Monday, 7 November 2011
Drop It Like It's Hot...
In the aftermath of a fire, it is always the embers which burn the hottest. Amidst scenes of great desolation, tiny fragments of that which raged relentlessly still remain.
This is Embers in a nutshell.
Formerly Lost Knives, minus their previous drummer and adapting a whole new direction, Embers early offerings are raw and ultimately, relentless.
The lineage of Manchester's music is well documented, and it's often cited that in Manchester, bleak is best. "It's grim up North" they say. Whoever 'they' are. This is what Manchester does best, it's not here to hold your hand, to tell you "everything's going to be alright."
The city itself has never had the glitz of London, or The Beatles, yet it carries on. Raging. Brooding. 'Days Turn Into Weeks' embodies this and threatens to be as vast and poignant as the material being released by The Horrors at the moment.
Dark, gothic and simmering away behind closed doors, Embers is a project that shows great potential. Keep your ear to the ground for the inevitable live bombardment as they aim to right the wrongs that came before them, and burn anew.
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Hatchets Buried, 'Originals' at the Ready
You’ll have to forgive me on this one. I know I’ve been prone to hyperbole in the past, and sometimes it’s unjustified. However, with something as cathartic and raw as music, it’s a natural response.
It’s very easy to get all wrapped up in the feelings of “what might be?” with the announcement of a new album from your favourite band, or the prospect of a tour, or the latent, post-foetal glow of “the best gig ever.”
Like I say, it is not giddy, it is what it is.
2011 has, again, been ‘The Year of the Reformation’, with indie demi-gods The Strokes and Britpop mastodon’s Pulp leading the way.
That was until around 4pm today, for 18/10/2011 will go down as a day in British music history as the day The Stone Roses finally decided to build bridges, and announce a new album and two comeback shows at Manchester’s Heaton Park. Both of which will be a prefix to a planned world tour.
Now I’m sure the pessimists and those who steer clear of ‘Madchester’ and all it’s nostalgia will together, groan collectively at the sight and sound of Manchester’s ‘Old Guard’ rearing their demonic, cocaine battered heads, but you know what? Fuck ‘em.
I have my doubts, yes. Brown’s always been questionable live, Mani could barely stand up during Primal Scream’s set at Glasto he was that battered and I’m not looking forward to the painful six minute instrumental ‘Foz’. In fact, I hope they swerve a fair bit of ‘Second Coming’, although I’d imagine that album’s prominence in the pending set-list was probably a clause in John Squire’s contract.
Seriously though, despite the negative tones of the above paragraph, does it all really matter? It’s ‘The Roses’. They, along with others, gave voice to a disgruntled Manchester, down trodden by the political and economical holocaust that beset the country under Thatcher’s rule.
Brown, Squire, Mani and Reni had people dancing in an environment when only bleakness seemed to prevail. Their timing, given the current mood and state of the country, is apt and probably no coincidence.
There’s nothing wrong with harking back to a time and scene that’s happened over 20 years ago, nothing wrong with it at all. Like they say, you can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been. Chances are some pen pushers are going to claim this is a setback for all the creativity and excitement that has burst out of England recently. For me though, The Roses pushed British music forward about 30 years anyway, so when you add it up, we’re still a decade ahead of the curve. So fret not.
I don’t care if they were before my time, or even that I will never truly experience the mood and variables that helped the band become who they were. That’s irrelevant. I have my own connection with the band, my own memories of how I felt when they came on in a club. My own imitation of Ian Brown’s swagger whenever ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ played in 42nd Street, when I was an 18 year old little muppet acting hard because of vodka and red bull.
It’s our turn now and whether non-conformists like it or not, these gigs are going to happen. Well, providing Brown and Squire can stay mates for eight months.
So, to the naysayers I say this, go and trawl Youtube looking for piss poor vocal performances by Brown. Laugh at Squire’s egotism on ‘Second Coming’, or Mani’s white outfit at Benicassim 2011. Ask “who is John Reni anyway?”
And whilst you’re all sat in your room, I’m going to go down to Heaton Park with 75,000 other folk, sing every song at the top of my voice and have the time of my life.
That is if I manage to get a ticket.
It’s very easy to get all wrapped up in the feelings of “what might be?” with the announcement of a new album from your favourite band, or the prospect of a tour, or the latent, post-foetal glow of “the best gig ever.”
Like I say, it is not giddy, it is what it is.
2011 has, again, been ‘The Year of the Reformation’, with indie demi-gods The Strokes and Britpop mastodon’s Pulp leading the way.
That was until around 4pm today, for 18/10/2011 will go down as a day in British music history as the day The Stone Roses finally decided to build bridges, and announce a new album and two comeback shows at Manchester’s Heaton Park. Both of which will be a prefix to a planned world tour.
Now I’m sure the pessimists and those who steer clear of ‘Madchester’ and all it’s nostalgia will together, groan collectively at the sight and sound of Manchester’s ‘Old Guard’ rearing their demonic, cocaine battered heads, but you know what? Fuck ‘em.
I have my doubts, yes. Brown’s always been questionable live, Mani could barely stand up during Primal Scream’s set at Glasto he was that battered and I’m not looking forward to the painful six minute instrumental ‘Foz’. In fact, I hope they swerve a fair bit of ‘Second Coming’, although I’d imagine that album’s prominence in the pending set-list was probably a clause in John Squire’s contract.
Seriously though, despite the negative tones of the above paragraph, does it all really matter? It’s ‘The Roses’. They, along with others, gave voice to a disgruntled Manchester, down trodden by the political and economical holocaust that beset the country under Thatcher’s rule.
Brown, Squire, Mani and Reni had people dancing in an environment when only bleakness seemed to prevail. Their timing, given the current mood and state of the country, is apt and probably no coincidence.
There’s nothing wrong with harking back to a time and scene that’s happened over 20 years ago, nothing wrong with it at all. Like they say, you can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been. Chances are some pen pushers are going to claim this is a setback for all the creativity and excitement that has burst out of England recently. For me though, The Roses pushed British music forward about 30 years anyway, so when you add it up, we’re still a decade ahead of the curve. So fret not.
I don’t care if they were before my time, or even that I will never truly experience the mood and variables that helped the band become who they were. That’s irrelevant. I have my own connection with the band, my own memories of how I felt when they came on in a club. My own imitation of Ian Brown’s swagger whenever ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ played in 42nd Street, when I was an 18 year old little muppet acting hard because of vodka and red bull.
It’s our turn now and whether non-conformists like it or not, these gigs are going to happen. Well, providing Brown and Squire can stay mates for eight months.
So, to the naysayers I say this, go and trawl Youtube looking for piss poor vocal performances by Brown. Laugh at Squire’s egotism on ‘Second Coming’, or Mani’s white outfit at Benicassim 2011. Ask “who is John Reni anyway?”
And whilst you’re all sat in your room, I’m going to go down to Heaton Park with 75,000 other folk, sing every song at the top of my voice and have the time of my life.
That is if I manage to get a ticket.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Mash It Up...
Nice little skim through some great songs from over the years. Hats off to the folk at 6Music.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/podcasts/series/joyof6
http://www.bbc.co.uk/podcasts/series/joyof6
Sunday, 10 April 2011
The Comeback Kid...
Agent Provocateurs, there's a quite a few of them on God's green. People that incite debate, anger, frustration and a whole host of other emotions. Harry from The Only Way Is Essex, Jessie J, and Lucifer's own emissary of heated debate, Gary Neville. Individuals such as these are loved by some, reviled by others. Except for Jessie J, she's just a dick.
However, none of them lot hold a candle to Kanye West. The Chicago native incites all kinds of palavar, and every so often, downright encourages controversy. Sometimes it's humorous, "George Bush doesn't care about Black people", for example. In other cases, it leaves a sour taste in one's mouth. His hissy fit during the EMAs after he lost out to Justice in the Best Video category for instance. Ahhhhhhhh, you all thought I was going to harp on about poor Taylor Swift. Suckers.
"Yeezy's" taken a few hard hits of late, none moreso than his Mother's untimely death. Obama labelling him a "jackass", probably didn't help his Jupiter sized ego neither. Jay Leno more or less broke him when after his bumrushing of Taylor Swift, the chat show stalwart asked King Kanye how his mother would of reacted to the Hennessy fuelled sabotage?
Let's have it right, he's been a bit hit and miss since the stellar College Dropout, showing occasional flashes of brilliance with songs like 'Flashing Lights', 'We Major' and 'Crack Music'. Yet nothing has really floored you like 'All Falls Down', 'Never Let Me Down' and ultimately, the amazing 'Through The Wire'.
Kanye's always been a feller with an ear for a sample and often hilarious turns of phrase. Yet he seemed to lose his way a little with 808s and Heartbreaks, an ode to a stormy break-up with on off missus Amber Rose and his Mother's passing.
The haters thought they'd had their moment of triumph, writing Kanye's obituaries and celebrating the demise of the biggest selfdom in Hip-Hop since LL Cool J. Mistake. The worst error with an adversary, is to consider them unecessary. This will build a resentment in said foe, who, if they have anything about them, will turn that resentment into drive and use it as fuel to fuck you up.
Enter My Dark Twisted Fantasy.
