Let's Get Serious. Darkwing Duck fucken Serious.

Because using PAINT badly is mysterious and sexy
and often leads to drinking and rough sex with multiple partners.

................................................................................

I was thinking about Radiohead today, deeply: pensive, of course. I didn't have a gun. Or sandwiches. But my brow was wrinkled, seriously wrinkled - and, well, serious thought was required: Because, Radiohead are serious musicians who deserve to be taken seriously.
And there's alot to be serious about because, clearly, Radiohead are 'N 2 IT' and viciously engaged on all the levels. Especially the ones that only Elvis Costello knows about - and he's got All The Angles.

Well... honestly, boys...
I disengaged. I lost interest. It was a couple - read 2 - albums back because, well... heavy lies the crown, right? Right.
And you certainly are heavyweights. You're basically matrics, big kids - wizardy seniors to all us paupery juniors - playing Rugby against the U14C team and, well, playing hard, no holds, and taking the game as seriously as super serious is serious.

Big Fish. Small Pond.
Heavy Crownz.
NECKS.
*

FACT: It cannot be terrifically easy being the world's most famousest, forward-thinking, self-conscious, socially aware, politically radical, introspective, interrogative, intelligent, politely conscientious & all round dilligent bands in the ever.

So, WELL.. I guess this slightly drunk on gin nips behind the desk teacher NEEDS to go to the school cupboard...
GOLDSTARZ all round boys! TOTEZ 4 REALZ! WE ALL LOVE YOU.

I think I smell pee. Oh. Wait. It's me. Fuck... ... ... 

Anyway, look, I can mostly imagine that it's largely terrifying beyond an unequal measure being Radiohead.
Or perhaps it isn't. ...Perhaps it's so abysmally easy it defies logic.
Only Thom's dystopically winking lazy eye in it's omniscient and omnipotent glory knows.

I can hear the band softly sniggering, behind their hands, at their meticulously constructed fuckery, smug as dolphins. My butthurts.

But, really, no more funsies. FOR REALSIES. Let's get MAD serious. Brass fucken tacks, black cunting hole, Higgs father-fucken Boson Serious.
So... Radio-fucken-head.
[[And, yes, they get a "fucken." Hey. Fuck y'all. Stop booing before I squirt you with warm gin and throw pens at you.]]

Man, look, it's just too much.They've gotten so used to the crown the we, the cunts of this tale, put on their heads, and just so ok with it all, that they became too afraid to - to rigidly careful about it staying there - to let it slip and clatter to the floor whilst they (throwing off cloaks, or something [aesthetics, aesthetics]) - strode up to and clanked open the doors of their Ivory Tower, viciously, purposefully and with menace and trudged down steps and steps and steps:- down to the stink and noise and shit and piss and sweet garbage and booze-stained jeans, the vomit-flecked hair, the drug-addled eyes, the wild talk, the flame, the fire, the light, the blood-rinsed snare, the bleeding knuckles, the casually revelled in shame... the stolen, broken, jury-rigged gear, the utter beautiful stench and wet and THERE of a band, killing themselves, in a dark place, jostling - mind, body, heart - with the six humans who want it as much as they do:
us commoners.
us fuzz-drenched idiot-savants; clutching fear and pain and hope and light: We suck. HARD. And we swallow. All of it. Seriously, sucking the dick of rockenroll never tastes sweeter when spitting the load at our fear and hate or when spitting at a copy, a facsimile, of the same self-indulgent derivative drivel we hope we can make afeared of our awful enought to let us the fuck alone.
Or just spit the cum at the drummer's face. Chances are he likes it.

I want sweat.
I want that broken pedal that is now, somehow, perfect.
I want you to fetch me at 2 for some binge: getting productive whilst effed in the ay with you has never felt better.
I want that 3 o' clock track or sketch or fleshed action, made, on the factory floor, in the dust: dripping your effort off the tip of your nose as you smile at me.

