ISSUE 24
FEBRUARY 2007
Welcome, celeb-obsessed feather-brainers, to your regular dose of booze/caffeine/anti-depressant fuelled REALITY� and by �reality�, I�m NOT talking about media-manipulated TV racism/bullying controversies which are REALLY more about class SNOBBERY. FUCK the cosy brain-death of this tabloid nation which is moving ever-closer to becoming an island of interchangeable, boorish fashion slaves. DON�T LET THEM DO IT TO YOU! DO IT TO THEM FIRST! Everything here scribbled by Mark Ritchie except Gary Simmons� column which was scribbled by... oh, take a GUESS, genius! Online fun at www.geocities.CON/sniperglue
SUN, MOON AND METAL BIRDS
you stand,
helpless and small,
as she turns into a metal bird
and takes off
into the bruised beauty
of the evening sky.
soon, an ocean
will stand between
your hands,
though not your hearts.
but the same sun
will warm your skin
and the same moon
will bathe you in sleep,
lovers united forever
by the pull of the world.
ANTS UNDERNEATH A MAGNIFYING GLASS AND THE HEAT OF THE SUN
While I am having a shit
in the Crowne Plaza Hotel,
there are sailboats
cruising happily
down the river,
there are people jumping
out of windows
in Japan,
there are limousines
waiting joylessly
outside of jewellery stores
for the rich and famous
and there is a bright, brilliant sun
shining down
on a cold and dismal planet
overrun by ants,
none of whom
know or care about the meaning
of life.
PHOTO SHOOT
the black dog
casts it�s shadow
over the city
over the freezing north sea
over the boats that
fade like tragedies
into the haze and the fog
the tourists pose for snaps
try to kidnap the wonder
positioning themselves
like smiling mannequins
silhouetted against
the endlessly blue sky
i press the button
and then they are gone
IN FLIGHT
gripping my can of pepsi
with last night's booze still tickling my cortex,
watching the scenery rush past
like memories before the eyes of a dying man,
i turn up the music until i can't hear my own thoughts anymore.
the pylons and the clouds and the far away planes
all seem to be smiling at me,
telling me that it'll be alright, as long as i just keep moving,
letting this bus take me further and further away.
�a change of scene will do you the power of good.'
and then, stepping onto the pavement of a different city,
the rush i felt while in transit dulls somewhat,
and soon i am wandering the streets and sitting down on cold stone
and i eventually find a quiet bar to sit and mull over the fragile nature of things,
to contemplate throwing myself into a cold, endless river.
then i am back on the street, giving 50p to the hare krishna woman
who always tells me to smile and 'say the happy word'.
she hands me a book i will probably never read and says that it will come in handy
'the state that you're in'.
13.5 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of Gods� Little Game
By Gary Simmons
Dear Mark�
Had loads of fairly good dreams that were as thick and as fluid as golden syrup, the way they spread throughout my night. Couldn�t face leaving my warm and comfy bed, so I stayed in there until 10.20am. Now I�m up and I don�t see the point in ANYTHING. The world is empty and I feel CRAP. Got a �Christmas card� from schoolmate Mark. This time he sent a photo of a Thailand beach scene which he took himself. Usually it�s of the Xmas tree in Trafalgar Square. I remember, two years ago, I sent him one of those �Christmas is Over� photocopies as a �card� and he phoned me and said �Thanks for your bit of paper�. And one year I just wrote on a card �Mark Xmas Gary�. Why the fuck DOES he still bother with me? Well, his card this year did include mum and dad�s names as well. Last year, at M�s, I didn�t send him one, OR a birthday card from Archway. He made sure he put his new address on the back of the envelope, �If lost�� Is that to ensure I send one BACK?? I just don�t understand. Most people would say �FUCK GARY!� I know I do! Whilst I was preoccupied with all this banal dross the stars, like so much dust, were moving in their courses, clouds of interstellar gases were condensing into planetary systems and the galaxies were moving outward from the Big Bang at an ever increasing speed� Not to mention the �mysterious� dark matter and dark energy that forms 95% of the universe.
