Pffff, yeah, here it is. It’s Aphex Twin. Even if you’ve never heard it you know what it sounds like, and you know it’s good.
It’s a little too late for me to try and explain or describe Aphex Twin to you, isn’t it? Move along
“Threeway, I couldn’t wait to have with you/’Cause I know it turn you on, so let’s do it, babe/’Cause two heads are better than one“
Fuck me, FFM threesomes are so boring these days, aren’t they? I mean, I accept they might have been exciting in the past, but people were generally more easily entertained back then. Like, in 1850, when Isambard Kingdom Brunel did Isabella Beeton from behind while Mary Ann Evans* licked his sagging testicles, I imagine it would have caused a light to moderate stir at dinner parties across the country. These days though? Pffffffff! We are done with FFM threesomes! They are so over!
(*and even that famous tryst contains the caveat that Isambard Kingdom Brunel actually signed up for a threesome with Isabella Beeton and George Orwell, so he likely would have made the common mistake and assumed he was getting an FMM)
The 1976 movie ‘Snuff’ is a pretty by the numbers meat and potatoes early slasher flick, revolving around the exploits of some n’er do well bikers in South America. The leader of the bikers is called ‘Satan’, which you have to imagine they planned to change at one point. The movie becomes rather notable at its end though.
The film ends with a pregnant actress being stabbed (it was very much that kind of movie), but then we hear the director shout ‘cut’ and the camera pulls away from the action and back to reveal the full movie set. Cameras, crew and director. As the crew pack up their shit, happy with the results of the obvious $72 that went into making the film, a script girl approaches the director and confesses what an admirer she is of his work. She also, predictably, tells him how the violent scene turned her on, because bitches be craaaaaaazeeeeeee!
‘This is the non-stop train to Hull’
Yaaaaaaaaars!! Luke! Luke! Luke! Luke! Haines-o! Haines-o! Haines-o! L-M-H! (clap, clap, clap) L-M-H! (clap, clap, clap) L-M-H! (clap, clap, clap). And so it continues, mainly in that fashion.
I freaking love Luke Haines, and pretty much any old shite he releases is going to end up on the best of the year list.
Continue reading “73 Luke Haines: I Sometimes Dream of Glue”
We hear a lot about how we’re losing a lot of our privacy in the modern world, how Cambridge Analytica and Facebook are combining (with possible help from Vladamir Putin) to erase all semblances of the private life that human’s have cherished so for thousands of years.
Blimey, we’ve obviously reached the ‘distressed cacophony of noise’ section of NE2018, haven’t we?
‘Cold Air’ is an absolutely overwhelming coronach of anguished turmoil, occasionally above which legitimate choonz like Quickening rear their heads momentarily before they’re unceremoniously dragged back down below. It’s a disturbing, harrowing, excruciating and unconditionally essential record.
Fuck me…
Before I start- even though by writing this I am actually starting, and it’s therefore impossible to write anything before I start because I will always be starting however I decide to claim that I am adding something before I start and so something can never be written before I start- I’d just like to let you know that I’m actually writing this entry while at work at the Manchester Refugee Support Network. After you’ve read this (hopefully short) entry, you can decide for yourself whether it was worth the incalculable numbers of Manchester refugees who suffered due to my lack of attention. Just keep that in mind.
Anyway, as I was saying: Fuck me…
Continue reading “77 The Body: I Have Fought Against It, but I Can’t Any Longer”
Longtime readers of this blog (hi, Mum!*) will know I have a bit of an obsession with Lil Yachty. I honestly think he’s a fascinating figure who has the sufficient lack of self-awareness and disregard for the supposed former statesman and accepted tropes of his genre that he could potentially create something very special. His sound is obnoxious, flagrantly disrespectful and nonchalantly artless. But then, I’m a depressingly old white idiot: the sound of 2018 should sound borderline offensive to me! Lil Yachty is 21 years old, he’s already released one stone cold classic song (fight me) and a patchy and imperfect debut album that nonetheless showed flashes of the buoyant/obnoxious/genius/overjoyed style that is all his own and that could see him take over the world before too long, to the fabulous irritation of old farts everywhere. Whether you like it or not, this was evolution and it was frickin’ exciting!
(*My Mum has far too much self-respect to read my blog. Only people with a base level of pitiful self-respect would ever waste time reading this shit. Yeah, I’m talking about you. Aunty Cheryl, however, loves it! She is, however, a shameless crack cocaine addict and, if I’m being completely honest, has been dead for 12 years next April)
Four albums in, and two of the artists have debilitating issues with capitalisation (stef shares similar disregard for proper nouns to american poetry club). The only two artists from America, make of that as you will. Is this the Donald Trump effect? In fact, if any human being on Earth loves capital letters, it’s The Trump, so maybe these artist’s refusal to capitalise is a subtle form of process. Fair enough, as you were…
I don’t think I had as much of a personal relationship with any artist on this year’s list as I had with stef chura. Back in early 2018 I was relatively new to Bandcamp, which is one of the Greatest Things Ever that I really don’t have time to talk about here (I’ll save that for an album where I can’t think of what to write about- there’s plenty of those coming up). I was initially overwhelmed by this new tool that was seemingly offering me endless opportunities to hear new music from artists not even yet big enough to have had held discussions over the exact makeup of the band’s logo*, artists so obscure that even if the singer committed suicide it would only make even the local news on a really slow news day, that I didn’t really know where to start. I followed a few people, hoping to get suggestions from their own opinions rather than go through the laborious task of forming my own.
(*Every band should have a logo. Listen, this isn’t a debate, I’m just telling you a fact. If you haven’t yet got one you’re obviously not taking your art seriously enough. I’ll accept that some artists might not have had the time yet, but if you’re on your third album and still logoless then you’re showing offensive disregard for your own brand. Did Steve Jobs die for nothing?**)
I had honestly planned to write each of these entries off as quickly as possible. The last two entries were a combined total of more than 3000 words, and it’s literally taken up my entire Sunday writing them. I’m afraid american poetry club (what, they have no caps locks in Missouri?? You people disgust me) are going to bear the brunt of my frustration at being unable to sufficiently edit myself, and I’m not going to say much about their delightful little blast of lo-fi emo.
Continue reading “80 american poetry club: we are beautiful even when we are broken”
Necessary Evil 