40 Mumbles: In the Pocket of Big Sad

I’m kind of sick of this self-obsessed white guy indie-emo thing where this kind of mundane shit you pretend’s got any symbolism, or greater important to other people’s lives, rather than just some fucking tedious self-involved nothing

Poached Eggs, Chili Flakes

Manchester! Na-nanana-na! Manchester! Na-nanana-na!

I fucking hate Manchester sometimes. Most of the time, if I’m being honest. Sure I was born here* but I had little to no choice in that matter, and I live here now, but that’s only because you’re unlikely to find a better UK city experience than sleeping in a tent in St Peter;s Square while you wait to be housed by the council**.

(*well… in Ashton, which nobody in Manchester would consider Manchester, but seeing as nobody outside of Manchester has heard of or is arsed about it, let’s just call it Manchester for the benefit of this post

**and, to bring us back in, there’s a joke that nobody outside Manchester is going to get)

Manchester is special though, yeah? We do things differently, isn’t it? Something something FAC9087546 something something Coronation Street something something actually that person you’re thinking of is from Salford and we’re really inconsistent about whether we consider that a worthwhile distinction. Remember Oasis though? Remember when both the Stone Roses and The Happy Mondays were on the same episode of Top of the Pops? What do you mean you’re not even old enough to remember Top of the Pops?? I’ll have you know that British institution enabled Jimmy Saville to prey on more children than you’ve had hot dinners, and you need to show it some respect!!

Rahaf Yihya Sa’di Hassan

#51 Arcade Fire: We

Ah, old dependable Arcade Fire! I can always count on including them in the year end list with no controversy! Their sixth album is a miner return to form – not really coming close to equaling their imperial phase of their first four albums, but certainly superior to their messy and unfocused fifth ‘Everything Now’. There are real moments of stirring beauty, as the band lean into their real status as the stadium rock band that it’s not embarrassing to admit you like. Like, never embarrassing. Up to around the 27th August 2022, this statement is watertight. To me, they’re the 21st century New Order, in that their fantastic music is almost always enough to cover up for their frequently awful lyrics (“But some people want the rock without the roll/But we all know, there’s no God without soul“, uuuuuurgh, “We unsubscribe/Fuck season five“, uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh!). ‘We’ is a tight, anthemic effort, which might consider pleasing the crowd more important than making any real creative strides, but nonetheless crowd pleases enough to let its lack of ambition slide.

YAY! ANOTHER EARLY DINNER!

“I’ve Been Calling it ‘Depressive Suicidal Pop Music'”; Don’t Do It Neil Wanna Know What Dragon Tastes Like

You should all absolutely already know this by now, but Philadelphia’s Don’t do it, Neil was already a bit fucking special. Mabel Harper has long managed to combine a Weeknd-esque ability to document the seediness and pain behind revelry and intimacy with an exquisite understanding of how right these wrongs sometimes feel that can sometimes rival Stock, Aitken and Waterman’s grasp of sheer pop bliss. Her songs often sound like the building pleasure leading towards an orgasm while having sex with someone you really shouldn’t, but always with the underlying anxiety of the size of the mess you’ll have to clean up after your messy climax. This has been quite the opening paragraph, hasn’t it?

Worryingly, there were moments in the last couple of years involving suicidal thoughts and hospitalisations that might have led to the brilliant B/X album being her final record. However, Mabel managed to survive and process the experience, and today sees the release of her new album ‘I WANNA SEE WHAT DEATH IS LIKE‘, adding new perspectives on death, grief and mortality to an artist whose personal circumstances already made her one of the rarest perspectives in pop music. As soon as I heard of its release, I had to request an interview. Which meant only one thing.

The carrier pigeon

Yeah, I know, the handwriting’s terrible, but in my defence I asked my personal carrier pigeon (Twattori) to write it himself, so my hands are clean on this one. Unfortunately, Twattori did not survive the journey and so was unable to reach Philadelphia to deliver the message. He didn’t even survive long enough to leave the UK. In fact, he didn’t make it 50 metres from my window. Because I shot him. Seriously, did you see that handwriting? Mabel would never talk to me if she saw that. Christ, Twattori was such a prick wasn’t he?

So I just hit her up on Twitter. I was going to blow her mind with questions she’d never been asked before.

Firstly, and I’m sorry for being the 65’703rd person to ask you this question, but why ‘Don’t do it, Neil’?

In the movie Dead Poets Society, there was a kid named Neil who seemed pretty gay to me. Just a really sweet boy who discovered his love of acting only to have his passion ripped away from him by his father. Long story short, Neil kills himself during the climax of the movie, and it was really, really devastating to me. So “Don’t do it, Neil” means, “Don’t do it, Neil, don’t kill yourself.”

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