Russell Brand? What a CUNT! If I walked around looking like THAT (and I USED to!), I�d get nothing but aggro! But Russell Bland DOESN�T walk around like that� �cept in the TV studio and in his posh cab to and from work. Cunt. It�s all a fuckin� stage act when I�M for fuckin� REAL, yet I�M not allowed to! I have now gone undercover. I ain�t gonna change anything or start any Westwood/McClaren/Pistols revolutions, so why bother, especially at MY age?! It�s �as if punk (and hippy and glam and anything else GOOD) never happened�. What a DRAB period THIS is! �But meaningless lights still hold our attention� (Current 93)
Woke to my mobile�s alarm at 9am but didn�t get out of bed until 9.25-ish, watching Ceefax news. Was speaking to M for 50 minutes last night. She had a cold and feels weak but wants to go to a glam gig tonight! After that, I had a heavy-duty wank, ate my pre-cum and cum coz, at that time, I felt very girly. I wanted so much to be a girl then. It comes and goes, this feeling. Woke with the taste of stale cum in my mouth� How very girly �n� gay of me! Had bizarre dreams of police and commotion next door coz they had been robbed and/or assaulted. Dreamed also that I was in an Oriental restaurant and we were offered FROGS! The waitress came over with a LIVE frog in each hand for us to choose. I knew they were going in a boiling pot ALIVE and I was in a right state over it. Lesson? Don�t eat your pre-cum and cum, I suppose.
�Love, Gary xxx
GARY�S �LAUGHING DEFIANTLY INTO THEE THREE GORGONIAN FACES OF APATHY, FUTILITY AND GENERAL INDIFFERENCE� PLAY-LIST
MY T.V HURTS � CLICHE (SIC) CASSETTE. Cassette, believe it or not (sent trustingly to me by Richo, for review in his Adverse Effect super-zine, but ending up collecting dust at my Anne Frank-style post-eviction Finchley hide-out before EVENTUALLY managing to get a write-up in issue 17 of HY! Paste Room Records. 2003)
N.E.U.K � DEMO TAPE. Cassette, surprise-of-all-fuckin�-surprises (ex-Tower Records workmate Paul McKenna�s band after the New England (U.K, geddit?) name-change. No info except �Tape it, send it back yer bastard� followed by one-time up �n� coming rock god Paul�s address, scrawled on the TDK insert. Oh, what a pathetic, small life I live)
NEW YORK DOLLS � S/T. LP (Mercury. 1973)
NICO � DESERTSHORE. LP (An HY! office staff favourite, as reviewed in issue 23. Reprise. 1970)
CANDI NOOK � QUEEN OF THE SWIRLY-EYED ANT MONKEYS. Cassette (Fiend. 199?)
NURSE WITH WOUND � INSECT AND INDIVIDUAL SILENCED. LP (United Dairies. 1981)
ORIGAMI GALAKTIKA-EESTI LIBBED SILMAD S�DA. Double LP (Speeding Across My Hemisphere. 1996)
FRANK PECK � SONGS FOR A BAR. Cassette (The Seagull Label/KAW Tapes. 2001)
PBK � THRILL PICTURES. Cassette (Or is it �PBK� BY Thrill Pictures? Not that anyone, anywhere, living or dead, pre-teen lurking or OMP jerking, GIVES a burning bladder-bleeding FUCK! Who is actually READING all this? Hello? Realization Recordings. ????)
PUBLIC IMAGE LTD � LIVE AT THE RAINBOW, BOXING DAY 1978. Bootleg cassette (bought nearly a quarter of a century ago from some dodgy stall in Scam-den. It�s just finished playing as I write. Johnny says he�s had enough and so have I. Farewell, ya bunch of SAD SACKS!)
MUSIC
THE HOLD STEADY � BOYS AND GIRLS IN AMERICA (VAGRANT/FULL TIME HOBBY)
ALMOST KILLED ME (FRENCH KISS)
It�s not often that I buy an album based on hearing only one song but that�s exactly what I did with The Hold Steady�s �Boys and Girls in America�, an addictive amalgam of 1970�s AM radio rock and post-hardcore attitood. Vocalist Craig Finn has a speak-sing voice that�s a little bit Bruce Springsteen, a little bit Bob Mould, while musically his band rock like The Replacements playing Meat Loaf. Yes, there are cascading pianos and parping trumpets here which may cause certain indie purists to reach for the smelling salts but fuck THEM because this is the kind of album that would sound GREAT being played while driving down a sun-kissed freeway, though the last time I did that was.. well, NEVER.. but luckily it also sounds great if you�re just washing the dishes or travelling on a bus from Glasgow to Forth in 80mph winds. And The Hold Steady don�t just ROCK, �cos the two pace-slowers, �First Night� and �Citrus�, are gorgeous, especially the former, which seduces with it�s lovely lap steel, lilting chorus and killer lines like �she was golden with bar-light and beer� before exploding into an epic finish. It�s partly Craig Finn�s lyrics that really lift these songs into the realms of greatness. Literary and story-driven, his characters are more your youthful, festival-going, hard-partying types than your grizzled old barflies, but the sad truth is that�s EXACTLY what a lot of youthful, festival-going, hard-partying types eventually turn into. As Finn puts it, �We drink, we dry up, we crumble into dust�. This is an astonishing record that I�ve been unable to stop playing. It so impressed me that, the day after buying it, I went out and picked up the band�s debut release, �Almost Killed Me� (there�s another, called �Separation Sunday� which I haven�t been able to track down yet). Rougher around the edges, it�s more spiky and contains riffage and axe solos that would make AC/DC and Thin Lizzy proud. There are less choruses and the lyrics are spat out at a frenetic pace and read more like poems than songs but what bloody BRILLIANT poems! �Certain Songs� actually name-checks Meat Loaf and Billy Joel, hinting at the uncool influences/guilty pleasures which this band nonetheless manage to translate into something wonderfully unique. The Hold Steady could be REALLY big but your average MTV-glued teen may possibly find it hard to equate the band�s great music with their non-image. Basically, they�re all guys in their thirties who look like librarians and shop assistants (except the keyboardist, who looks like �a Nazi Super Mario Brother� as the NME memorably put it). That would be a shame because there�s so much to love about this band and there MUST be room for some INTELLIGENT rock �n� rollers in the boring old mainstream.. MUSTN�T THERE??
