track.
Ok. Here goes for nothing.
1: Queen - Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy
It is a universal rule, or even a Universal Rule, that everyone has a copy of Queen's Greatest Hits somewhere in their collection. Even if you don't like Queen, you're going to have it. Don't fight it. There are tribesmen out in the Amazon rainforest who have never met people from the 'civilised' world, and even they know all the words to Another One Bites the Dust. And what about this particular track? Well. Looking back at it I just wonder how we never guessed the obvious about F. Mercury, Esq.
2: The Selecter - James Bond
Because no-one's record collection is complete without a Ska version of the James Bond theme tune, is it? Formed just up the road from me in Coventry, the Selecter were described as 'conspiring to make dancing the only way to walk'. Clearly they'd never seen me dancing.
3: Turin Brakes - Full of Stars
This track is from an album called Ether Song which I loved more than was actually healthy when it came out. Sun-dappled melodies, laid back vocals. Just marvellous. What's that? You've never heard of them? Take this as a gift from your Uncle Phil - go and check them out. No, put down that forkful of breakfast - you don't have time - do it now.
4: Kings of Leon - Birthday
Oh, you crazy Followill brothers. How you entranced us with your early blend of Southern rock and blues. A grittiness and soulful approach. Something new, yet harking back to simpler times. Then someone let you into an arena and showed you the reverb pedal. It all went downhill from there.
5: The Who - Baba O'Riley
Ace. I could have stumbled across any track from the Who's Next album and it would have been spot on. This is the opener, syncopated synths at the start and whirling dervish gypsy violins at the end. Mind you, I can't listen to it without thinking of the question I once had from a friend: "Who was this Barbara O'Riley anyway?"
Now it's your turn. Get shuffling and put your results in the comments.
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Sunday, 8 January 2012
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
I get up, I get down
People aren't going to be queuing up to ask me for a lift over the next few weeks. To be honest, I'm not normally surrounded by would-be passengers, but for the time being my motoring solitude is even more guaranteed than usual. And I blame Danny Baker.
Yesterday evening, I'd finished all the work I was due to do and was about to leave the office. I was off the clock and there were few colleagues around. I had a quick look at Twitter before departing. (Before you ask, it's @fatboyfat. Thank you). I give you this detail: 1) to give you some narrative to the story, 2) to build some dramatic tension, and 3) so that anyone from work reading this doesn't think I was dossing about on social networks when I was supposed to be working.
One of the people I follow is the fore-mentioned writer, journalist and radio presenter. And he had tweeted the following set of seemingly random words:
As I say, for most people - and I suspect that includes about 99% of you reading this - this just seems like the deranged rantings of someone with only a passing relationship to sanity. To an extent, you might be correct. But for me, and a very small group of others, it completed a mental circuit. For these aren't just words. They're lyrics.
"Yours Is No Disgrace" is a song by Yes, from their cryptically entitled 1971 album, The Yes Album. At a mere seven minutes long, I like to think of it as one of their more accessible, radio-friendly tunes. The sort of thing you could whistle to yourself while performing menial tasks involving livestock, perhaps. The snippet shown above is actually quite lucid. It goes on to include lines such as "Battleships confide in me and tell me where you are, Shining, flying, purple wolfhound, tell me where you are."
There was a whole lot of inhalation going down in '71.
For those of you who haven't yet closed their browser in disgust, I can admit this; my name is Phil and I am a bit of a Yes fan. I know. More to be pitied than anything else, I suppose. Admitting a liking for this is right up there with having a passion for Morris dancing, steam traction engines or arcane practices involving latex. I couldn't care less.
So, as I read those words yesterday evening, I thought to myself: "It would be quite nice to have this on in the car going home." Now I've come out to you, you're assuming I've got it really bad and cart a whole load of progressive rock CDs around with me. But you'd be wrong. That way lies foolishness. And as I walked to my car I realised that my only hope was the very very old and crotchety iPod I keep in my glove box.
This was my first iPod, bought many years ago when we were all still suitably impressed by the concept. A white brick, with a click wheel and monochrome LCD screen. It's not my main iPod. ("Ooh, look at him with his two iPods," I hear you say). It has sat in my car, unused, for ages. It's endured the freezing cold of winter, the stifling heat of what passes for summer. My understanding of technology was enough to convince me that it was going to be, to coin a term, buggered.
But no! I connected the leads with trembling fingers and it worked straight away. There I was, marvelling at the mighty 20gb of really dodgy music I possess. Time to do some rediscovering.
Last night we had "Yours Is No Disgrace" at full volume, followed by "Awaken" - 20-odd magnificent minutes of, well, magnificent oddness. I got goosebumps at the end of that one, and I suspect there are about 12 people on the planet that would understand. This morning we had the Close to the Edge album (from which we also get the title of this post). I have found that one track can get me most of the way along my 20-mile commute. Value for money, you see.
Then this evening we got "The Gates of Delirium" and "Sound Chaser" from Relayer. These tracks are close to unlistenable, you might say, were you to encounter them on a dark night. There appears to be hand-to-hand combat going on in the first track, whilst the bassist, drummer and guitarist seem to be having a heated argument in a locked wardrobe throughout the latter. It's dense, borderline impenetrable.