It's an epic album, his biggest project yet. The music geeks over at Pitchfork drew similarities to Michael Jackson in relation to the scope of it all. They weren't wrong, really. Every song on the album is a haymaker, and it's difficult to really single out a favourite without getting in a twist. It's like trying to name your favourite character in The Wire (today it's Bunk, yesterday it was Body).
It's safe to say, Kanye is back. In the past two or three years, Wayne, T.I. and Big Boi have raised the bar that Kanye himself challenged them to equal with his hole-in-one first LP. Things appear to have come full circle as the Chicago rapper returns to the summit of rap with his fifth opus.
However, it'll all be irrelevant once the good doctor returns with Detox.
Until then, enjoy the video to 'All of The Lights'. And no, I haven't decided to post this one because Rihanna's side boob is draped all over it. Ahem.
Ta-ta for now.
However, none of them lot hold a candle to Kanye West. The Chicago native incites all kinds of palavar, and every so often, downright encourages controversy. Sometimes it's humorous, "George Bush doesn't care about Black people", for example. In other cases, it leaves a sour taste in one's mouth. His hissy fit during the EMAs after he lost out to Justice in the Best Video category for instance. Ahhhhhhhh, you all thought I was going to harp on about poor Taylor Swift. Suckers.
"Yeezy's" taken a few hard hits of late, none moreso than his Mother's untimely death. Obama labelling him a "jackass", probably didn't help his Jupiter sized ego neither. Jay Leno more or less broke him when after his bumrushing of Taylor Swift, the chat show stalwart asked King Kanye how his mother would of reacted to the Hennessy fuelled sabotage?
Let's have it right, he's been a bit hit and miss since the stellar College Dropout, showing occasional flashes of brilliance with songs like 'Flashing Lights', 'We Major' and 'Crack Music'. Yet nothing has really floored you like 'All Falls Down', 'Never Let Me Down' and ultimately, the amazing 'Through The Wire'.
Kanye's always been a feller with an ear for a sample and often hilarious turns of phrase. Yet he seemed to lose his way a little with 808s and Heartbreaks, an ode to a stormy break-up with on off missus Amber Rose and his Mother's passing.
The haters thought they'd had their moment of triumph, writing Kanye's obituaries and celebrating the demise of the biggest selfdom in Hip-Hop since LL Cool J. Mistake. The worst error with an adversary, is to consider them unecessary. This will build a resentment in said foe, who, if they have anything about them, will turn that resentment into drive and use it as fuel to fuck you up.
Enter My Dark Twisted Fantasy.
It's an epic album, his biggest project yet. The music geeks over at Pitchfork drew similarities to Michael Jackson in relation to the scope of it all. They weren't wrong, really. Every song on the album is a haymaker, and it's difficult to really single out a favourite without getting in a twist. It's like trying to name your favourite character in The Wire (today it's Bunk, yesterday it was Body).
It's safe to say, Kanye is back. In the past two or three years, Wayne, T.I. and Big Boi have raised the bar that Kanye himself challenged them to equal with his hole-in-one first LP. Things appear to have come full circle as the Chicago rapper returns to the summit of rap with his fifth opus.
However, it'll all be irrelevant once the good doctor returns with Detox.
Until then, enjoy the video to 'All of The Lights'. And no, I haven't decided to post this one because Rihanna's side boob is draped all over it. Ahem.
Ta-ta for now.
Friday, 25 March 2011
Music For The Sunshine...
Still don't think there's a better song to listen to when it's sunny.
One of the greatest social commentators music has ever been lucky enough to bare witness too.
Take care Joe.
One of the greatest social commentators music has ever been lucky enough to bare witness too.
Take care Joe.
Monday, 14 March 2011
Erm...YES!?
They're back. Actually back. Back for good. No silly, not Take That, The Strokes.
Yesterday I was watching Alexa Chung's new Gonzo (side note: mighty improvement on Zane Lowe) and the video for their new single 'Under Cover of Darkness' was on and for me this is where it sank in.
Seeing them assembled together in an official capacity, watching Casablancas look effortlessly cool in the video, this was The Strokes.
Yes, he's separate from the band for the most the video, and his wardrobe differs slightly making the band look like an ensemble session piece and Julian the solo musician. There's a point to all that though isn't there?
All the politics behind the third album, Albert Hammond Jnr. wanting to pitch in with the writing and Casablancas' subsequent rebuttal of his material leading Albert to pen two solo LPs. Frankly, neither First Impressions of Earth nor Yours to Keep were blinders, so to listen to 'UCoD' is a relief. Simply because it is.
Watching the video, listening to the lyrics, you'd hope the band have worked through their differences and will come back with Angles and remind everybody why, at one point, they were the best band going. There are still a couple of niggles though, one being not once do any of the band even look at Julian during the video, let alone make eye contact with him. Artistic direction or festering resentment? Who knows?
These things matter, with a band like The Strokes. To me anyway. In 2001 when Is This It was released, I was 15 and heavily into artists like Tupac and Biggie, so I didn't think an album with guitars would interest me. Incorrect. It provided a platform, shaping my tastes and preferences without me really noticing it. It crept up on me. To like this band meant something; I'd never witnessed a vested interest in music like this. I could relate to these guys. Well, I could relate to them, more so than I could a Black Panther activist who'd been shot five times.
Unfortunately, the band did lose their way a little. Casablancas did become a little too cool, which in turn seemed to exasperate the other band members. The 3rd album sounded discombobulated and strained.
From what I've heard of the new album so far, the band appears ready to be mates again. 'UCoD' is the flagship song of this reunion and that is no coincidence, seeing as it was penned by the band as a whole. Hopefully, The Strokes will take their past scrapes and use them to strengthen and rebuild a bond that gave us a truly classic album in Is This It.
"I'll wait for you,” sings Casablancas on 'UCoD', “will you wait for me too?”
All parties involved appear ready to do so now, which is comforting. As a collective, we want our band back. I don't think that's too much to ask is it? We have waited long enough.
(Editors Note: Fabrizio Moretti drumming in the video? Or Shia LeBeouf?)
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Odd Future T.V. Debut...
Heads are going apeshit for Tyler, The Creator at the minute. His 2010 debut solo album Radical put people onto him, with Pitchfork Media claiming it was the 32nd best album of 2010. The video for new single 'Yonkers' has people going mental on the interweb, and may spell the end for the "are they aren't they joking" guys from Die Antwoord.
Give them a listen, they're pretty good. By "pretty good" I mean they're brilliant.
Ta-ta for now.
Give them a listen, they're pretty good. By "pretty good" I mean they're brilliant.
Ta-ta for now.
New Beginnings...
What with all the revolutionary goings on of late, I too felt it time to incite change. Granted, I'm nowhere near as brave as the students and protestors of Egypt, Libya and Bahrain, no sir. I exist within the world I was dealt, so my big change is going to begin with this blog. Starting frommmmmmm, now.
So, New York Telephone Conversation is going to become somtething more of, well, believe it or not; a conversation. Dun dun duhhhhhh.
So, New York Telephone Conversation is going to become somtething more of, well, believe it or not; a conversation. Dun dun duhhhhhh.
This week, I have two topics of discussion; Gruff Rhys' lovely new album Hotel Shampoo and the aforementioned trouble in Libya. 'Citing.
Right then, onto the Welsh Wizard. No, not Ryan Giggs, the other one, our boy Gruff. The fantastically quirky 40 year old recently released his 3rd solo album, Hotel Shampoo.
All of his idiosyncrasies are prevalent on the album, which for his fans, is great. Gruff has always been, in the nicest possible way, pretty unapologetic about his output. He makes music for himself, pure and simple. Which means, above all the genius and eccentricity, he always comes across as sounding more content and happy with his work than any other artist I can think of really.
Gruff being weird
For people who've never really given Gruff, Neon Neon or Super Furry Animals (his other bands) a listen, Hotel Shampoo is probably a good place to start. It's easy to listen to, and the weirdness tends to serve the album as a whole rather than standing out too much and taking attention away from the ensemble.
Baring in mind ensembles and standing out and serving the bigger picture, I shall move on to Libya; a place which is so far removed from it's own contentness it seems like a nice polar comparison to Gruff and his Power Rangers helmet.
To say it's kicking off over in Libya is an understatement. Colonel Gaddafi himself has fled, supposedly to Venezuela.
A nice safe place...ahem policetooafraidtopatrolthestreetsanduserobotsinstead cough cough.
In his absence, Gaddafi's son Saif has blamed Libyans who live abroad for the current unrest in the country. Nothing to do with the fact that for 40 years, Saif's father has ruled Libya with an iron fist then? Or maybe the fact that the country has been involved in several high profile acts of terrorism? Including the Lockerbie bombing and the suspected shooting of police officer Yvonne Fletcher? Constable Fletcher was policing an anti-Gaddafi protest outside the Libyan embassy in London, and was thought to have been killed by a burst of machine gun fire that came from inside the embassy building.
Personally, I think it's high time the "Mad Dog of the Middle East" (quote Ronald Reagan) and his litter were held accountable for all their past discrepancies. The Colonel's son Hannibal has been running round Europe like a loose cannon for the best part of a decade. The wild pup has used diplomatic immunity to escape from such high jinx as attacking three French policeman who had the bare faced cheek to pull him over for drunkenly speeding the wrong way down the Champes Elysses.