I want humm & buzz & obviously, tits out, because because - because um like, it's totes cool... it's not, you know, sexual or nothing... just like, you know, walk around and do stuff. Like anything. Smoke cigarettes... make some tea... play scrabble... read DUNE... only just, well, with your top off... It's be so mad cool and bohemian and if you NEED a reason other than Life Aquatic - as if you would - well... fuck. Ok. Don't. Fine. Everyone hates you.
TANLINES.

Then I want you to slap me, hard, to LCD's Losing My Edge, for EVERY SENTENCE IN THIS RAMBLE... and then, perhaps, fix me a strong drink - thanks, dear - and tell me, earnestly and with a dash of lemonade, how self-aware and intelligent I am. Then we could kiss, here, depending, you know - just let me put on Chelsea Girls' #2.
But I want it to sting, on my cheeks, so slap hard, BITCH.

I want it wrong.

I want it integral, I want it earnest, I want to delicate or cruel intent and will and, with pain, I want it thrust into the world. I want you to care.
I want you to punch me in the mouth, then put a lit cigarette between my lips; then let us talk.

*

Forgetting to remember to forget is tough as all hell: but somehow, some cunts, secretely superglued that crown to Their fatherfucken heads.

We forced their hands.

They had no chance after Kid A.

It was a bloodbath of soaring expectations. -------------------------------

-----------It was mafuggen Amnesiac.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Ok. -------------FUCK, OK..........

Ok. Breath here.
 *sips beverage, wipes dribble on chin*
*crosses arms seriously, leans in*
Let's get down to nails.

--->Radiohead are important.
Important enough to need more "categories' if we're going to do a best of Them, of their works.
And DING DING DING LOVERS!
IT's not just Best Album, KIDZ! IT's MOAR MOAR MOAR........

SO... Grab Your Fucken Crayonz, CUNTZ, let's GO.

Best Radiohead Album

And I do, punch you in the gut real hard, I really do mean AL-fucken-BUM. A true album.
It's a strangely falling into shadows art-form, the fully-realised and holistically crafted album in this blog-buzz-dominated twist in the temporal relativistics and half-hearted swift gobbly consumption: artists spewing out EPs and digital singles with no LP-length repsite.
Maybe I've been blinded by all the crosses and triangles and faux-hip forced ASCII symbols as I say this, choking on my whisky, and I hate it BUT: coins flip. And all statements have grey in them. ALL.
The MoreMore DL cult has forced a amphet-quickening into music veins and now we fuck every genre, fuck with wild abandon and haste, gestating, too quick for belief, idiotically articulate cross-boundary babies, hatching in their MANY like mounds of fucken spider eggs in your aural holes, hatching all over your brainbox's meat till you pass out from TOO MUCH.
One day all music will be coloured.

IT's OBVS KID fucken A.

PUT YOUR FUCKEN HANDS DOWN. NO! SHADDUP.
That is all.
No RUDDY questions.  

~~

Best collection of songs?

Amnesiac, fucker. 

-PUT. DOWN. HANDS.-
-TEACHER SPEAKING, cunts-

[[*lights fag, happily, smirks at J, sips juice - which OBVS contains triple gin: cos I'm LaidBack like HotChips, warning, with no emote: I'll break your legs, I'll snap off your head... from my chair, thinking, always, of boys and girls who sure look good in uniform... on dancefloors*]]


Most Enjoyable Work

Why, it's The BENDS of course. What else?
It's straight fucken up RH just being the talented cunts they are.
They're shitting good, aren't they fuck? Fuck. Holy pissing whiskey Jesus, this band isn't even trying: It's just flowing out of them, seemingly, like ADVERB SHITTING VERB ADJECTIVE EXCLAMATION CUTING NOUNS.

Most Revolutionary Release

Ok, Computer.
It's RADIOHEAD (in caps, now, urgently stretchin and flexing, glowing blue screen flicker, fluxing, posing, diving into the VOID, into the black: only to emerge as Kid A, grown into a super-humanoid android crystal glowing energy and OTHER).

YAH, that sounds fucken wack. What was I thinking?

But me, I'm ever purposeful: 

How infinite wack was the wizardly spot-off timing of the release of Amnesiac?
How infinitely fucked were people's heads?

TOTEZ FUCKED.