It's bloody marvellous. But until I get bored, you probably wouldn't want to be a hitch-hiker.
It seems I have contrary tastes. I like things that others absolutely hate, like sweaty Stilton, peaty whisky and marmite. To this list we must add very strange - and deeply unfashionable - music.
Good. Let's hear it for weirdness.
Yesterday evening, I'd finished all the work I was due to do and was about to leave the office. I was off the clock and there were few colleagues around. I had a quick look at Twitter before departing. (Before you ask, it's @fatboyfat. Thank you). I give you this detail: 1) to give you some narrative to the story, 2) to build some dramatic tension, and 3) so that anyone from work reading this doesn't think I was dossing about on social networks when I was supposed to be working.
One of the people I follow is the fore-mentioned writer, journalist and radio presenter. And he had tweeted the following set of seemingly random words:
@prodnose: Yesterday a morning came, a smile upon your face. Caesar's palace, morning glory, silly human race, If the summer changed to Winter...
"Yours Is No Disgrace" is a song by Yes, from their cryptically entitled 1971 album, The Yes Album. At a mere seven minutes long, I like to think of it as one of their more accessible, radio-friendly tunes. The sort of thing you could whistle to yourself while performing menial tasks involving livestock, perhaps. The snippet shown above is actually quite lucid. It goes on to include lines such as "Battleships confide in me and tell me where you are, Shining, flying, purple wolfhound, tell me where you are."
There was a whole lot of inhalation going down in '71.
For those of you who haven't yet closed their browser in disgust, I can admit this; my name is Phil and I am a bit of a Yes fan. I know. More to be pitied than anything else, I suppose. Admitting a liking for this is right up there with having a passion for Morris dancing, steam traction engines or arcane practices involving latex. I couldn't care less.
So, as I read those words yesterday evening, I thought to myself: "It would be quite nice to have this on in the car going home." Now I've come out to you, you're assuming I've got it really bad and cart a whole load of progressive rock CDs around with me. But you'd be wrong. That way lies foolishness. And as I walked to my car I realised that my only hope was the very very old and crotchety iPod I keep in my glove box.
This was my first iPod, bought many years ago when we were all still suitably impressed by the concept. A white brick, with a click wheel and monochrome LCD screen. It's not my main iPod. ("Ooh, look at him with his two iPods," I hear you say). It has sat in my car, unused, for ages. It's endured the freezing cold of winter, the stifling heat of what passes for summer. My understanding of technology was enough to convince me that it was going to be, to coin a term, buggered.
But no! I connected the leads with trembling fingers and it worked straight away. There I was, marvelling at the mighty 20gb of really dodgy music I possess. Time to do some rediscovering.
Last night we had "Yours Is No Disgrace" at full volume, followed by "Awaken" - 20-odd magnificent minutes of, well, magnificent oddness. I got goosebumps at the end of that one, and I suspect there are about 12 people on the planet that would understand. This morning we had the Close to the Edge album (from which we also get the title of this post). I have found that one track can get me most of the way along my 20-mile commute. Value for money, you see.
Then this evening we got "The Gates of Delirium" and "Sound Chaser" from Relayer. These tracks are close to unlistenable, you might say, were you to encounter them on a dark night. There appears to be hand-to-hand combat going on in the first track, whilst the bassist, drummer and guitarist seem to be having a heated argument in a locked wardrobe throughout the latter. It's dense, borderline impenetrable.
It's bloody marvellous. But until I get bored, you probably wouldn't want to be a hitch-hiker.
It seems I have contrary tastes. I like things that others absolutely hate, like sweaty Stilton, peaty whisky and marmite. To this list we must add very strange - and deeply unfashionable - music.
Good. Let's hear it for weirdness.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Shine on
Many years ago I lay in a tent and had what can only be called a psychedelic experience. The music of Pink Floyd was involved. I think there's probably a bye-law about that sort of thing.
I was in deepest Wales for a week-long Boys Brigade camp. I was only 11 years of age. This is beginning to paint me in a bad light, isn't it?
My elder brother - brother number 2, if you're interested - was a more senior BB officer and as such he'd been allowed to bring along one of those big stereo cassette players that were all the rage in the early '80s, together with a selection of tapes.
I'd been run out at cricket, which was hardly a surprise as I had failed to grasp the subtler principles of the game, namely the 'don't whack your wicket with your own bat' part. That is not a euphemism and you should be ashamed of yourselves.
Anyway, I decided to ignore the ongoing delights of cricket's honest warfare and lay myself down in a tent in the corner of the field. My brother's city-block sized stereo was there; I pressed 'Play' and Dark Side of the Moon greeted me.
I must have heard this album before at home. Despite what pop historians might tell you, punk rock did not sweep away everything that had gone before and there were still suburban households at the time that were no strangers to Pink Floyd, Genesis and the like. Brother number 1 was an unashamed Electric Light Orchestra fan. Johnny Rotten held no sway whatsoever.
But regardless, lying there in the rare warmth of a Welsh summer I did something different. I listened. And as I did, I let my gaze focus on the canvas of the tent above me. The sun was visible through the weft and weave of the fabric and there was this ever-changing inter-locking pattern of light and dark. I remember my breathing slowed. Before I'd even got past the end of the first track, I think I must have entered a higher state of consciousness.