In fact, the only country who took a stance against the aptly named sprog's maraudings across the continent was Switzerland. Hannibal and his wife were held in a cell for two nights after accusations of assault, backed up by injuries, from a couple staying at the same hotel. Did the good Colonel give his son a bollocking and teach him a lesson? Did he heck, he placed a block on oil to Switzerland, banned Swiss products such as Nestle from Libya and had two travelling Swiss businessman arrested on unfounded chrages of visa irregularities and tax evasion. As of November 2010, these two unfortunate souls are now each serving 16 month prison sentences.
No, I commend the people of Libya for finally saying enough is enough and bringing Gadaffi to rights. For too long, the Saddam's, the Gadaffi's and the Mubarak's of this world have been able ot get away, literally, with murder. For too long, people opposed to these regimes, people who have voiced their opinions, have had their voices snatched away from them. So, "hats off," I say.
Ta-ta for now.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Nuits Sonores, J'Taime
When asked to reel off a list of festivals on mainland Europe, one tends to think of ‘EXIT’, ‘Sonar’, ‘Rock AM Ring’ and the accursed “Brits on tour” offering, ‘Benicassim’.
The more curious fellow will take pride in listing Gothenburg’s ‘Way out West’ or ‘Hove’ in Norway. You’d be hard pressed to hear somebody mention ‘Nuits Sonores’ though.
The electro festival is located in Lyon, France. It’s organised by Arty Farty and has been running since 2002 and has gradually welcomed more and more dance orientated limbs through its gates with each passing year.
In order to entice the gathered throngs, this years line-up boasted the likes of Simian Mobile Disco, Vitalic, Busy P, UNKLE, 2ManyDJs, Gang of Four, Uffie, Lindstrom & Christabelle, Laurent Garnier, The Go! Team, Ivan Smagghe, Booka Shade, Liars, Jesse Rose and The Juan Maclean.
An impressive roll call indeed.
Perhaps even more impressive is the set-up and layout of the festival. For four days, the city becomes one big festival site, with nine electro stages located all over the shop offering up all kinds of opportunities for attendees to dance and get up to mischief.
Lyon is literally your oyster.
One highlight was during a daytime party. Situated in what was no more than a ginnel sandwiched between two apartment blocks, revellers were treated to a live M.C., several DJ’s, alcohol and food. One of the DJ’s had a revelation and dropped ‘54-46 Was My Number’ and the little square turned into a right angle of reverie.
The main kicks are to be had within the festival’s main site. Honourable mention goes to Laurent Garnier and Uffie; however the weekend’s plaudits are reserved for Busy P and 2ManyDJs.
Busy’s energetic to-ing and fro-ing during his set caused a frenzy amongst the small numbers that came with the sole intention of “…their tits off” (insert whichever verb you feel is relevant).
The former Daft Punk manager raised false hope when he began to throw what appeared to be money into the crowd. Disappointed grabbers were met with pieces of paper instead. The dejection turned to elation when A-Trak’s remix of ‘Heads Will Roll’ was catapulted out of the speakers.
The mantle of ‘Best Fucking Set’ is saved for 2ManyDJs. Shelving their mainstream set for Warehouse Project and Sankeys, the Dewaele brothers proceeded to melt the purist’s faces with heavy electro. For three fucking hours!
Poignant moments included the effervescent ‘Flat Beat’, the teasing intro to ‘A Milli’ by Lil’ Wayne and the unavoidable elephant in the room, which came in the form of their remix of ‘Kids’.
A humorous scene involved a case of crossed wires. During the opening moments of ‘Rock The Casbah’ by The Clash, one confused reveller was to be heard shouting “IT’S WILLENIUM!”
So, for those of you who want to attend a festival where good music and a friendly atmosphere isn’t tainted by annoying “rah on a gap yah” types or loutish indie fans then Nuits Sonores is definitely the place for you. Lyon, J’Taime.
The more curious fellow will take pride in listing Gothenburg’s ‘Way out West’ or ‘Hove’ in Norway. You’d be hard pressed to hear somebody mention ‘Nuits Sonores’ though.
The electro festival is located in Lyon, France. It’s organised by Arty Farty and has been running since 2002 and has gradually welcomed more and more dance orientated limbs through its gates with each passing year.
In order to entice the gathered throngs, this years line-up boasted the likes of Simian Mobile Disco, Vitalic, Busy P, UNKLE, 2ManyDJs, Gang of Four, Uffie, Lindstrom & Christabelle, Laurent Garnier, The Go! Team, Ivan Smagghe, Booka Shade, Liars, Jesse Rose and The Juan Maclean.
An impressive roll call indeed.
Perhaps even more impressive is the set-up and layout of the festival. For four days, the city becomes one big festival site, with nine electro stages located all over the shop offering up all kinds of opportunities for attendees to dance and get up to mischief.
Lyon is literally your oyster.
One highlight was during a daytime party. Situated in what was no more than a ginnel sandwiched between two apartment blocks, revellers were treated to a live M.C., several DJ’s, alcohol and food. One of the DJ’s had a revelation and dropped ‘54-46 Was My Number’ and the little square turned into a right angle of reverie.
The main kicks are to be had within the festival’s main site. Honourable mention goes to Laurent Garnier and Uffie; however the weekend’s plaudits are reserved for Busy P and 2ManyDJs.
Busy’s energetic to-ing and fro-ing during his set caused a frenzy amongst the small numbers that came with the sole intention of “…their tits off” (insert whichever verb you feel is relevant).
The former Daft Punk manager raised false hope when he began to throw what appeared to be money into the crowd. Disappointed grabbers were met with pieces of paper instead. The dejection turned to elation when A-Trak’s remix of ‘Heads Will Roll’ was catapulted out of the speakers.
The mantle of ‘Best Fucking Set’ is saved for 2ManyDJs. Shelving their mainstream set for Warehouse Project and Sankeys, the Dewaele brothers proceeded to melt the purist’s faces with heavy electro. For three fucking hours!
Poignant moments included the effervescent ‘Flat Beat’, the teasing intro to ‘A Milli’ by Lil’ Wayne and the unavoidable elephant in the room, which came in the form of their remix of ‘Kids’.
A humorous scene involved a case of crossed wires. During the opening moments of ‘Rock The Casbah’ by The Clash, one confused reveller was to be heard shouting “IT’S WILLENIUM!”
So, for those of you who want to attend a festival where good music and a friendly atmosphere isn’t tainted by annoying “rah on a gap yah” types or loutish indie fans then Nuits Sonores is definitely the place for you. Lyon, J’Taime.
Bitches 'Aint Shit
Rappers on The Pyramid Stage, ey? Two years ago Michael Eavis’ decision to name Jay-Z as a headliner brought with it a barrage of criticism, fronted by Manchester’s favourite hook nosed boff head Noel Gallagher.
So it is, two years later, another rapper is set to bring the gang signs to Worthy Farm. Enter stage right; Snoop Dogg. This time round, thanks in part to Jay-Z successfully bossing The Pyramid, there is no uproar amongst the festival goers. Granted he’s not a headliner.
In fact, the only real concern was whether ‘The Doggfather of Rap’ would be allowed to enter the country. “It’s been a while since I been here,” grins the lanky rapper, right before set opener ‘The Next Episode’ bowls in.
The stage is hammered, yet each attendee makes enough space to bounce both arms up and down like Snoop’s favourite Chevrolet Impala ’64.
Radio favourites like ‘Signs’ are present, but it’s the early 90’s classics like ‘Bitch Please’ and ‘Gin & Juice’ that bring out the ‘old’ Snoop. The swagger is still there, it always has been, but it’s a little less misogynistic than it used to be.
‘Beautiful’ is dedicated to “all the beautiful women”. There’s a lot more contentment and relaxation to the Snoop of today, a far cry from the man who has stood trial for murder. This might have something to do with copious inhalation of “some of that sticky icky”. His words, not mine.
Dizzee Rascal and Damon Albarn were in attendance at the side of the stage to watch the D O double G strut across The Pyramid as if he owned the place. The power stance, the pout, the slight tilt of the head, it all added to the general feeling that people were baring witness to something special.
The habitual dedication to Tupac Shakur is thrown in too, although not many people know the songs that Snoop is paying homage too.
Then Snoop shows a great deal of humility in performing ‘Pass Out’, bringing Tinie Tempah on to the stage.
Tempah brings an increase in pace to the set as he runs around frantically high fiving everybody in sight, probably counting his lucky stars that he has the good fortune to grace the main stage at Glastonbury with a bonafide legend like Snoop.
‘Drop It Like It’s Hot’ brings a chorus of “Snoooooops” from the crowd before ‘What’s My Name’ brings this amazing set to a close.
Snoop’s not finished there though. Before departing he asks three things of Glastonbury; 1.) The first thing it has to do in morning? “Brush yo teef!” 2.) Promote peace and love. 3.) “SMOKE WEED EVERY DAY!”
A wave of laughter engulfs Snoop as he exits, the smoothest man anybody is likely to see all weekend. He isn’t the only one to exit, as the throngs of crowds depart leaving what seems to be half the number of people to watch festival main stays Vampire Weekend.
Such is the draw of the rake like rapper. A festival highlight if ever there was one.
So it is, two years later, another rapper is set to bring the gang signs to Worthy Farm. Enter stage right; Snoop Dogg. This time round, thanks in part to Jay-Z successfully bossing The Pyramid, there is no uproar amongst the festival goers. Granted he’s not a headliner.