DANIEL JOHNSTON � REJECTED UNKNOWN (GAMMON)
Walked into town and bought a VLT from Grassroots then posted a few things in the queue-free PO at Charing Cross. Had a latt� in the Hengler's Circus (only 49p in their 'January sale') and sat on a comfy sofa looking out onto the bright sunshiney street. Bought 'Mojo' (Joy Division on the cover) then the first Hold Steady CD from Virgin then TRIED to get a ticket for their gig (before that, I chatted to Vinnie while he had a fag break. He played board games and drank ginger beer with �a friend' on Hogmanay! Oh my!) but they didn't have any in yet. Then I looked in Missing and THEN in Mono-Rail, where I spent �5.99 on this Daniel Johnston CD (which I�ve had a taped copy of for years. It�s a fantastic album, especially the first song, �Impossible Love�). Stephen Pastel served me and took ages getting change from the bar. I felt awkward, him being an indie-pop ICON and all! Had a pint of �1.39 Deuchars in the Sir John Whore then had a Carling in the Auctioneers then TWO Carlings in a busy Horseshoe. Drunken Eyes was in again. I�d not seen him in weeks and then saw him twice in two days. They've removed the giant pie container too which I usually like to hide behind. Then I went to Failt� for a Guinness then had a dump in Lauders. My phone went while I was shitting, of course. It was my mum, so I called back and she said Tesco have cheap Quorn so could I get some tomorrow? Then I had a Jack Daniels and Coke (which was only �1.50) in a newly done-up, and considerably WORSE, Brunswick Cellars. No more TV screens showing silent Japanese horror films, no tables above the height of a very small child, etc. Dull. My last stop was Nico's (which was as quiet as ever) for a �1.50 Guinness. Walked back and got beer and pasta from the Co-op. Was back in the flat of freaks at 8.05pm. Heated up and ate my pasta and drank ONE beer while doing a tape for someone. I was in bed at 10pm, but listened to my new Daniel CD on headphones and didn�t go to sleep for a little while. Woke around 4am, in need of a piss, and could hear John chatting to SOMEONE in the kitchen which went on for about two fuckin' HOURS! Got back to sleep eventually, though.
VARIOUS � AUDIBLE CROPCIRCLE�S 2006 SONG OF THE MONTH CD (AUDIBLE CROPCIRCLE) www.cropcirclecollective.com
Downloading music is a mystery to me, so it was nice to receive this CD containing all twelve tracks originally available exclusively on the Cropcircle Collective website last year. The whole shebang kicks off with House of Knotty Effects� �Observation (remix)� which sounds like the whoops and drones of a paranoid walk home through an empty industrial estate. Then Star Period Star lighten the mood with their �Hunger Stone� which is live and acoustic and strummy, breezy easiness and sounds a little bit like Calexico. Next up is a �live reading� of �Wishing Just Once� by Weatherbone who do jazz, maaan, with some �cat� trying to be Jack Kerouac over the top of it. Track number four is THE best thing here and it�s called �Change� and it�s by Ron Jagielnik and Larry Krol and it�s VERY nice acoustic balladry reminiscent of early REM in it�s simple, joyful beauty. I want to hear MORE from these guys. There�s more live acoustic action next, from Dan Sweigert, on a song called �Gasoline� which has some weird-ass freeform piano and xylophone freak-out shit going on. Next, Dan Susnara weighs in with �My Places�, a soundscape of Eastern drone and murky guitar strum. Then, those Star Period Star boys return to thrill us with a noisy live rehearsal room thrash-about called �Waiting for the Fireworks� which summons up the spirit of �80s weird-beards Bogshed. �Armageddon� is next. If ONLY! No, this is a TRACK called �Armageddon� by Jim Molina and Tom Hess and it begins with cinematic grandeur before veering down the side street of Heavy Rock (complete with lighters-aloft middle section). Port City Music�s �Rachael� is another lovely track which very nearly rivals the aforementioned �Changes� as best song here. It�s acoustic and echoey and the refrain of �Why were you taken away?� is haunting and impossible to resist. Again, I want to hear MORE of this lot. 9 on Bali�s �Water in My Eyes� (live at the Art Asylum) is a minimalistic trip to a deserted playground where the spirits of murdered children still play on the swings. Eerie! Sinister Moustache sound like Duane Eddy meets Booker T and The MGs meets Pink Floyd meets Dr Feelgood meets The Specials on their track �Colostomy Man� and that really IS every bit as weird as it sounds! Lastly, Star Period Star show up again with a quirky instrumental piece containing brass and harmonica wails and odd vocals yelps. A good collection.