I know. The only time I've ever heard that phrase before was from someone who knew a lot about ley lines and had an unhealthy obsession with silver jewellery.
In any case, this was heady stuff for an 11-year old. No substances were involved - well, nothing more than Spangles, but I don't think Timothy Leary would have recognised those as particularly counter-cultural.
I was reminded of this last night when a few of us went to Birmingham Planetarium for the Pink Floyd Fulldome Experience. A digital domed screen, some 10 metres across, with 360-degree sound and vision. They played Wish You Were Here last night; Dark Side comes later this year, along with The Wall. It was indeed psychedelic. And, not to put too fine a point on it, somewhat trippy. As the kaleidoscopes, bubbles and patterns swirled and rotated over my head, I thought back to myself 30 years ago.
As in 1981, no mind-altering stimulants were required. Well, not until later that night when a few cans of BrewDog Punk IPA headed my way. Even now, it's the nearest I'll ever get to punk rock.
I was in deepest Wales for a week-long Boys Brigade camp. I was only 11 years of age. This is beginning to paint me in a bad light, isn't it?
My elder brother - brother number 2, if you're interested - was a more senior BB officer and as such he'd been allowed to bring along one of those big stereo cassette players that were all the rage in the early '80s, together with a selection of tapes.
I'd been run out at cricket, which was hardly a surprise as I had failed to grasp the subtler principles of the game, namely the 'don't whack your wicket with your own bat' part. That is not a euphemism and you should be ashamed of yourselves.
Anyway, I decided to ignore the ongoing delights of cricket's honest warfare and lay myself down in a tent in the corner of the field. My brother's city-block sized stereo was there; I pressed 'Play' and Dark Side of the Moon greeted me.
I must have heard this album before at home. Despite what pop historians might tell you, punk rock did not sweep away everything that had gone before and there were still suburban households at the time that were no strangers to Pink Floyd, Genesis and the like. Brother number 1 was an unashamed Electric Light Orchestra fan. Johnny Rotten held no sway whatsoever.
But regardless, lying there in the rare warmth of a Welsh summer I did something different. I listened. And as I did, I let my gaze focus on the canvas of the tent above me. The sun was visible through the weft and weave of the fabric and there was this ever-changing inter-locking pattern of light and dark. I remember my breathing slowed. Before I'd even got past the end of the first track, I think I must have entered a higher state of consciousness.
I know. The only time I've ever heard that phrase before was from someone who knew a lot about ley lines and had an unhealthy obsession with silver jewellery.
In any case, this was heady stuff for an 11-year old. No substances were involved - well, nothing more than Spangles, but I don't think Timothy Leary would have recognised those as particularly counter-cultural.
I was reminded of this last night when a few of us went to Birmingham Planetarium for the Pink Floyd Fulldome Experience. A digital domed screen, some 10 metres across, with 360-degree sound and vision. They played Wish You Were Here last night; Dark Side comes later this year, along with The Wall. It was indeed psychedelic. And, not to put too fine a point on it, somewhat trippy. As the kaleidoscopes, bubbles and patterns swirled and rotated over my head, I thought back to myself 30 years ago.
As in 1981, no mind-altering stimulants were required. Well, not until later that night when a few cans of BrewDog Punk IPA headed my way. Even now, it's the nearest I'll ever get to punk rock.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Music in my pants
We need to lighten the mood a little after my recent ranting. While there's nothing I like more than a good rant, it's not a great spectator sport.
I could relieve the tension by crafting some finely observed comedy. Perhaps some biting yet hilarious satire that looks deep into the human spirit. Or I could do gags about underwear.
Yep, that's sorted then. However, you can join in too. This is what I want you to do:
Yes, it's childish. Yes, I pinched the idea from somewhere else. And yes, you're probably casting around for your iPod even as you read this.
Your list can go in the comments. Think of it as your gift to me.
I could relieve the tension by crafting some finely observed comedy. Perhaps some biting yet hilarious satire that looks deep into the human spirit. Or I could do gags about underwear.
Yep, that's sorted then. However, you can join in too. This is what I want you to do:
- Go grab your MP3 player, iPod or similar digital music system
- Hit the random button
- Place the words "in my pants" at the end of each song title that comes up
- Repeat twenty times
- Romeo in my pants - Basement Jaxx
- Afterglow in my pants - Genesis
- Keep On Moving in my pants - UB40
- Use Somebody in my pants - Kings of Leon
- Little Wonder in my pants - David Bowie
- Would I Lie to You in my pants - Whitesnake
- Two Thousand Years in my pants - The Who
- I Can Take You to the Sun in my pants - The Misunderstood
- Lay Down Your Head in my pants - Accidental Superhero
- Weird Fishes in my pants - Radiohead
- Highway Star in my pants - Deep Purple
- Stop in my pants - Pink Floyd
- Sweet Miracle in my pants - Rush
- The Golden Floor in my pants - Snow Patrol
- Lullaby in my pants - The Cure
- Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night in my pants - The Fratellis
- Smells Like Teen Spirit in my pants - The Moog Cookbook
- That's The Way in my pants - Led Zeppelin
- Virtual Insanity in my pants - Jamiroquai
- Anybody There in my pants - The Script
Yes, it's childish. Yes, I pinched the idea from somewhere else. And yes, you're probably casting around for your iPod even as you read this.