In fact, the only real concern was whether ‘The Doggfather of Rap’ would be allowed to enter the country. “It’s been a while since I been here,” grins the lanky rapper, right before set opener ‘The Next Episode’ bowls in.
The stage is hammered, yet each attendee makes enough space to bounce both arms up and down like Snoop’s favourite Chevrolet Impala ’64.
Radio favourites like ‘Signs’ are present, but it’s the early 90’s classics like ‘Bitch Please’ and ‘Gin & Juice’ that bring out the ‘old’ Snoop. The swagger is still there, it always has been, but it’s a little less misogynistic than it used to be.
‘Beautiful’ is dedicated to “all the beautiful women”. There’s a lot more contentment and relaxation to the Snoop of today, a far cry from the man who has stood trial for murder. This might have something to do with copious inhalation of “some of that sticky icky”. His words, not mine.
Dizzee Rascal and Damon Albarn were in attendance at the side of the stage to watch the D O double G strut across The Pyramid as if he owned the place. The power stance, the pout, the slight tilt of the head, it all added to the general feeling that people were baring witness to something special.
The habitual dedication to Tupac Shakur is thrown in too, although not many people know the songs that Snoop is paying homage too.
Then Snoop shows a great deal of humility in performing ‘Pass Out’, bringing Tinie Tempah on to the stage.
Tempah brings an increase in pace to the set as he runs around frantically high fiving everybody in sight, probably counting his lucky stars that he has the good fortune to grace the main stage at Glastonbury with a bonafide legend like Snoop.
‘Drop It Like It’s Hot’ brings a chorus of “Snoooooops” from the crowd before ‘What’s My Name’ brings this amazing set to a close.
Snoop’s not finished there though. Before departing he asks three things of Glastonbury; 1.) The first thing it has to do in morning? “Brush yo teef!” 2.) Promote peace and love. 3.) “SMOKE WEED EVERY DAY!”
A wave of laughter engulfs Snoop as he exits, the smoothest man anybody is likely to see all weekend. He isn’t the only one to exit, as the throngs of crowds depart leaving what seems to be half the number of people to watch festival main stays Vampire Weekend.
Such is the draw of the rake like rapper. A festival highlight if ever there was one.
Bun Your Cheap Talk
It is common knowledge that when it comes to Glastonbury, Michael Eavis is King. The Lord of the Manor. Yet, as with every kingdom, a court jester is required. At Glastonbury 2010, this was none other than the infamous Dappy, poster child of N-Dubz.
After being cajoled into making the journey to witness this modern ghetto spin on stand-up comedy, I found my opinions to be wavering. Whilst I still have no time for their actual music I respect them; in a way.
There are still certain occurrences I do not care for, with one in particular still leaving a bad taste in my mouth. In January of this year, Radio 1 listener and mother Chloe Moody text in to the Chris Moyles show, branding Dappy “vile” and a “little boy with a silly hat”.
His reaction was despicable and well documented. For this I have no time. The man has purposefully placed himself in the eye of the public, and with that recognition there is the old adage of “opinions being like arseholes, everybody has one”.
Despite his eventual apology, this reaction exhibits a distinct lack of class on Dappy’s part. For that reason, I can never hold my hands up and say “you know what? I actually like N-Dubz”.
Therein lays the irony. My refusal to fully embrace them will always be hindered by their attitudes, yet it is their attitude that earns my curiosity. Their music will never be endearing to me because it isn’t really my cup of tea. It is their sheer force of will that affords them my acknowledgement.
They simply won’t go away.
The first time I bore witness to their eventual juggernaut was on ‘Channel U’. Most of the music videos on the channel were low budget and nearly all of them were utter tripe.
Yet there was this trio whose videos continually stood out to me. Of course you know who I’m on about. The reason for that was this snarling little mutt that was more pug in a cute hat than pit bull in a harness.
There were obvious ‘bigger dogs’ on the channel, but like bigger dogs in real life, their bark scared the shit out of you and you’d want nothing more to do with them after that.
It’s the little annoying dogs in life that tend to have staying power. Whilst they peck head, a mere shove and they’re out of your consciousness. Yet you can bet your bottom dollar that they’ll come back.
This is how it is with N-Dubz. You change the channel and they’re gone. Yet after a few months and determination on their part, you change the channel and they’re on the next one. Then the next one. And so on, and so on. Until that horrific day when after you change the channel you find yourself going “Na na niiiiii.”
Society always loves a good success story. From ‘rags to riches’ and all that. It’s all the more poignant when that story is tied to a hint of tragedy too. Three years ago Dappy found his father Byron dead on the couch in their family home. He was also female band member Tulisa’s uncle.
Byron, or ‘Uncle B’, was a former bassist for band Mungo Jerry and had fought tirelessly to help the band achieve their dream of success. Two years after his death N-Dubz achieved their chart topping single with Tinchy Stryder’s ‘Number 1’.
With this dedicated drive behind them the band has gone from strength to strength. Dappy has tidied up his ham-fisted vocals, whilst still managing to retain the lethargic delivery.
Adidas have come sniffing and they’re currently the focal point of a Channel 4 series “Being…N-Dubz”. It’s nothing short of remarkable.
The naysayers can point to the fact that were grime not the current flavour of the week, thanks to more talented and inventive artists such as Wiley and Skepta, then N-Dubz wouldn’t have a pot to piss in.
Yet sometimes, it’s not about being the best, it’s about having the hindsight to see something big coming. To strategically place yourself in a position to reap the benefits. There is nothing wrong with wanting to succeed in life, so that life in itself is more comfortable.
Watching them at Glastonbury, I did feel a degree of shame. More so because I raised the average age by about eight years, Looking around you could see people laughing, pretending to take it all as a joke, feeling as though they were too ‘cool’ to genuinely like or respect N-Dubz.
I understand these feelings, but ultimately, they’re bullshit. If the people were too cool to watch them, then why be there in the first place? I’m not about to stand here and proclaim the trio to be the saviour of British music. Yet, with all the costume changes and stage production, they are interesting to watch. It’s car crash music.
They’ve worked hard to be where they are, which is refreshing. In an industry filled with bell ends like Pete Doherty who have God given talent yet proceed to piss it all away; a success story lined with hard graft is much needed.
After being cajoled into making the journey to witness this modern ghetto spin on stand-up comedy, I found my opinions to be wavering. Whilst I still have no time for their actual music I respect them; in a way.
There are still certain occurrences I do not care for, with one in particular still leaving a bad taste in my mouth. In January of this year, Radio 1 listener and mother Chloe Moody text in to the Chris Moyles show, branding Dappy “vile” and a “little boy with a silly hat”.
His reaction was despicable and well documented. For this I have no time. The man has purposefully placed himself in the eye of the public, and with that recognition there is the old adage of “opinions being like arseholes, everybody has one”.
Despite his eventual apology, this reaction exhibits a distinct lack of class on Dappy’s part. For that reason, I can never hold my hands up and say “you know what? I actually like N-Dubz”.
Therein lays the irony. My refusal to fully embrace them will always be hindered by their attitudes, yet it is their attitude that earns my curiosity. Their music will never be endearing to me because it isn’t really my cup of tea. It is their sheer force of will that affords them my acknowledgement.
They simply won’t go away.
The first time I bore witness to their eventual juggernaut was on ‘Channel U’. Most of the music videos on the channel were low budget and nearly all of them were utter tripe.
Yet there was this trio whose videos continually stood out to me. Of course you know who I’m on about. The reason for that was this snarling little mutt that was more pug in a cute hat than pit bull in a harness.
There were obvious ‘bigger dogs’ on the channel, but like bigger dogs in real life, their bark scared the shit out of you and you’d want nothing more to do with them after that.
It’s the little annoying dogs in life that tend to have staying power. Whilst they peck head, a mere shove and they’re out of your consciousness. Yet you can bet your bottom dollar that they’ll come back.
This is how it is with N-Dubz. You change the channel and they’re gone. Yet after a few months and determination on their part, you change the channel and they’re on the next one. Then the next one. And so on, and so on. Until that horrific day when after you change the channel you find yourself going “Na na niiiiii.”
Society always loves a good success story. From ‘rags to riches’ and all that. It’s all the more poignant when that story is tied to a hint of tragedy too. Three years ago Dappy found his father Byron dead on the couch in their family home. He was also female band member Tulisa’s uncle.
Byron, or ‘Uncle B’, was a former bassist for band Mungo Jerry and had fought tirelessly to help the band achieve their dream of success. Two years after his death N-Dubz achieved their chart topping single with Tinchy Stryder’s ‘Number 1’.
With this dedicated drive behind them the band has gone from strength to strength. Dappy has tidied up his ham-fisted vocals, whilst still managing to retain the lethargic delivery.
Adidas have come sniffing and they’re currently the focal point of a Channel 4 series “Being…N-Dubz”. It’s nothing short of remarkable.
The naysayers can point to the fact that were grime not the current flavour of the week, thanks to more talented and inventive artists such as Wiley and Skepta, then N-Dubz wouldn’t have a pot to piss in.
Yet sometimes, it’s not about being the best, it’s about having the hindsight to see something big coming. To strategically place yourself in a position to reap the benefits. There is nothing wrong with wanting to succeed in life, so that life in itself is more comfortable.