UNCLE TUPELO � 89/93 : AN ANTHOLOGY / STILL FEEL GONE (COLUMBIA/LEGACY)
ANODYNE (RHINO/SIRE)
The relatively new trend of reissuing albums with extra tracks really bugs me and is one I try to resist whenever possible and I DID resist these Uncle Tupelo reissues for three or four whole years but who was I kidding? I KNEW I�d have to buy them in the end, even though I have most of the original releases from which they were culled. Overtaken by an obsessive fervour which would stand me in good stead if it were channeled into doing something other than spending my own money, I firstly picked up the �Anthology� collection for a very reasonable �4. It�s mainly tracks from the four official albums but also contains a few swoonsome rarities such as �I Got Drunk�, a song I�d been waiting YEARS to hear. Obviously, NO song could possibly live up to that sort of expectation but it�s a storming ditty nonetheless and it�s nice to have the previously-only-available-on-7� �Sauget Wind� on CD too. Also, the extensive sleeve-notes and tasty photos make this a very appealing package indeed. 1991�s �Still Feel Gone� has always been my favourite of the early Uncle Tupelo albums, containing as it does plenty of small-town barroom poetry and punky angst. �Sauget Wind� ALSO appears here (it�s nice to have it on CD TWICE, then, as well as on oh-so-rare snot-green vinyl). The starriest of the extra tracks, however, is the thrilling cover of Robyn Hitchcock�s �I Wanna Destroy You� which totally ROCKS and which I ALSO have on ultra-rare vinyl, by the way! �Anodyne� was Uncle Tupelo�s swan song and houses some of their very loveliest moments (it�s title track and �High Water� being the, er, high watermarks). The five extra tracks here contain three album outtakes and a couple of live covers. Again, the sleeve-notes and nice packaging make this a highly desirable purchase and I doubt that I�ll have any sleepless nights when I trade-in my original versions of these discs for cold, hard CASH!
H�SKER D� � EIGHT MILES HIGH / MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL (SST)
Yet MORE money spent on stuff I�ve already got on vinyl but it was �only� �4.99 for this import CD and it DOES contain the BEST cover version EVER in �Eight Miles High�. Honestly, it completely PISSES over The Byrds� original even if it�s not exactly as radio-friendly, with it�s shouty vocals and scorching swathes of sheet metal guitar. It�s followed by a slightly ropey live version of the �Zen Arcade� fave �Masochism World� but then we get round to what many consider to be THE classiest number in the H�sker�s grand cannon, �Makes No Sense At All�, which is like a lesson in how to write a blistering, sing-a-long, hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck pop/punk song. �Love is All Around� is fan-fucking-tastic as well, and it�s ALSO camp-as-Christmas because, in case you didn�t know, it�s a cover of �The Mary Tyler Moore Show� theme, a show set in Minneapolis, which happened to be H�sker D��s hometown. Just BRILLIANT on SO many levels!