Your list can go in the comments. Think of it as your gift to me.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Mondays are for drinking with the Seldom Seen Kid
In my snow-and-horrifying-traffic-capers-related excitement I forgot to mention last night.
The BBC, in their ultimate wisdom, recorded a session with Elbow earlier in January, at Abbey Road studios. They invited along the BBC Concert Orchestra and a full choir. Someone trained a whole load of cameras on them, then the Beeb decided to show the whole thing on the telly. Cue lots of "Actually the BBC licence fee is not bad value for money" style-discussions.
Those of you reading this in the next few days might be in time to see it on iPlayer, if you'd like. I recommend the track 'Mirrorball', by the way - about 11 and a half minutes in. If you don't get chills, check for a pulse.
Those of you coming along later will have to make do with this track below. Make sure you do:
The BBC, in their ultimate wisdom, recorded a session with Elbow earlier in January, at Abbey Road studios. They invited along the BBC Concert Orchestra and a full choir. Someone trained a whole load of cameras on them, then the Beeb decided to show the whole thing on the telly. Cue lots of "Actually the BBC licence fee is not bad value for money" style-discussions.
Those of you reading this in the next few days might be in time to see it on iPlayer, if you'd like. I recommend the track 'Mirrorball', by the way - about 11 and a half minutes in. If you don't get chills, check for a pulse.
Those of you coming along later will have to make do with this track below. Make sure you do:
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Random Musings 2009
I did this in January last year, and I'm doing it again now. I know, what a wild and crazy guy I must be. Somebody stop me.
The rules are simple (and, once again, pinched from Word Magazine). Grab your iPod or other proprietary digital music player, assuming the Apple Company hasn't achieved total domination in your area of the universe. Hit the 'random' or 'shuffle' button. Note down the first five tracks that get selected.
No cheating, no avoiding the cheesy stuff and putting in only the hyper-cool tracks that mark you out as one of the musical cognoscenti. It's in your collection for a reason, so if "Achy Breaky Heart" makes its way to the surface you need to tell us about it.
This year I've upgraded to a spiffy 32G iPod Touch. Over 4,100 tracks of stuff to choose from. So what do we get?
Stevie Wonder - Higher Ground
OK, this is a good start. Fairly respectable, in fact. I'll admit it's from a 'Definitive Collection' compilation, so there was a distinct danger of getting "I Just Called To Say I Love You". We should all be thankful, therefore. Whenever that song gets played, God punches a kitten. Just so you know.
The Police - So Lonely
We haven't disgraced ourselves yet. As with the above-mentioned Mr Wonder, there are Police tracks that are more embarrassing. (And no, I'm not going to use the phrase 'criminal record'. Damn.) This track is infamous for being associated with the early 80's BBC newsreader Sue Lawley. By all accounts, at least one member of the band was in fact singing Ms Lawley's name in the chorus. Strange but true.
Jeff Buckley - Demon John
From "Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk", the album he didn't get to finish (or start, depending on your point of view). This has lines such as: "Why did you come here? Is it to excavate all your sins? Boil within? Slaughter like the daughter of the devil you send me. I have to deal, you called me here." So it's a party tune, then.
Massive Attack - Unfinished Sympathy
And we get the same artist two years running! This song is of course most famous for the accompanying video, filmed in one single shot, although Shara Nelson's spectacular hairdo rarely gets a mention. This song is also known as: "That One TV Producers Use As Background Music When They Want To Inject Some Gritty Urban Tension Into Something Mundane Like A Cookery Show".
Ben Folds Five - Army
I suspect this may be a guilty pleasure but I love this track unreservedly, together with pretty much all of Ben Folds' output (with and without the Five). Therefore I'm failing miserably when it comes to writing anything pithy or amusing about it. Although I have been known to play air piano in the car to BFF, if that's an image that pleases you. There is clearly no hope.
Now, all you readers, subscribers and lurkers, it's your turn. Do your own randomiser and list the first five tracks in a comment to this post. Or do your own blog post and include a link to it. Whatever.
As I said last year: "Go on, knock yourselves out".
The rules are simple (and, once again, pinched from Word Magazine). Grab your iPod or other proprietary digital music player, assuming the Apple Company hasn't achieved total domination in your area of the universe. Hit the 'random' or 'shuffle' button. Note down the first five tracks that get selected.
No cheating, no avoiding the cheesy stuff and putting in only the hyper-cool tracks that mark you out as one of the musical cognoscenti. It's in your collection for a reason, so if "Achy Breaky Heart" makes its way to the surface you need to tell us about it.
This year I've upgraded to a spiffy 32G iPod Touch. Over 4,100 tracks of stuff to choose from. So what do we get?
Stevie Wonder - Higher Ground
OK, this is a good start. Fairly respectable, in fact. I'll admit it's from a 'Definitive Collection' compilation, so there was a distinct danger of getting "I Just Called To Say I Love You". We should all be thankful, therefore. Whenever that song gets played, God punches a kitten. Just so you know.