Watching them at Glastonbury, I did feel a degree of shame. More so because I raised the average age by about eight years, Looking around you could see people laughing, pretending to take it all as a joke, feeling as though they were too ‘cool’ to genuinely like or respect N-Dubz.
I understand these feelings, but ultimately, they’re bullshit. If the people were too cool to watch them, then why be there in the first place? I’m not about to stand here and proclaim the trio to be the saviour of British music. Yet, with all the costume changes and stage production, they are interesting to watch. It’s car crash music.
They’ve worked hard to be where they are, which is refreshing. In an industry filled with bell ends like Pete Doherty who have God given talent yet proceed to piss it all away; a success story lined with hard graft is much needed.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Better Off Dead?
This might sound grim, but some musicians just sound better dead. Especially if that artist is Jeff Buckley. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that his material took on a whole new level of spiritual potency following his death.
Don’t get me wrong, I subscribed to the opinion that Buckley was epically important to music before he was prematurely snatched from the mortal coil. It’s just that in death he has taken on something wholly more potent.
His music shifted from being moving to spiritual.
The obvious aesthetics are there. His voice was haunting whichever way you looked at it. Now it’s ghostly.
‘Hallelujah’ has been done to, excuse the pun, death. However, of all the versions, Buckley’s is far and away the best. This is coming from a guy who bloody loves Leonard Cohen.
Everything about it just makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. From the refrained, almost broken guitars to the painful, world weary sigh at the beginning. It’ll take more than The O.C. to ruin a song like that.
There are few artists that can truly cause you to question your own tangibility. When one does, you cherish it.
Whilst I shant be as fickle to suggest his death defined him, it definitely did a great deal to add to the mystique. There are several stories circulating; stories of alcohol, stories of substance abuse, stories of suicide and stories of accidents.
Personally, I think it was an accident. The man had gone to great lengths to protect and nurture the integrity of his music. Lengths too great to waste. Why, when on the verge of releasing his 2nd album, would he simply choose to end it all? I know the mind works in mysterious ways, but so do rivers and their under currents.
The stories though, merely act as coping mechanisms. In the same way the conspiracies about John Lennon’s shooting and the circumstances surrounding Kurt Cobain’s suicide.
Buckley is an artist that inspires passionate, vehement mothering instincts in his fans. From his boyish appearance to his often frail voice, it seems the stories about his death are merely a way for his fans to protect his legacy as much as enhance it.
Songs like ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ become posthumous juggernauts that transport the listener away from their surroundings and take them to a special place. I bet there are a few people that have cried at that one.
The lyric “Looking out the door I see rain fall upon the funeral mourners/Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water” is haunting, and taking everything into account, fucking blows my tiny little mind.
When I think of Buckley, I do think of spiritualism. It’s a strange notion. I find Bob Dylan quite spiritual, but in a different way, simply because he’s still alive. The fact that Buckley is no longer with us means his music is often used as a tool of reflection.
I’m sat listening to him as I type this now, and I’m smiling. There’s something that’s comforting about his material. Despite all the tragedy that surrounds his life, it could have been worse. I shall leave you with this notion.
Jeff Buckley is not dead.
He lives on through those of us who still admire, love and respect his music. For me, that is just a calming train of thought.
Don’t get me wrong, I subscribed to the opinion that Buckley was epically important to music before he was prematurely snatched from the mortal coil. It’s just that in death he has taken on something wholly more potent.
His music shifted from being moving to spiritual.
The obvious aesthetics are there. His voice was haunting whichever way you looked at it. Now it’s ghostly.
‘Hallelujah’ has been done to, excuse the pun, death. However, of all the versions, Buckley’s is far and away the best. This is coming from a guy who bloody loves Leonard Cohen.
Everything about it just makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. From the refrained, almost broken guitars to the painful, world weary sigh at the beginning. It’ll take more than The O.C. to ruin a song like that.
There are few artists that can truly cause you to question your own tangibility. When one does, you cherish it.
Whilst I shant be as fickle to suggest his death defined him, it definitely did a great deal to add to the mystique. There are several stories circulating; stories of alcohol, stories of substance abuse, stories of suicide and stories of accidents.
Personally, I think it was an accident. The man had gone to great lengths to protect and nurture the integrity of his music. Lengths too great to waste. Why, when on the verge of releasing his 2nd album, would he simply choose to end it all? I know the mind works in mysterious ways, but so do rivers and their under currents.
The stories though, merely act as coping mechanisms. In the same way the conspiracies about John Lennon’s shooting and the circumstances surrounding Kurt Cobain’s suicide.
Buckley is an artist that inspires passionate, vehement mothering instincts in his fans. From his boyish appearance to his often frail voice, it seems the stories about his death are merely a way for his fans to protect his legacy as much as enhance it.
Songs like ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ become posthumous juggernauts that transport the listener away from their surroundings and take them to a special place. I bet there are a few people that have cried at that one.
The lyric “Looking out the door I see rain fall upon the funeral mourners/Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water” is haunting, and taking everything into account, fucking blows my tiny little mind.
When I think of Buckley, I do think of spiritualism. It’s a strange notion. I find Bob Dylan quite spiritual, but in a different way, simply because he’s still alive. The fact that Buckley is no longer with us means his music is often used as a tool of reflection.
I’m sat listening to him as I type this now, and I’m smiling. There’s something that’s comforting about his material. Despite all the tragedy that surrounds his life, it could have been worse. I shall leave you with this notion.
Jeff Buckley is not dead.
He lives on through those of us who still admire, love and respect his music. For me, that is just a calming train of thought.
Sugar plum pop...
They like it simple, do She & Him. Just look at their band name. Then take a look at the titles of their two albums, Volume One and the imaginatively titled Volume Two. The transparency of the name, the album titles, all of it, is embedded in their songs too.
Zooey Deschanel – the She of the duo – pipes and chimes her way through songs about falling in love, falling out of love and all the accoutrement that comes with liking that boy.
M. Ward, or Him if you prefer, brings to the table trite production skills and a keen sense of what it is that best suits Deschanel’s lyrical content and vocal prowess.
It’s a tag team performance that worked rather well on Volume One and there’s no surprise to see it at work again with Volume Two.
‘Thieves’ is the 1st song and demonstrates Deschanel’s maturing as a song writer. Its bare bones stuff that shuns the hokey delivery she adopted on Volume One. It’s a great way to start things off.
Another instance in which this LP differs from the first is the fact that M. Ward actually sings solo parts on this album. The first time we see this is on ‘Ridin’ In My Car (NRBQ)’. The song is pretty much She & Him to a tee, offering listeners an idealised American folk/pop hybrid. Ward’s guitars are particularly strong on this one.
In fact, Ward may have just about outshined Deschanel on Volume Two. Bold statements indeed. The arrangements and production on the album have been fine tuned and help to make the LP a delightful listen. It’s good music to do the spring cleaning to, if you catch my drift? If not, listen to ‘Lingering Still’ and you will.
It’s actually quite difficult to dislike the album. It’s not going to be everybody’s cup of tea, but most of the naysayers criticisms are actually the albums strengths. Yes, its sugar plum pop and the influence of Deschanel’s Hollywood ties are their in abundance.
Her performance like delivery and picture perfect lyrical content don’t particularly exist in the real world, but since when has there been a problem with escapism? In the grand scheme of things, there are bigger issues to worry about. So let’s just leave She & Him to exist in their own little pocket. They’re not doing any harm.
Zooey Deschanel – the She of the duo – pipes and chimes her way through songs about falling in love, falling out of love and all the accoutrement that comes with liking that boy.
M. Ward, or Him if you prefer, brings to the table trite production skills and a keen sense of what it is that best suits Deschanel’s lyrical content and vocal prowess.
It’s a tag team performance that worked rather well on Volume One and there’s no surprise to see it at work again with Volume Two.
‘Thieves’ is the 1st song and demonstrates Deschanel’s maturing as a song writer. Its bare bones stuff that shuns the hokey delivery she adopted on Volume One. It’s a great way to start things off.
Another instance in which this LP differs from the first is the fact that M. Ward actually sings solo parts on this album. The first time we see this is on ‘Ridin’ In My Car (NRBQ)’. The song is pretty much She & Him to a tee, offering listeners an idealised American folk/pop hybrid. Ward’s guitars are particularly strong on this one.
In fact, Ward may have just about outshined Deschanel on Volume Two. Bold statements indeed. The arrangements and production on the album have been fine tuned and help to make the LP a delightful listen. It’s good music to do the spring cleaning to, if you catch my drift? If not, listen to ‘Lingering Still’ and you will.
It’s actually quite difficult to dislike the album. It’s not going to be everybody’s cup of tea, but most of the naysayers criticisms are actually the albums strengths. Yes, its sugar plum pop and the influence of Deschanel’s Hollywood ties are their in abundance.
Her performance like delivery and picture perfect lyrical content don’t particularly exist in the real world, but since when has there been a problem with escapism? In the grand scheme of things, there are bigger issues to worry about. So let’s just leave She & Him to exist in their own little pocket. They’re not doing any harm.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
If Not For You...
There are many musicians, both male and female, that I’d consider “heroes”, or “heroines”. Artists like Johnny Cash, Patty Smith, Janis Joplin, Pete Townsend and Neil Young to name but a few.
For me however, there is one who stands tall above the rest. That ladies and gents, is Bob Dylan. So it is I am tasked with an attempt to sum up just how and why this man is a hero of music.