UNCLE TUPELO � NO DEPRESSION / MARCH 16-20, 1992 (COLUMBIA/LEGACY)
Ah, so now my collection is complete, and I didn�t pay more than �5.99 for either of these reissues (or, indeed, for the ones reviewed above). Once more, lovingly scribed sleeve-notes and booklets bulging with archive photos make these discs a joy to behold. 1990�s �No Depression� (Uncle Tupelo�s debut album) is practically the blueprint for the entire alt country movement which sprung up in it�s wake. �Whiskey Bottle� is the album�s bona fide classic, so much so that it appears TWICE (the second version is live and acoustic). There are some interesting bonus tracks too, including a demo from 1987 called �Blues Die Hard� (surely the band�s greatest �lost� song) and the previously-issued-as-a-B-side cover of the Flying Burrito Brother�s �Sin City�. The cumbersomely-titled Peter Buck-produced third Uncle Tupelo album, �March 16-20, 1992� (that�s when it was recorded, in case you�re scratching your head), sees the band SOARING in the maturity stakes and being joined by a host of guest players, most of whom would later join Jeff Tweedy in Wilco. This one has more of a trad country vibe to it than it�s predecessors and contains covers of several ancient songs like the Louvin Brother�s �Atomic Power�, a few traditional tunes and even the theme to �The Waltons� (hidden away at the end of the disc). Remarkably, even the originally-penned numbers manage to sound like ancient dustbowl classics, especially Jay Farrar�s masterful triptych of �Criminals�, �Shaky Ground� and �Moonshiner� which, despite being listed as an original composition, is - I THINK - loosely based on some lyrics from the public domain, as I�ve also heard people like Cat Power and Smog doing versions. Tweedy weighs in with some great songwriting too (namely on �Black Eye� and �Fatal Wound�) while �Sandusky� is possibly my favourite instrumental of all-time next to The Smiths� �Oscillate Wildly� and Richmond Fontaine�s �Twyla�.
GOB IRON � DEATH SONGS FOR THE LIVING (TRANSMIT SOUND/LEGACY)
I�d been searching in vain for this CD for a while and finally had to ask my cousin to order it online for me. It�s sonically similar to Uncle Tupelo�s �March�� collection reviewed above, which is perhaps not surprising since Gob Iron (a TERRIBLE name, and an anagram of �O Boring�) comprises UT�s Jay Farrar and Anders Parker of the band Varnaline. Like �March�� there are lots of re-workings of traditional songs here as well as a few short original instrumentals which break up the �proper� songs� and they ARE pretty much all �death songs�. If the characters aren�t dying of silicosis, cancer or snakebites (by that I mean bites from an ACTUAL snake, not the cider/lager concoction so beloved of goths) then they�re being bumped-off in various gruesome ways. Farrar sings lead on most of it and �Hard Times� is probably his finest moment here, though cases could also be made for �Silicosis Blues� and �East Virginia Blues�. Of the tracks where Parker takes over the mic, �Hills of Mexico� and �Wayside Tavern� are probably the classiest but �Death is Only a Dream� has a nice feel about it too. The surprise inclusion of brand new Farrar original �Buzz and Grind� right at the end of the album SHOULD be cause for excitement but it doesn�t really fit in with the rest of these songs and seems a pretty lacklustre affair that doesn�t really bode well for the next Son Volt album, which he claims will have more of an �experimental� sound. Heaven help us. But I hope there will be more Gob Iron releases to look forward to in the impossibly bleak future.
NICO � THE MARBLE INDEX (ELEKTRA/ADA) / THE END (POLYGRAM)
A lot of mega-pretentious crap has been written about Nico simply because she was a strikingly gorgeous German smack-head who had a tragic, early death and briefly sang in the 1960�s coolest band (and I ain�t talking about The Monkees, daddio). Check THIS out (from a review of �The Marble Index� on the Amazon website) � �The enduring achievement of the album is that it at once conceals the mystery of Nico's life through metaphor and allusion yet seems to give glimpses into her deepest thoughts. It�s searingly cold and often hostile sound matches the impenetrable gaze coming towards us from the front cover.� WORRA LOADA OLD SHIT, eh?! The thing is, though, that these albums actually DO inspire the use of such over-the-top hyperbole as well as words like �ethereal� and �glacial�. Over hypnotic harmonium (an instrument which always reminds me of Ivor Cutler, but that�s another story), Eno synth and Cale drone, Nico�s voice is all whispers and icicles as she softly treads her way through songs so utterly beguiling and impenetrable that you could dedicate a whole lifetime to studying them and STILL be none-the-wiser as to their true meaning. But that�s actually part of their charm. Things that are too in-your-face and obvious soon become a bore and these albums are NEVER boring. Well, they might be if you have the misfortune to be THIS particular OTHER Amazon reviewer, I suppose� �I've never heard a more horrible, depressing album in my life. If you enjoy listening to a woman with a awful voice speak in confusing codes and metaphors without any type of beat structure or musical talent, this album is for you. 100% nausea�. Ho ho. You gotta laugh! Incidentally, big thanks to the beautiful reader who sent in these CDRs after my shameless plea for more Nico albums in the last issue.
HOLE � CELEBRITY SKIN (GEFFEN)
I always thought this was a fantastic song but erred on the side of caution with regards to buying the album-of-the-same-name that it comes from. But, as this CD single was only 99p from a charity shop, I had no reason NOT to buy it. It�s Courtney Love�s finest-ever moment, better even than �20 Years in the Dakota� and �Old Age� and �Teenage Whore� and the rather fab documentary that was recently on TV about her.