The Police - So Lonely
We haven't disgraced ourselves yet. As with the above-mentioned Mr Wonder, there are Police tracks that are more embarrassing. (And no, I'm not going to use the phrase 'criminal record'. Damn.) This track is infamous for being associated with the early 80's BBC newsreader Sue Lawley. By all accounts, at least one member of the band was in fact singing Ms Lawley's name in the chorus. Strange but true.
Jeff Buckley - Demon John
From "Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk", the album he didn't get to finish (or start, depending on your point of view). This has lines such as: "Why did you come here? Is it to excavate all your sins? Boil within? Slaughter like the daughter of the devil you send me. I have to deal, you called me here." So it's a party tune, then.
Massive Attack - Unfinished Sympathy
And we get the same artist two years running! This song is of course most famous for the accompanying video, filmed in one single shot, although Shara Nelson's spectacular hairdo rarely gets a mention. This song is also known as: "That One TV Producers Use As Background Music When They Want To Inject Some Gritty Urban Tension Into Something Mundane Like A Cookery Show".
Ben Folds Five - Army
I suspect this may be a guilty pleasure but I love this track unreservedly, together with pretty much all of Ben Folds' output (with and without the Five). Therefore I'm failing miserably when it comes to writing anything pithy or amusing about it. Although I have been known to play air piano in the car to BFF, if that's an image that pleases you. There is clearly no hope.
Now, all you readers, subscribers and lurkers, it's your turn. Do your own randomiser and list the first five tracks in a comment to this post. Or do your own blog post and include a link to it. Whatever.
As I said last year: "Go on, knock yourselves out".
Thursday, 18 December 2008
"But you don't really care for music, do you?"
It's a really good job I never published the version of this post I had in mind on Saturday night. Partly because we'd had the neighbours over, the evening had gone downhill rapidly in a haze of Martin Miller's gin and the resultant fuzz would have caused unwarranted randomness.
It would have been the typed equivalent of: "I lurrrve yew...you're mah besht mate," or: "Leave it Darren, he's not worth it". I'm not certain I'm even spelling 'hiccup' properly.
But that's not the main reason why it's better I waited. The other reason is because I was a lot angrier on Saturday evening. Before the gin turned the anger into sodden melancholy.
The 15-week talent-vacuum that is X-Factor finished at the weekend, with one particularly bland singer winning out over several other bland singers.
Battle of the blands, if you will.
It wasn't the fact that it was over that made me angry. If anything, I was glad it had finished. I only really pay attention to it in the opening stages, when it's more a human zoo than anything else. (Does that make me a bad person? Thought so).
It wasn't the choice of eventual winner that made me angry. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, if somewhat taken to Whitney Houston-esque histrionics. Not my sort of thing, but it appears to be popular with people who wear a lot of man-made fibres, so there you go.
No, it was the song choice of the show's svengali, the oddly-trousered Simon Cowell, for the afore-mentioned winner's debut single. That made me angry. That and the fact that it will no doubt trouble the no. 1 position of the charts at Christmas. A cover of 'Hallelujah', the Leonard Cohen number.
I seem to remember using phrases like 'cultural vandal'. I may have asked: "Is nothing sacred?" I talked about how the song can only be sung by someone who'd been round the block a bit. A little damaged. A bit windswept and interesting. I could well have rambled about how a song that spoke eloquently of the mixture of exultation and despair that comes with passionate love couldn't be sung by someone whose idea of personal tragedy was running out of credit on their Nokia. I may even have offered to play the Jeff Buckley version for my neighbours. Which would have brought the party mood down a notch or two, had Katie not wrestled the iPod out of my indignant fingers.
I am quite keen on 'Hallelujah'. I like the story behind it - Leonard Cohen apparently agonised over it for two years before completing a version with 80 verses. I am quite keen on the Jeff Buckley cover, or, 'the one they play on the OC when someone dies', as it's now known. And although I don't like her that much, I have a copy of it done by kd lang that I have to go for brisk walk after playing, making sure to avoid eye contact with other people.
Since Saturday, however, my mood has changed a little. The purists are angry now - and they're sober. There's a campaign to get other versions to number one instead. The story has been covered by papers, radio and TV. A lot. There is even a swathe of Facebook groups campaigning, as only Facebook groups can. Every man and his dog has written a blog post about it (many of whom used exactly the same line from the song as the title - I'm just following the herd here).
And you know what? It's a song. A great song, but just a song. It's been covered by about 150 people at the last point, so moaning about another one is a pretty good example of the stable-door-horse thing. It turns out a certain L. Cohen gets some benefit from the royalties. A whole bunch of people will get to hear the original and other 'definitive' versions as a result of the publicity. And I realised that a lot of musical snobbery was being displayed.
So has my opinion changed with regards to the Alexandra Burke version? Have the scales lifted from eyes? Have I learned to accept this mainstream recitation?
Oh God no, it's bloody awful.
It would have been the typed equivalent of: "I lurrrve yew...you're mah besht mate," or: "Leave it Darren, he's not worth it". I'm not certain I'm even spelling 'hiccup' properly.