Therein lays the problem.
How do I, a person with his own opinions and feelings, hypothesise on what it is that makes Dylan a hero? It’s impossible. His music is so cathartic and personal that each listener takes something different and entirely unique from each of his wonderful songs.
And so I come to the conclusion that Bob Dylan isn’t a hero to a collective group of individuals, he is merely a hero to the individual. It just so happens that literally millions of people the world over feel the same about him.
That is the beauty of Dylan. A song as potently beautiful as ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ is to one person an ode from one man to his drug dealer; whereas to another it can be something as simple and pure as being the quintessential hippy anthem. It is a true gift to be able to write something that can possess a different interpretation each time it is read or heard.
Dylan wasn’t the first musician to take an active role in radicalism and revolution. He won’t be the last either. In fact, he was reluctant at first to even be considered as a figurehead for civil momentum. He did however; use his rapidly rising notoriety to highlight many of the things wrong with the world.
He didn’t just place the proverbial spotlight on activism; he gave it the momentum of a freight train, turned the spotlight into a headlight and sent it careering towards the people’s consciousness.
Songs like ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ weren’t stirring in the conventional sense; they weren’t a call to arms. Dylan was just 21 when he wrote the song, yet its maturity and message resonate so strong you’d be mistaken for thinking he wrote it yesterday.
It was this obvious maturity that caused the hippy movement of the 60’s to place so much faith in Dylan. His wisdom and astuteness instilled confidence in others. The fact that he was a reluctant leader only made him more endearing.
Dylan’s longevity is remarkable and the shelf life of his songs is almost unrivalled. The majority of his most potent material was recorded during a time of monumental unrest in America. The Civil Rights movement was in full force and Anti-Vietnam sentiment raged across the country.
Yet for music that was so blatantly aimed at certain events, the message still translates today. The majority of Dylan’s songs could easily be used to sum up sentiments about Afghanistan or the ridiculousness in which the Bush administration handled the dire situation faced by residents of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.
For me personally, Dylan is just special.
His songs are so caustic, so emotive, so personal, so catchy and so brilliant that even the dreaded greatest hits compilations are a joy to listen to as they band together all his obvious classics, sending you on a personal rollercoaster that covers every aspect of the emotional spectrum.
He can make you dance on ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’. He can make you telephone your loved one with ‘If Not For You’. He makes it OK to be a bastard on ‘It Aint Me Babe’. He makes you chuckle with ‘Tombstone Blues’. He makes you want to rebel with ‘Maggies Farm’. He can make you feel like you can do anything, simply by holding himself up as an example.
The man even makes it respectable to do a fucking Christmas album!
They say you should never meet your heroes, but, if I could have an audience with Bob Dylan I’d find it hard to complain. To be able to sit there and listen to all his stories and have him play 'Mr. Tambourine Man' just for me. Ah, I’d die a happy man.
Hunter S. Thompson used to use Dylan’s music as ‘fuel’ when he was writing. That’s exactly what it is; fuel. Fuel for change, fuel for activism, fuel for the brain and most importantly; fuel for the soul.
For me however, there is one who stands tall above the rest. That ladies and gents, is Bob Dylan. So it is I am tasked with an attempt to sum up just how and why this man is a hero of music.
Therein lays the problem.
How do I, a person with his own opinions and feelings, hypothesise on what it is that makes Dylan a hero? It’s impossible. His music is so cathartic and personal that each listener takes something different and entirely unique from each of his wonderful songs.
And so I come to the conclusion that Bob Dylan isn’t a hero to a collective group of individuals, he is merely a hero to the individual. It just so happens that literally millions of people the world over feel the same about him.
That is the beauty of Dylan. A song as potently beautiful as ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ is to one person an ode from one man to his drug dealer; whereas to another it can be something as simple and pure as being the quintessential hippy anthem. It is a true gift to be able to write something that can possess a different interpretation each time it is read or heard.
Dylan wasn’t the first musician to take an active role in radicalism and revolution. He won’t be the last either. In fact, he was reluctant at first to even be considered as a figurehead for civil momentum. He did however; use his rapidly rising notoriety to highlight many of the things wrong with the world.
He didn’t just place the proverbial spotlight on activism; he gave it the momentum of a freight train, turned the spotlight into a headlight and sent it careering towards the people’s consciousness.
Songs like ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ weren’t stirring in the conventional sense; they weren’t a call to arms. Dylan was just 21 when he wrote the song, yet its maturity and message resonate so strong you’d be mistaken for thinking he wrote it yesterday.
It was this obvious maturity that caused the hippy movement of the 60’s to place so much faith in Dylan. His wisdom and astuteness instilled confidence in others. The fact that he was a reluctant leader only made him more endearing.
Dylan’s longevity is remarkable and the shelf life of his songs is almost unrivalled. The majority of his most potent material was recorded during a time of monumental unrest in America. The Civil Rights movement was in full force and Anti-Vietnam sentiment raged across the country.
Yet for music that was so blatantly aimed at certain events, the message still translates today. The majority of Dylan’s songs could easily be used to sum up sentiments about Afghanistan or the ridiculousness in which the Bush administration handled the dire situation faced by residents of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.
For me personally, Dylan is just special.
His songs are so caustic, so emotive, so personal, so catchy and so brilliant that even the dreaded greatest hits compilations are a joy to listen to as they band together all his obvious classics, sending you on a personal rollercoaster that covers every aspect of the emotional spectrum.
He can make you dance on ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’. He can make you telephone your loved one with ‘If Not For You’. He makes it OK to be a bastard on ‘It Aint Me Babe’. He makes you chuckle with ‘Tombstone Blues’. He makes you want to rebel with ‘Maggies Farm’. He can make you feel like you can do anything, simply by holding himself up as an example.
The man even makes it respectable to do a fucking Christmas album!
They say you should never meet your heroes, but, if I could have an audience with Bob Dylan I’d find it hard to complain. To be able to sit there and listen to all his stories and have him play 'Mr. Tambourine Man' just for me. Ah, I’d die a happy man.
Hunter S. Thompson used to use Dylan’s music as ‘fuel’ when he was writing. That’s exactly what it is; fuel. Fuel for change, fuel for activism, fuel for the brain and most importantly; fuel for the soul.
Øye Øye!
Whitest Boy Alive
04/12/09 @ La Cigale, Paris
Whitest Boy Alive are one of those rare acts who completely embrace the philosophy “less is more”.
In the past two years they have only performed live 12 times, leaving their growing legions of fans parched of the opportunity to witness them personally.
Hence, the anticipation outside La Cigale is tangible.
Distraught individuals rush to and fro, trying to purchase spare tickets from the opportunistic touts. The lucky chosen few queue with grins and the occasional drone of somebody humming the bass intro to ‘Keep A Secret’ can be heard over the din.
La Cigale is an exquisitely intimate venue. It’s the perfect combination of opulence and chic, with a balcony for seating that overlooks the main floor area and the slightly raised stage. There aren’t any bums on chairs though once the gig commences.
The aforementioned humming strikes up again, this time emanating from the cool as fuck bass of Marcin Oz. A warm applause begins to blanket La Cigale as Erlend Øye questions his gathered admirers.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Honestly? No,” is the reply.
So great is the affection that Whitest Boy Alive’s fans have for the band that it’s difficult for them to stop chunnering on about just how good they are.
The band proceeded to gracefully swagger through their already cult back-catalogue, causing beautifully adorned Parisians to dance and sway to the likes of ‘Golden Cage’, ‘High On The Heels’ and ‘1517’.
The habitual cover version is included, with Erlend and co this time choosing to give Armand Van Helden’s ‘U Don’t Know Me’ their unique treatment, bringing familial smiles from the crowd.
During ‘Courage’, one lucky attendee manages to make it onto the stage. Unshakeably cool, Whitest Boy Alive continue to play whilst this euphoric individual struts his stuff, probably experiencing the most epic moment of his life. It’s even capped off with a stage dive cum crowd surf.
All the while the rest of the audience, without provocation, claps along in unison to the beat. That’s how cool Parisians are. They don’t just clap along aimlessly to a song like some Stella toting yob would at The Apollo, they keep with the beat; all 1,300 who’re in attendance at the gig. It’s remarkable.
‘Don’t Give Up’ is a touching song on wax but in concert it is given even more acumen and ends up coming off as quite inspirational.
‘Above You’ sounds amazing, with the R2-D2 like synth actually being played live as opposed to being reconstructed by some infernal contraption.
The set closes on ‘Island’, exhibiting the habitual WBA showmanship. During the build up to the song’s crescendo, Øye and them completely freeze where they’re stood, whilst the feedback from his guitar slices through the audience.
The “whoops” and clapping rise fiercely to counter the feedback and after what seems like an age, the band launch right into the shape inducing finish to the song.
The lights go down and the appreciation goes up. Paris and her natives are notoriously difficult to please, yet I think a pasty, humble Norwegian and his friends have left a sweet taste in the mouths of those in attendance. One only hopes that the frantic fans who were pursuing tickets outside managed to get their mitts on one.
04/12/09 @ La Cigale, Paris
Whitest Boy Alive are one of those rare acts who completely embrace the philosophy “less is more”.
In the past two years they have only performed live 12 times, leaving their growing legions of fans parched of the opportunity to witness them personally.
Hence, the anticipation outside La Cigale is tangible.