[[~~I think someone at Rolling Stone, or something,]]
[[~~literally shat rainbows from sheer HOLYFUCK.]]
[[~~True as fuck fucken Story.]]

*

And, now, I REALLY JUST CAN'T be SRS anymores.
I'm donesies.
This explosive-verbosity is stenching. Each word, sentence, sentiment... opinion... FUCT...STAHP... Shit............
SMOKE. DRINK.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, and just saying:
DECEPTACON
*Released '99, fucks. IT'S A GODAMN 90s SONG. Jesus. Lesbians. Girls Moustaches of Dance-Punk Awesome.

LEARN THE MOVES OR NO FRIENDLY.

Top 5 Opening Tracks.

WAS TOP5'ing WITH J.

HERE'RE MY TOP5 TRACK 1 SIDE 1's.

MAIL ME YOURS: SADBIRTHDAYS@GMAIL.COM


NO ORDER. SHEESH, AS IF I COULD. FUCK.
~ C.

That bassline. It jumps and jostles and affects smiles for miles.

This album is a masterpiece. ...

If you only listen to one Arcade Fire song EVS, this one tells you ALL you need to know.

If a song is going to track in at an epic whopping 9 minutes plus, it best have a good payoff.

This song is perfect perfect perfect. Each graduation in the layering is just in the right time, just at the right volume... just... fuck.

The sardonic cheering at the end will make you want to shoot someone in the head, or go take a warm bath with a razor blade, and some candles. You know, aesthetics.

*******************************

And also, in no particular order either. Here are mine.

~ J.

[I'd have put Is This It? But you've just heard it, annnnnd I think I've said quite enough about The Strokes right over... >> here]

Here's a super happy track to kick things off!  Nobody plays a Dirge quite like these taciturn motherfuckers. This is pure control and simplicity; a taut as fuck piece of beautiful, 2-chord post-punk grunt.

Disorder. Period.

This song: flawless. This particular presentation of that song? More flawless.

There's a lot of hit and miss with Blondie, but this? This is a definite fucking hard hit.  It doesn't hurt that the band's fronted by the sexiest flippen bitch in music, ever.  Fuck her for being 30 when she started Blondie man; FUCK HER!

I've been hooked on this song since I first heard that opening celesta cascade.  Thank heavens John Cale found one in the studio at the time of recording. Thanks gods also that Lou sang it and not Nico.

Some songfacts:

"This song is all about last-minute changes. The inclusion of the track on their first album was literally penciled in, Reed decided to take over vocals at the last minute as they walked into the studio to record it, and John Cale noticed a celesta in the studio and decided to include the instrument for the song on the spot. Cale also played the viola on the song."

And all this last minute shit is what makes it the fucking stupidly great song it is.

*******************************

It's Poppy. It's Dreamy. It's Pure. It Slays.

FUCKEN FAIRYLAND,YEH? I WANT TO GO TO THERE.
AND IT BEST BE IN BLACK AND WHITE ELSE I PUNCH A SMALL, WEAK CHILD.

****

Jesus, look at these sweethearts. Slaying boys, all over the shitting place.

Look. It's simple. This song absolutely destroys the shit out almost any song ever created.
Utterly and almost entirely. That is all. Press play.

And, look, you too can see the najestic simplicity. You, too, can attempt to fathom how this is perfect  pop beauty:

Get the fucken rest yourself.
Also, listen to it again. Right?? Right? Right. Damn fucken right.

Go Kill Yourselves, Cunts (or side with the seeds)

These kids have more *distilled* Americana & Folk in their little fingers, in the subtle nuance and meta-fucking-layering hiding behind faux-softiness and 'easy-listening' in any of their songs than THOSE fuckers  (yeah, say it again, out loud, you know you want to: THOSE fuckinnng Ffuhckerrs) who think that a couple of necessary beards , a dashing of plaid, perhaps a banjo, and oh, christ, jesus: one lone miserable & distraught cunty-faced little girl with a tambourine & oh, god, if we're feeling uppity, perhaps a stand-up drummer, with flourishes yeah...
and, yes, children, this all adds up to Folk. You've got it. Well fucking done. You're godamn Americana. No. Wait. But then you get to play with one of the members of The Band - if you, reader, care you know which one, if you're alive and into music you know which fucken song - yeah, you're - and I mean THEM - folk. Go kill yourselves.
Wait. Go write a note saying how sorry you are, then do it. Jump off something high... fall screaming... and then holy shit, Superman swoops you up... and you smile, saved... and then he let's go: to drop you from higher. You cunt, he whispers, as you fall from his angelic grasp, speechless. And, yeah, I know I ripped off Louis' joke. Eat a dick.