But that's not the main reason why it's better I waited. The other reason is because I was a lot angrier on Saturday evening. Before the gin turned the anger into sodden melancholy.
The 15-week talent-vacuum that is X-Factor finished at the weekend, with one particularly bland singer winning out over several other bland singers.
Battle of the blands, if you will.
It wasn't the fact that it was over that made me angry. If anything, I was glad it had finished. I only really pay attention to it in the opening stages, when it's more a human zoo than anything else. (Does that make me a bad person? Thought so).
It wasn't the choice of eventual winner that made me angry. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, if somewhat taken to Whitney Houston-esque histrionics. Not my sort of thing, but it appears to be popular with people who wear a lot of man-made fibres, so there you go.
No, it was the song choice of the show's svengali, the oddly-trousered Simon Cowell, for the afore-mentioned winner's debut single. That made me angry. That and the fact that it will no doubt trouble the no. 1 position of the charts at Christmas. A cover of 'Hallelujah', the Leonard Cohen number.
I seem to remember using phrases like 'cultural vandal'. I may have asked: "Is nothing sacred?" I talked about how the song can only be sung by someone who'd been round the block a bit. A little damaged. A bit windswept and interesting. I could well have rambled about how a song that spoke eloquently of the mixture of exultation and despair that comes with passionate love couldn't be sung by someone whose idea of personal tragedy was running out of credit on their Nokia. I may even have offered to play the Jeff Buckley version for my neighbours. Which would have brought the party mood down a notch or two, had Katie not wrestled the iPod out of my indignant fingers.
I am quite keen on 'Hallelujah'. I like the story behind it - Leonard Cohen apparently agonised over it for two years before completing a version with 80 verses. I am quite keen on the Jeff Buckley cover, or, 'the one they play on the OC when someone dies', as it's now known. And although I don't like her that much, I have a copy of it done by kd lang that I have to go for brisk walk after playing, making sure to avoid eye contact with other people.
Since Saturday, however, my mood has changed a little. The purists are angry now - and they're sober. There's a campaign to get other versions to number one instead. The story has been covered by papers, radio and TV. A lot. There is even a swathe of Facebook groups campaigning, as only Facebook groups can. Every man and his dog has written a blog post about it (many of whom used exactly the same line from the song as the title - I'm just following the herd here).
And you know what? It's a song. A great song, but just a song. It's been covered by about 150 people at the last point, so moaning about another one is a pretty good example of the stable-door-horse thing. It turns out a certain L. Cohen gets some benefit from the royalties. A whole bunch of people will get to hear the original and other 'definitive' versions as a result of the publicity. And I realised that a lot of musical snobbery was being displayed.
So has my opinion changed with regards to the Alexandra Burke version? Have the scales lifted from eyes? Have I learned to accept this mainstream recitation?
Oh God no, it's bloody awful.
Monday, 7 January 2008
Random musings
Partly inspired by my attempts to find something to drive along to on my way to work, but mainly pinched wholesale from The Word Magazine, here is my Randomizer.The rules are simple. Get your iPod or similar music player. Set it to "Shuffle" and write down the first five randomly-selected tracks it chooses. Apparently it tells people everything they need to know about you. And your dodgy tastes in music, by all accounts.
And no cheating. You cannot choose tracks that make you look cool and interesting.
Right, out of the 3,800-odd tracks on my ancient but serviceable 3rd generation iPod, what do we find?
1 Santana - Smooth
Damn. This could have been something off one of the more interesting seventies albums, not the later stuff where the Fugees would show up and Carlos was just phoning it in.
2 R.E.M - You
Album track off 'Monster', if I remember correctly. My jangly indie credentials are restored.
3 Thin Lizzy - Emerald
Ah. You see. Brother no.1 used to play Thin Lizzy, Rainbow, Deep Purple and ACDC on the stereo at Sunday lunchtime when we all lived at home. I think it used to drive my parents nuts, despite my dad's protests of "No, I quite like this one. It's got a great tune" partway through an eight-minute Ritchie Blackmore solo. With the Lizzy, though, any band from Ireland was always going to have my mom on side.
4 The Stranglers - Golden Brown
January 1982. Immediately I'm in the metalwork room at King Edward VI Grammar School, trying to work a lathe. None of this health-and-safety stuff, neither. Eleven-year-olds with power tools? Get stuck in, you ponce.
And any lazy commentator who writes anything along the lines of "Golden Brown? That sounds a bit like Gordon Brown..." needs to be taken out and beaten with a length of two by four.
5 Massive Attack - Risingson
Coolness at last. I think. Although I suspect this one might be Katie's. Swings and roundabouts, though, she's put her Alexander O'Neal collection on there, and any one of those could just have easily emerged.
Right. Now it's your turn. You can comment with your random five tracks - yes, you lurkers, let's be hearing from you. Or those of you with blogs could put a post of your own together.
Go on, knock yourselves out.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Oh for crying out loud.
Inside I am crying. Crying hot, bitter tears. Tears of envy, tears of loss.I was not, as you'll have guessed, at the O2 Arena in London last night. I did not see the revelation. I have not experienced the miracle first-hand.