VARIOUS � GIMME YR ELECTRIC GUITAR NAKED (PASTE ROOM RECORDS) Contact - Jimmy Freshcut, 1226 Barlingham Road, Pine Bush, NY 12566, USA / [email protected]
A tape, a tape! My kingdom for a tape! This isn�t the first time I�ve reviewed a cassette from the Paste Room stable (THAT dubious honour goes to a couple of releases I slagged-to-fuck in HY! issue 17, fact fans). I like the ATTITUDE of Paste Room, if nothing else. The booklet accompanying this compilation is DIY to the max with a hearty cut and paste ethic. It�s sloppily handwritten and says things like �Fuck everyone that points out my spelling mistakes or bad handwriting� (WHOOPS!) and �Fuck MRR for not giving DIY tapes a proper review (DIY isn�t punk anymore)�. I can empathise with the righteous outrage and sense of frustration, having done a DIY tape label myself since 1991 (and putting out DIY tapes even longer than THAT... since about 1988, I think). It must be even MORE difficult, in this marvellous digital age, to even get anyone to give cassettes a CHANCE anymore, soooo� let me get all THAT abso-fuckin�-lutely CLEAR to start with. Now, as far as the MUSIC on this is concerned� Retorts kick off proceedings with three short, live, shouty, feedbacky tracks which just MIGHT stir the blood in your sexual organs if you were witnessing it live in some sweaty club with a few pierced and pissed punks pogoing all around but in the cold, sterile light of my caffeine-fuelled depair, it just sounds pretty crap. �Pointless Generation� INDEED. There are a squillion bands out there who sound EXACTLY like this. Next up are Lance Uppercut who at least have good lyrics (about depression). I only know this because they�ve gone to the bother of printing them. What a shame they sound like some horrendous thrash band from 1989. I�d have found this FUNNY and endearing when I was 14 but I�m NOT 14 and I bet Lance Uppercut aren�t EITHER. More recorded-live-on-a-crappy-walkman tracks follow from Armedalite Rifles who say, on their page in the booklet, that �Safe = Boring�. Well, the opposite of �safe� is �dangerous� and how fuckin� DANGEROUS can it be to rip-off The Clash?! �Disconnect� by Humans Are the Worst Invention brings side one to a close with a �noise� piece which is apparently taken from their �Pop Music� EP and it�s as dull as an evening spent in the company of Geography students. Over on the exciting shores of side two, The Amazing Waldenites provide us with �Walden City Ska� which is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a SKA piece performed by a Casio/drums combo who sound more AMATEUR than amazing. It�s painful stuff and the title of their second track, �Yawning W/ Yanni�, says it ALL, really. Their pre-song chatter reveals that they are still in high school and, yes, I did stuff like this when I was that age too. There�s nothing WRONG with it (it�s certainly better than being in the chess club or slaughtering half your classmates with a shotgun) and I�m probably coming across as a really miserable old cunt by slagging it off but� well, I AM a miserable old cunt, so THERE! No Keyboards! is a TERRIBLE name for a band. Honestly, what�s WRONG with these people? There are MILLIONS of words in the dictionary � they could have called themselves Feral Priest or Uppity Crud Bunk or Teenage Jacobite Fuck Boar. But NO! It just shows a complete LACK OF IMAGINATION on the part of these �musicians� who we are SUPPOSED to revere sooooo fuckin� much. Well, SORRY, but there�s NO WAY I�m ever gonna be impressed by a band who can�t even be BOTHERED to spend more than two seconds thinking up a name. Who CARES about these tossers? Who even CARES what they SOUND like? And I�m not just referring to No Keyboards! here, but ALL bands who have shit names. If you have no creative imagination then go off and be an accountant or something but DON�T be in a band. My TV Hurts are up next and THEY are one of the �lucky� cunters whose tape I reviewed all those months ago in issue 17. They�re still obsessed with slagging off George Bush here which is all well and good but oh-so very OBVIOUS, isn�t it? �Killing Paris Hilton� is a GREAT title for a song, though, and either that song or �Boycott Babylon� (all the tracks are blurring into one by this point in proceedings) is a BIT more original than the other stuff on offer here, in a Truman�s Water/early Mercury Rev kind of way. Poison Meat Scarecrow (now THAT�S what I call a NAME!) round off the tape with some songs that have no titles �cuz we can�t be bothered�. How fuckin� RADICAL, eh?! Well, if THEY can�t be bothered, then I can�t be bothered putting ANY effort into describing their sound or even LISTENING to it properly. Maybe it�s the best thing you�ll ever hear or maybe it�s just another load of old shouty, knob-twiddling noise BOLLOCKS. You�ll never know, will you? But I think you can probably hazard a GUESS. Maybe MRR have a point in not reviewing DIY tapes if they all turn out to be as POINTLESS as this one.