Distraught individuals rush to and fro, trying to purchase spare tickets from the opportunistic touts. The lucky chosen few queue with grins and the occasional drone of somebody humming the bass intro to ‘Keep A Secret’ can be heard over the din.
La Cigale is an exquisitely intimate venue. It’s the perfect combination of opulence and chic, with a balcony for seating that overlooks the main floor area and the slightly raised stage. There aren’t any bums on chairs though once the gig commences.
The aforementioned humming strikes up again, this time emanating from the cool as fuck bass of Marcin Oz. A warm applause begins to blanket La Cigale as Erlend Øye questions his gathered admirers.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Honestly? No,” is the reply.
So great is the affection that Whitest Boy Alive’s fans have for the band that it’s difficult for them to stop chunnering on about just how good they are.
The band proceeded to gracefully swagger through their already cult back-catalogue, causing beautifully adorned Parisians to dance and sway to the likes of ‘Golden Cage’, ‘High On The Heels’ and ‘1517’.
The habitual cover version is included, with Erlend and co this time choosing to give Armand Van Helden’s ‘U Don’t Know Me’ their unique treatment, bringing familial smiles from the crowd.
During ‘Courage’, one lucky attendee manages to make it onto the stage. Unshakeably cool, Whitest Boy Alive continue to play whilst this euphoric individual struts his stuff, probably experiencing the most epic moment of his life. It’s even capped off with a stage dive cum crowd surf.
All the while the rest of the audience, without provocation, claps along in unison to the beat. That’s how cool Parisians are. They don’t just clap along aimlessly to a song like some Stella toting yob would at The Apollo, they keep with the beat; all 1,300 who’re in attendance at the gig. It’s remarkable.
‘Don’t Give Up’ is a touching song on wax but in concert it is given even more acumen and ends up coming off as quite inspirational.
‘Above You’ sounds amazing, with the R2-D2 like synth actually being played live as opposed to being reconstructed by some infernal contraption.
The set closes on ‘Island’, exhibiting the habitual WBA showmanship. During the build up to the song’s crescendo, Øye and them completely freeze where they’re stood, whilst the feedback from his guitar slices through the audience.
The “whoops” and clapping rise fiercely to counter the feedback and after what seems like an age, the band launch right into the shape inducing finish to the song.
The lights go down and the appreciation goes up. Paris and her natives are notoriously difficult to please, yet I think a pasty, humble Norwegian and his friends have left a sweet taste in the mouths of those in attendance. One only hopes that the frantic fans who were pursuing tickets outside managed to get their mitts on one.
They've Got It Covered...
The xx @ Manchester Academy 2
06/03/10
The Academy 2 is sold out. That’s not entirely rare. What is rare is that unlike the attention seeking Mumford & Sons, The xx chose to keep it intimate rather than upgrade to the morbidly large Academy 1.
Keeping with the shy vibe, a white sheet shields the stage from prying eyes and as the lights go down it becomes apparent as to why it’s there.
The opening chords from Romy Madley-Croft’s guitar are accompanied by her shadow which is cast onto the sheet as a result of the lights behind it. As the other two members lick off their contributions, so to their shadows appear.
The roar from the crowd is intense and goes completely against the hushed appreciation that blanketed the band during their last Manchester outing at The Deaf Institute.
That performance was never going to be mimicked and it was always going to be a natural progression for a band whose music was always destined for bigger things.
Despite the upgrade in size the songs still bring a gentle, happy sway from those in attendance.
If anything, they are appreciated more as Jamie Smith’s shin shaking rumblings on songs like ‘Fantasy’ drown out the hyena chatter from the habitual bint who “heard them on Radio 1 just this week”.
‘Shelter’ brings a different kind of rumbling to the table, as the gentle murmur from the crowd’s sing-a-long accompanies Oliver Sim’s bass after its brief hiatus during the aforementioned ‘Fantasy’.
The band’s excellent eye for a cover song is in force again with Kyla’s ‘Do You Mind’ and Womack & Womack’s ‘Teardrops’ being given the treatment. The latter’s guitars are more reserved live than the studio version. There’s no need for flair here as Croft’s talent and introspective demeanour shines through.
‘VCR’ brings with it the familial chimes of appreciation that walk in hand in hand with a current single.
The verbal and instrumental sparring on ‘Basic Space’ both retain the distant familiarity that Sims and Croft seem to excel in. Before it gets to “nicey nice” Smith’s contraptions bowl in and wipe the floor with them both; leaving Croft’s guitars to whimper to fade.
A refrained menace lurks throughout ‘Infinity’ and rears it seismic horns as Smith grins demonically in the background.
Not to be outdone, Sims drops his bass and proceeds to smash the bejeezus out of the percussion cymbal. His hulking frame flashes black and white in the epileptic lighting, making for a striking visual.
This display of showmanship and focus on the visual as well as the musical negates the worry that The xx’s sentimental music would be unable to translate to larger venues.
The words “stars” and “shine” in the same hook tend to evoke memories of when Chris Martin wasn’t a dilbert. Fortunately this time round, The xx show us that those words together can still resonate during ‘Stars’.
Smith’s apocalyptic vibrations bring a nervous quiet, with the crowd wondering if the bricks and mortar can withstand the onslaught. In fairness, they make Pompeii seem like a wet fart.
The gathered masses are left to their own devices as the band leave the stage to their remix of Florence & The Machine’s cover of ‘You’ve Got The Love’. The enraptured applause and hollering suggest the irony of the songs title may not be lost on them.
06/03/10
The Academy 2 is sold out. That’s not entirely rare. What is rare is that unlike the attention seeking Mumford & Sons, The xx chose to keep it intimate rather than upgrade to the morbidly large Academy 1.
Keeping with the shy vibe, a white sheet shields the stage from prying eyes and as the lights go down it becomes apparent as to why it’s there.
The opening chords from Romy Madley-Croft’s guitar are accompanied by her shadow which is cast onto the sheet as a result of the lights behind it. As the other two members lick off their contributions, so to their shadows appear.
The roar from the crowd is intense and goes completely against the hushed appreciation that blanketed the band during their last Manchester outing at The Deaf Institute.
That performance was never going to be mimicked and it was always going to be a natural progression for a band whose music was always destined for bigger things.
Despite the upgrade in size the songs still bring a gentle, happy sway from those in attendance.
If anything, they are appreciated more as Jamie Smith’s shin shaking rumblings on songs like ‘Fantasy’ drown out the hyena chatter from the habitual bint who “heard them on Radio 1 just this week”.
‘Shelter’ brings a different kind of rumbling to the table, as the gentle murmur from the crowd’s sing-a-long accompanies Oliver Sim’s bass after its brief hiatus during the aforementioned ‘Fantasy’.
The band’s excellent eye for a cover song is in force again with Kyla’s ‘Do You Mind’ and Womack & Womack’s ‘Teardrops’ being given the treatment. The latter’s guitars are more reserved live than the studio version. There’s no need for flair here as Croft’s talent and introspective demeanour shines through.
‘VCR’ brings with it the familial chimes of appreciation that walk in hand in hand with a current single.
The verbal and instrumental sparring on ‘Basic Space’ both retain the distant familiarity that Sims and Croft seem to excel in. Before it gets to “nicey nice” Smith’s contraptions bowl in and wipe the floor with them both; leaving Croft’s guitars to whimper to fade.
A refrained menace lurks throughout ‘Infinity’ and rears it seismic horns as Smith grins demonically in the background.
Not to be outdone, Sims drops his bass and proceeds to smash the bejeezus out of the percussion cymbal. His hulking frame flashes black and white in the epileptic lighting, making for a striking visual.
This display of showmanship and focus on the visual as well as the musical negates the worry that The xx’s sentimental music would be unable to translate to larger venues.
The words “stars” and “shine” in the same hook tend to evoke memories of when Chris Martin wasn’t a dilbert. Fortunately this time round, The xx show us that those words together can still resonate during ‘Stars’.
Smith’s apocalyptic vibrations bring a nervous quiet, with the crowd wondering if the bricks and mortar can withstand the onslaught. In fairness, they make Pompeii seem like a wet fart.
The gathered masses are left to their own devices as the band leave the stage to their remix of Florence & The Machine’s cover of ‘You’ve Got The Love’. The enraptured applause and hollering suggest the irony of the songs title may not be lost on them.
If It 'Aint Broke, Don't Fix It...
Sophomore albums are always pivotal. You put out a bad 2nd offering and a slippy slope waits, with the cess pit at the bottom filled with acts like The Strokes and The Hives; bands that could have been contenders.
So it is that Vampire Weekend grimace with hope and pray that they avoid the slag heap of promising acts that never breached the cocooned success of their 1st offering.
Contra does not disappoint. It does however, polarize. For those who view Vampire Weekend with disdain, so too shall you dislike this album. It is completely unapologetic with its opener. ‘Horchata’ not only sounds identical to their 1st LP, it walks hand in hand with it, playfully giving the two fingered salute to the non-subscribers.
In fact it would be apt to label the two albums as siblings, with Contra simply wishing to unabashedly emulate its elder. Only, as is often the case, the younger sprog is more adventurous, learning from their kinfolk’s mistakes.
Gone are the nicey nicey guitars on songs like ‘Boston’, having been replaced with more experimental numbers such as the M.I.A. sampled ‘Diplomat’s Son’.