I mean, will you just look at this review? The writer's even coined a new word - 'heaviosity'. And look at how he's described 'Kashmir'. If that doesn't put shivers up the back of your neck, check for a pulse. You might in fact be clinically dead.
Or a Depeche Mode fan. Which, come to think of it, may not be all that different from being dead, but only with slightly worse clothing.
I'm well aware that bands reuniting and going back on tour has been very much the thing this year. I've even experienced one of them myself when I saw Genesis in July. It was great - but then again I had seen them live several times before.
I'll make you all a promise. This relatively sophisticated, jaded and boring old bugger will immediately, and without notice, take on the appearance and demeanour of an excited schoolboy. I may even hop from foot to foot. All that has to happen is for Led Zep to announce tour dates.
Stranger things have happened.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
On a steel horse, apparently
I am a sophisticated music fan. The 3,000- odd tunes on my iPod range from the sublime to the cor-blimey. It's therefore fair to say that I have catholic tastes. And that's "small-c catholic". It doesn't mean that I only like Gregorian chant, by the way.So I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that I used to have the teensiest of soft spots for Bon Jovi. Now, don't get me wrong, here, I wouldn't seek their music out if I had a choice. But they were all over the place in the 80's. To be honest, I really preferred acts that didn't have such a hair product collateral - Led Zep, Motorhead and Deep Purple wouldn't know one end of a L'Oreal can from another. But in the pubs and clubs I went to at the time, you couldn't really get away from New Jersey's finest. I even got persuaded by a friend to see them at Milton Keynes Bowl about twenty years ago. They were actually rather good - a little polished, perhaps, but not offensive.
But I must admit to trying to stifle a little giggle when I saw a full-sized billboard promoting their latest tour. They're playing at the Ricoh Arena in Coventry next year. There's a picture of the band putting on their best mean-and-moody into the camera. There is a lot of leather and accessorising from International House of Horse Brass. At least one of them looks like he'd much rather be having a bit of a sit down with a digestive biscuit and a brew. The passing of time can indeed be a cruel thing.
But it wasn't the band shot that made me nearly steer off the road. It was the tagline, in words three feet high:
"The Lost Highway Leads to Coventry."
Now, I'm sorry. That sort of thing probably makes perfect sense in Montana, the Big Sky Country. Or in places like Nevada, Arizona, Texas, even. I can imagine a Lost Highway winding an epic route through breathtaking scenery. You're on a one-way ticket to Nowhere City. You just don't care. You're a man with a score to settle. The rules of society don't apply to you. It's just you and your ride. On the Lost Highway.
I'm afraid this sort of thing doesn't really translate very well over here. Mind you, I suppose its difficult to give the A444 from Nuneaton to Foleshill the same feel.
I'm afraid this sort of thing doesn't really translate very well over here. Mind you, I suppose its difficult to give the A444 from Nuneaton to Foleshill the same feel.
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Music mash-up
I sometimes have to explain to people that there was once a time, long ago, when iPods played music.No videos, no photos, none of this phoning malarkey. My iPod actually does look like this one------>
I bought this three or four years ago on a visit to New York and have since three-quarter filled it with my, erm, odd tastes in music. It accompanies us on trips, and there's no better way of spending an afternoon than plugging it into some speakers and putting it on what we now call "random shuffle bizarre mode".
Katie has the patience of a saint when it comes to my musical tastes. And as we moved from the sublime to the cor-blimey, she rarely reacted. A lesser woman might have asked, "What the feck is this?" as yet another dystopian ten-minute progressive piece emerged. Katie just raises an eyebrow, barely visible over the book she's reading. "What are we listening to now, dear?" she'll enquire sweetly, not even making eye contact.
This is a code. It means one thing. Skip. Skip now.
It's a good job musical tastes can't be cited in divorce courts.
Saturday, 8 September 2007
I know this much is true
The responses to my last post illustrated not only global nature of the Internet (people in Egypt and Israel appear to have been on here, proving that writing tosh about lard can indeed build bridges) but also some of the language problems that crop up.My thanks go to Tom for his suggestion on how I should avoid any wardrobe malfunctions at last night's Ball. As he lives in Iowa, his suggestion that I should wear suspenders would make perfect sense to him, and, I guess to most of his compatriots. However, I suspect that anyone from Britain reading that advice would get a completely different image, suspenders "over here" being what I believe those on the North American continent call "garters". Wikipedia covers it all here.
Divided as well we may be by a common language, we are clearly of one mind, Tom and I, as my braces did indeed help to avoid any impromptu aardvark impressions. (Oh, and thanks for that image, Matt). Freed from such concerns, I had a truly splendid time. The Ball was in aid of the NSPCC, a very worthy cause indeed, and about 400 people were there. All very classy, in the main, although I did spot one chap in full evening dress but wearing a Bluetooth headset.
Tit.
Of course, the whole idea of events like this is to get people to dig deep, so there were charity auctions, raffles and the like. This was the star lot on the main auction:
That's the world's first customer Jaguar C-XF. The reserve price was £34,000 so I kept my hand in my pocket (and played with my garter straps). I think it went for £44,000 eventually. Men with Bluetooth headsets need not apply.The good news - I did get to win my very own Jaguar in the raffle.