DEDELECTRIC � S/T (SELF-RELEASED) www.dedelectric.com
Dedelectric are a Brooklyn-based duo who combine subdued bass with minimalistic Yazoo/Soft Cell synth and Kim Gordon style vocals (except on �Dance Party� where the singing is of a more icy, European nature) to good effect here. This six-tracker has an early-1980s vibe about it, with UK influences aplenty. These shine through on track five especially, which name-checks Brighton beach and reminds me slightly of what Tracey Thorn was doing in the Marine Girls. However, as if to confound expectations, �Repulsion� sounds more like Babes in Toyland. Two of these tracks are covers and manage to sound completely unlike the originals, which is a GOOD thing. The Byrds� �What�s Happening� is rendered as a sweet and reflective, hymn-like lament while the Ramones� �I Just Wanna Have Something to Do� floats in similarly murky waters as the corpse of Joy Division, although I can�t imagine Ian Curtis singing the �eating chicken vindaloo� line, somehow. I really enjoyed this darkly seductive release.
DVDS
THE WILD BUNCH (WARNER BROTHERS)
Wondered why this was only �3 in Fopp�s January sale and, when I played it, I realised. You have to turn the disc over halfway through the fucking film!! Weird, but it IS a really fine film and also contains an interesting (and Oscar nominated) black and white �making of� documentary. Director Sam Peckinpah was REALLY fucked-up, wasn�t he? Yes! Yes, he WAS!!
TOM WAITS � SONGS AFTER CLOSING TIME (APOCALPYSE SOUND)
Released by the same label who put out the great �Pasolini is Me� Morrissey bootleg (reviewed in issue 22), this was quite a special find, even if it DID set me back �16.99, second-hand! As well as TV appearances culled from shows like �Saturday Night Live�, �The Tube� and Letterman, it also includes a seven-song set filmed for Danish TV in 1976 and Waits� appearance at a festival in Italy ten years later. It�s interesting to see his transformation from chain-smoking pretend-drunk scat-cat-in-a-daft-hat to metal-sheet banging art-hound loony and, of course, all the songs are completely magical.
ZINE
MY CATHOLIC ENEMY (Contact - Jim MacDougall, 14 Earls Court Road, Amesbury, Nr Salisbury, Wiltshire, SP4 7NA)
The only previous zine I�d read by Jim MacDougall (entitled The Lives and Times of a Psychiatric Impatient�, reviewed in HY! issue 15) was mainly a collection of his psychiatric reports which painted a disturbing picture of someone who�d lived life on the edge of mental stability but who nonetheless obviously had a sense of humour about his predicament. This zine is a collection of MacDougall�s writings spanning several years and at least one piece appeared on the Aural Guerilla album that was reviewed in issue five of my �Sniper Glue� zine. The subject matters here mainly revolve around sex, violence (as well as sexual violence) and drink/drug abuse. Some of it�s funny, some of it�s scary (mainly because you�re never quite sure if what you�re reading is fictional or not) and some of it would probably be shocking if you were easily shocked. It�s like that film �The Aristocrats�, which is meant to have the highest swear quota in any film ever or something. When THAT was recently shown on TV, it was accompanied by repeated warnings about the �shocking� content but I mainly found it boring. Going on about shagging your gran and fisting your dog isn�t all THAT shocking to anyone who�s pissed themselves laughing at a Derek and Clive album. Significantly, my favourite pieces in this zine are called �Three Men in a Room� and �Ten Notes on a Summers Day� which are written more in a Hubert Selby Jr style and don�t rely quite so much on the sex and violence angle. These pieces prove that MacDougall can REALLY write.
TERMINAL BOREDOM
�I�ve been trying to cut down,� Eddie says, pouring the vodka at 10.30am. I lie under my duvet, dressed only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts despite January whipping at my windows, which sound as if they�re about to blow in with the force. �It�s difficult, though, �cause I�ve been seeing a lot of Clive lately and he�s always drinking.�
�Yeah,� I say, �I�ve heard you in his room sometimes.� In truth, I�m woken up almost nightly by Eddie�s loud laughter coming from Clive�s room, situated across the hall from my own. Sometimes I hear it in the mornings, too.
�I thought you didn�t like him, though?� I continue, keeping my thoughts to myself.
�I didn�t at first but he�s a really intelligent guy, actually. He does the Times crossword.�
�But what about all that violent shit he�s always coming out with?�
�I think a lot of that�s bullshit,� Eddie says as he puts another of his cigarette butts into one of the empty wine bottles lying on my floor. �But not ALL of it. On Christmas Day, he came in covered in blood and Joanna took him into the bathroom to clean him up.�
�Oh well��
�Would you mind putting a song on for me?�
I don�t need to ask which one. I reach for the pile of CDs stacked up by my bed and find �Black Sheep Boy� by Tim Hardin. Then I punch the number ten into my machine and �How Can We Hang On To A Dream� begins to play.