Rostam Batmanglij’s keyboards on ‘White Sky’ are sublimely accompanied by differing, intertwining percussion from Chris Tomson. With his vocals, Ezra Koenig is seen to be embracing a cosy little penchant for Kate Bush.
‘Cousins’ doesn’t mince its nature as it announces itself as the LP’s attempts at recapturing the rip-roaring success of ‘A-Punk’.
Whilst there is nothing necessarily wrong with the song, it’s not really a shade on its predecessor. ‘A-Punk’ was such a behemoth of a club tune that the band may struggle to ever to better a song that, in its own intentions, was near perfection.
That being said, Tomson’s drums piss all over this song and are brilliant.
Koenig’s vocals on ‘Giving Up The Gun’ are softer than on the rest of the album, as he chimes “Your swords grown old and rusty/Burnt beneath the rising sun/It’s locked up like a trophy/Forgetting all the things it’s done.”
Ezra’s lyrics are greatly matured on Contra, with layered references to “Tokugawa smiles” demonstrating it’s not just Batmanglij and the rest of Vampire Weekend that are looking to mature.
The album closes on the delicate ‘I Think UR A Contra’, with Koenig lamenting “Never pick sides/Never choose between the two/But I just wanted you”.
Contra is an incredibly endearing album that serves to show Vampire Weekend as a band with depth and desire. In hindsight, their new found triteness fits them well.
So it is that Vampire Weekend grimace with hope and pray that they avoid the slag heap of promising acts that never breached the cocooned success of their 1st offering.
Contra does not disappoint. It does however, polarize. For those who view Vampire Weekend with disdain, so too shall you dislike this album. It is completely unapologetic with its opener. ‘Horchata’ not only sounds identical to their 1st LP, it walks hand in hand with it, playfully giving the two fingered salute to the non-subscribers.
In fact it would be apt to label the two albums as siblings, with Contra simply wishing to unabashedly emulate its elder. Only, as is often the case, the younger sprog is more adventurous, learning from their kinfolk’s mistakes.
Gone are the nicey nicey guitars on songs like ‘Boston’, having been replaced with more experimental numbers such as the M.I.A. sampled ‘Diplomat’s Son’.
Rostam Batmanglij’s keyboards on ‘White Sky’ are sublimely accompanied by differing, intertwining percussion from Chris Tomson. With his vocals, Ezra Koenig is seen to be embracing a cosy little penchant for Kate Bush.
‘Cousins’ doesn’t mince its nature as it announces itself as the LP’s attempts at recapturing the rip-roaring success of ‘A-Punk’.
Whilst there is nothing necessarily wrong with the song, it’s not really a shade on its predecessor. ‘A-Punk’ was such a behemoth of a club tune that the band may struggle to ever to better a song that, in its own intentions, was near perfection.
That being said, Tomson’s drums piss all over this song and are brilliant.
Koenig’s vocals on ‘Giving Up The Gun’ are softer than on the rest of the album, as he chimes “Your swords grown old and rusty/Burnt beneath the rising sun/It’s locked up like a trophy/Forgetting all the things it’s done.”
Ezra’s lyrics are greatly matured on Contra, with layered references to “Tokugawa smiles” demonstrating it’s not just Batmanglij and the rest of Vampire Weekend that are looking to mature.
The album closes on the delicate ‘I Think UR A Contra’, with Koenig lamenting “Never pick sides/Never choose between the two/But I just wanted you”.
Contra is an incredibly endearing album that serves to show Vampire Weekend as a band with depth and desire. In hindsight, their new found triteness fits them well.
A Familiar Voice In Unfamiliar Surroundings...
“I was moved in with her, temporarily, just until things were patched,
‘Til this was patched and ‘til that was patched,
Until I became at 3,4,5,6,7,8, 9 and 10,
The patch that held Lily Scott,
Who held me and like them 4,
I became one more.”
These are some of the insights offered by the incomparable Gil Scott-Heron during ‘On Coming From A Broken Home (Part 1)’, the opening salvo from his new album I’m New Here.
It seems like a strange album title for a man so well versed as GSH. How can someone who has seen just about everything, be new to anything? Well the man has spent the worst part of the last ten years incarcerated for various drug charges.
During that period he has been virtually forgotten, aside from a brief appearance alongside Blackalicious and a respect laden shout out from LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy on ‘Losing My Edge’.
So it is he sets out to address his woes and misdemeanours with I’m New Here.
“Being blessed is just not being able to float on air, I’m saying if you’ve gotta pay for things you’ve done wrong, I got a big bill coming, at the end of the day,” GSH laughs.
Songs like ‘Me and The Devil’ address his spells in prison and his drug addiction. The music is far from friendly as Scott-Heron attempts to tackle the issues head on, shirking nothing and apologizing for even less in his handling of the problems.
His brutal honesty is what makes him endearing, in the same way it did Johnny Cash. He doesn’t run from the issues that plague him, with ‘Running’ being the most direct example.
His mind is still as razor sharp as it was when he released the unfathomable Small Talk at 125th and Lennox in 1970, even if his voice is not. In fact, it’s this croaky, weathered version of his baritone delivery that really makes you believe what he’s saying.
“Turn around, turn around, turn around, and you may come full circle, and be new here, again” he laments, almost as if he is singing to himself in the mirror. The album is so cathartic. The audience is the proverbial priest and he is attending confession.
Further religious implications are evident on “Your Soul and Mine” as our sage host profess lyrical on the battle for a man’s soul. Again, it all appears to cut close to the bone.
‘New York is Killing Me’ sees GSH confess rather frankly that the city that never sleeps has a constrictor like hold on him, a hold that is detrimental to his health. “Bunch of doctors coming round, and New York was killing me, got to go back home and take it slow in Jackson, Tennessee,” stresses Scott-Heron.
The album closes by coming “full circle” with ‘On Coming From A Broken Home (Part 2)’, again with Kanye West’s ‘Flashing Lights’ – an obvious ode to old chipmunk cheeks’ sampling of GSH in the past – providing the backing track.
I’m New Here is obviously a very personal album, as are all GSH LP’s. This one deviates from the norm though in the sense that it addresses his personal problems, not his problem with the world he lives in but the problem with the world he has created for himself.
It’s a return to form for an artist who has been nothing but sorely missed over the years, not just for his output but also the input he has in other artists’ lives and opinions. Let’s face it, there would not really be Hip-Hop without GSH. The king is not dead, long live the king.
“My life has been guided by women,
But because of them,
I am a man,
God Bless you Momma,
And thank you.”
‘Til this was patched and ‘til that was patched,
Until I became at 3,4,5,6,7,8, 9 and 10,
The patch that held Lily Scott,
Who held me and like them 4,
I became one more.”
These are some of the insights offered by the incomparable Gil Scott-Heron during ‘On Coming From A Broken Home (Part 1)’, the opening salvo from his new album I’m New Here.
It seems like a strange album title for a man so well versed as GSH. How can someone who has seen just about everything, be new to anything? Well the man has spent the worst part of the last ten years incarcerated for various drug charges.
During that period he has been virtually forgotten, aside from a brief appearance alongside Blackalicious and a respect laden shout out from LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy on ‘Losing My Edge’.
So it is he sets out to address his woes and misdemeanours with I’m New Here.
“Being blessed is just not being able to float on air, I’m saying if you’ve gotta pay for things you’ve done wrong, I got a big bill coming, at the end of the day,” GSH laughs.
Songs like ‘Me and The Devil’ address his spells in prison and his drug addiction. The music is far from friendly as Scott-Heron attempts to tackle the issues head on, shirking nothing and apologizing for even less in his handling of the problems.
His brutal honesty is what makes him endearing, in the same way it did Johnny Cash. He doesn’t run from the issues that plague him, with ‘Running’ being the most direct example.
His mind is still as razor sharp as it was when he released the unfathomable Small Talk at 125th and Lennox in 1970, even if his voice is not. In fact, it’s this croaky, weathered version of his baritone delivery that really makes you believe what he’s saying.
“Turn around, turn around, turn around, and you may come full circle, and be new here, again” he laments, almost as if he is singing to himself in the mirror. The album is so cathartic. The audience is the proverbial priest and he is attending confession.
Further religious implications are evident on “Your Soul and Mine” as our sage host profess lyrical on the battle for a man’s soul. Again, it all appears to cut close to the bone.
‘New York is Killing Me’ sees GSH confess rather frankly that the city that never sleeps has a constrictor like hold on him, a hold that is detrimental to his health. “Bunch of doctors coming round, and New York was killing me, got to go back home and take it slow in Jackson, Tennessee,” stresses Scott-Heron.
The album closes by coming “full circle” with ‘On Coming From A Broken Home (Part 2)’, again with Kanye West’s ‘Flashing Lights’ – an obvious ode to old chipmunk cheeks’ sampling of GSH in the past – providing the backing track.
I’m New Here is obviously a very personal album, as are all GSH LP’s. This one deviates from the norm though in the sense that it addresses his personal problems, not his problem with the world he lives in but the problem with the world he has created for himself.
It’s a return to form for an artist who has been nothing but sorely missed over the years, not just for his output but also the input he has in other artists’ lives and opinions. Let’s face it, there would not really be Hip-Hop without GSH. The king is not dead, long live the king.
“My life has been guided by women,
But because of them,
I am a man,
God Bless you Momma,
And thank you.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)