The bad news - it's a model.
The good news - this is no ordinary model. This is a 1/12 replica D-Type. It's handbuilt from steel, best part of a foot long, beautifully detailed and is apparently a limited edition collector's item.
I was all for giving it to Katie's dad - a huge Jaguar fan - until I actually saw it. Sorry Glynn, I'm keeping this, and the very moment I get a house with a study, it'll go on display. In fact, sod that, I'm displaying it anyway. My first real car cost considerably less than one of these.
And who was this taking to the stage for the evening's entertainment? None other that Tony Hadley. I'll admit - I was less than enthusiastic at the thought of this. Most male pop stars of a certain age over the last few years seem to have reinvented themselves as sub-Tony Bennetts so I was expecting a certain degree of crooning.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when Tony and his band tore into the Feeder song "Buck Rogers" with gusto. Oh. My. God. This was a complete beer-out-of-the-nose moment. Given that the opening lines of the song are "He's got a brand new car, Looks like a Jaguar" is was probably a deliberate inclusion. But he then followed it up with a set that included tracks by The Killers and Kaiser Chiefs. And he belted them out with all the urgency of a man half his age. Clearly no crooner, our Mr H.
Of course, there were the obligatory Spandau Ballet tracks. Including one of the Holy Trinity for those of us of a certain age.
Let me explain. If you're in your later thirties, you were a teenager during the 1980s. If so, you spent 35% of the decade asleep, 25% playing with a Rubik's Cube and pretty much all of the remaining time trying to get members of the opposite sex to dance with you to one of the following three songs:
- Save a Prayer - Duran Duran
- Careless Whisper - George Michael
- True - Spandau Ballet
In fact, it is a truth universally acknowledged that this part of the disco was known as the Erection Section, such was the amount of angst-ridden hormonal activity going on.
For my international cadre of readers - I don't know if any of this translates to you. For all I know, teenagers in Ulan Bator might well get on down to the throat-singing vibe they have going on over there. All I know was that in the early hours of this morning, the man who I heard singing "True" during too many of my ancient rites of passage was there in front of me singing it one more time for real. I was back in the Main Hall at King Edward VI Grammar School, Aston. Whilst there was no-one selling Fanta this time, I did at least have my special someone with me.
And we danced.
Tuesday, 10 July 2007
Got to get in to get out
When I started this blog I decided not to just talk about the weight-loss attempt. After all, it would be a pretty dull affair for you, dear reader, if that was all it covered. And to be honest, I'd find it a bit of a bore too, from a writing perspective. So I will from time to time talk about other things of note here.There will be some rules, though. I won't blog for the sake of it, so no posts about 'amusing things my cat did today'. And there are some subjects I'll avoid, like direct references to my work. Not because I'm ashamed of it; quite the contrary, but I'm damned if I'm going to spend my leisure time thinking about it.
So, this weekend Katie and I went to London with some friends to see Genesis playing at Twickenham on Sunday. We had a very pleasant time, and I tried my best to be sensible about what I ate. Can't say the same about the drinking, but there you go.
I'll not make any apologies about my taste in music here. It's said that the music you started listening to at key times in your life - typically 16 to 20 - often stays with you afterwards. I actually like a lot of more 'modern' stuff, but Genesis still occupy an important place in my record collection. And despite the years (I first saw them 20 years ago, and they were thought to be in the autumn of their careers then) they can still deliver live.
What do you mean, "dinosaurs playing irrelevant music". Yes, and your point was what, exactly?
It was a perfect night - there was light rainfall early during the show but it didn't detract from the atmosphere. Without a new album to promote they played a varied setlist that went down with the pop fans and prog-heads alike (like me). There was emotion, there was bombast. It was wilfully unfashionable. I loved every second and sang along like a thing possessed. They did play Ripples, which was wonderful, but I managed to keep myself sensible, you'll be pleased to know.
I didn't take any pictures, so I am indebted to several other concert-goers for the following examples. They don't really do it justice, but might give you some idea:
During their final encore ('Carpet Crawlers', another song of almost hypnotic beauty), it occurred to me that this might be the last time I would see them live. After all, it has to be said they're not getting any younger, and unfortunately the UK and its music press don't really support aging progressive rock bands. It was a bittersweet moment for me as I've followed them for most of my adult life. This might be the end.
Katie quietly remarked that perhaps the rain had returned, as there appeared to be a dampness around my eyes at that point. She can be very perceptive.
Friday, 6 July 2007
I can't dance, don't ask me
Not going to be posting until next week now as we're off to London tomorrow morning.I will get weighed beforehand, of course, and update this blog on Monday if I can. Bit nervous about it, but what are you going to do? If you live by the scales, you die by the sc... no, that doesn't work, but you get the gist.
I'm going to see one of the finest bands ever to come from these shores, at Twickenham Stadium on Sunday. I'm five rows from the front. And if they play "Ripples" (one of the most beautiful pieces of music, from their 1976 album "Trick of the Tail"), I won't be held responsible for my actions, I can tell you.
Sorry. Anorak off now. Have a good weekend, all.
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