�This song�s so fucking beautiful,� Eddie says, as I toss the CD cover towards him. He looks at it for a few seconds while the song continues. �I didn�t know the album was called �Black Sheep Boy�. That�s quite incredible. There�s so much I could say��
Again, I don�t need to hear it, but he tells me anyway.
�That�s what my brother and sister always called me, the cunts. But I gave my mother a lot more pleasure than THEY ever did, when I played in the band. That last time she came to see me, she said �Well, Eddie, I can die happy now.��
�Yeah?� I say, gazing up at the ceiling. I think I see an insect crawling around up there but it�s only a trick of the light.
�Don�t you want a wee drink?� Eddie asks.
�I can�t. Got to sign-on at twelve. You can come with me if you want.�
And he does, but I change my mind and have a �wee� glass of wine before we leave.
�If I�m not back in twenty minutes, send out a search party,� I say, leaving Eddie at the door of the Mouse and Trumpet pub. Then I walk across the street to the Job Centre and go through the routine of looking at the list of vacancies before telling some bored looking woman what I�ve been doing in the last two weeks to find work. She types something into her computer and hands me a pre-printed letter.
�We�re giving these out to everyone,� she says without looking at me, as I scan the words on the page. Nothing to worry about, I decide, as she tells me I can go.
As soon as I�m out of there, I instantly feel better. In another two minutes, I�m in the pub and Eddie�s waiting for me with two pints of Miller on the table.
�How did it go?� he asks.
�Fine. The usual shite,� I reply, taking a gulp of my beer.
�I�m glad I don�t have to sign-on anymore,� he says. �I don�t think I could handle it.�
�You could handle it if you HAD to handle it. There�s not much choice.�
�I suppose you�re right.�
We fall into silence for a while, watching the barman shine the beer taps.
�Would you mind coming into town with me later?� Eddie asks. �I need to buy some new clothes.�
�Okay,� I say. �We can go after this pint if you want.�
Three pints and one bus ride later, we�re walking into the terrifyingly bright lights of a large discount-clothing store in the city centre.
�I need underwear, some jeans and a couple of T-shirts,� Eddie says, as we try to navigate our way around the crowds of sober shoppers, many of whom look at us as if we�ve just landed from Mars.
�Oh, that�s SO you,� I say, pointing to a brightly-coloured T-shirt.
�How much is it?�
�A fiver�.
�It�ll do, then,� Eddie says, putting it into his basket. I try not to laugh as he bumps into a display stand and almost knocks over a rack of ties and belts.
�Wow! Look at these,� I exclaim far too loudly, admiring a row of dark blue hooded tops. �I�ve been looking for one of these for ages. They�re just like the one GG Allin used to wear. They�re only five quid too.�
�I wouldn�t mind one of those as well,� Eddie says as he takes one from the rack and examines it.
Buying jeans turns out to be more of a problem, as we can�t find the correct size, but we eventually see some without having to ask one of the tie-wearing shop assistants. Pretty soon, we�re out of there, laden down with plastic bags and heading in the direction of the nearest pub, which happens to be a place where a friend of mine works.
�Is Eric on today?� I ask the barmaid, who gives me a puzzled look.
�Er, no. Why? What�s the problem?�
�There�s no problem, I�m just a mate of his and was wondering if he was working today, that�s all. Can I have two pints of Miller, please?�
We sit down in a corner and get to work on our drinks, admiring the pleasant surroundings of this expensive and swish city centre bar.
�Where to next?� I ask, accidentally spilling some beer onto my coat.
�I want to get some blank CDs and a jack-plug for my guitar,� Eddie says.
�Well, there�s a shop near here where you can get those. In fact, we could go to this second-hand CD shop I know too, if you want. They�ve got that Tim Hardin album for �5.99.�
�Brilliant!� he says. �We�ll go after we finish these, then.�
A couple of hours later we�re in yet another pub, sitting over what must be our eighth or ninth pints of the day, looking through our bags of shopping.
�I can�t believe I got this,� Eddie says, holding up his newly acquired Tim Hardin CD. �He was such an incredible songwriter. So talented.�
�Yeah,� I say. �Apparently they�d bribe him with bags of smack to write songs.�
Then Eddie starts to tell me about how his brother and sister used to call him �Black Sheep Boy� and about how his mother had said �At least I can die happy now� that last time she saw him play in the band and I say �Yeah?� and sip my pint and distractedly glance around the darkened pub as the bored barman shines the beer taps.