Or, rather, listen to this, below these here sentences, when I finally stop.
Then go kill yourself, because, if you're a musician, you'll probably never make it to your Wilco Phase, not even close. You'll wake up, have a kid, your kid, rubbing shit in your mouth; and you'll be sad, right deep in your fucken eyes, where no-one looks, not one of your shitty friends, because they're all too cunty to care enough. And you'll see whatever passes for the next hodge-podged, stolen, filtered through kidneys and pissed out beautiful new progression of genre-blends - or purification of one ( traitorously debased, in this case), holy, stalwart music truth - and you'll throw your kid at the wall, kick your dog in the face, fuck your wife in the ass, shoot a fucken cripple and realise this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYCz06bS380

Which James FUCKING Murphy knew, before he killed with that Starship Troopers reference, only, cunt,
YOU DIDN'T.
And then you'll sell your house. And buy all the same kinda shit that lives in my beautiful new soulzie, John Shepherd's, band room - which I just stood up, walked over to and looked into, beatifically, and yeah, with a cuntily smug smile right there on my face and you know what?
YOU'LL TRY AGAIN.

This is ONCE IN A LIFETIME, Kids. Then, Death, who becomes a close friend, in the end - cause you got so close to him All The Fucking Time by Living Hard - will one day grab you away to nothingness. And then all the cunts left behind will say: "That cunt. That cunty fuckface was awesome. And you'll get the honour of having 'FUCKING' as a middle name.
So WATCH THAT SHIT BELOW, DOWN THERE, NOW. And then watch it AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Until you realise why I've said all I've said. Watch it until you realise, perhaps, something I may have missed, some little detail I might have skipped which I then didn't say AND THEN FUCKING MAIL ME ABOUT IT. Because I WANT TO FUCKING KNOW. The mail addy is chadliampolley@gmail.com
Fucken Do It. For fucken reals. Anytime. Cause I want to punch your face about the things I believe that hurt and kill me EVERY DAY. And if you do, too, I need you in my life.

*

[And, yeah, I know I'm wasting tons of my breath, hell, it was bound to happen, these cunts will always be there. They will always exist. They're necessary. Shut the fuck up. And, yeah, I guess I meant both meanings, smartass. And if you feel sad after watching BELOW kill you with sheer supremity, just listen to Coming On Strong by Hot Chip, because they heal all wounds. All. I swear. It's like angel's piss bathing your wounds. And then go out and fuck yourself.]

Wondrous Indeed...

Yeah, he looks cool, that's right. Yeah, he's 23. That's right.

**********************

"What the fuck happened?" "What the...?" "Where the....?" "How the...er... shit.."

"Um, HOLY FUCK... guys... guys, come listen to this."

I think I thought these particular thoughts because, well, I've heard the majestic fucker's previous album and, well, HOLY SHIT, THIS FUCKEN ALBUM.

Holy shit, indeed.
Holy fucken shit.
Holy sweet fucken jesus.
You need to listen to this, friends. And you need your headphones. Or it needs to be LOUD.
That's important. Very Important.
And then you should take it to your friend's house and play it LOUD. VERY FUCKEN LOUD. IGNORE HIM, CRANK IT UP. THIS IS IMPORTANT, TOO.

I am supremely glad I just happened to have my headphones on first time this one swung my way. This album is extremely headphone friendly, straight off the bat. The intro track, THROUGH MIND AND BACK... well, you can imagine..
The sounds... they go floating around... and about... and up and down...  AND IT NEEDS TO BE LOUD. INDEED.

Here's the intro (some kid made the visuals, forgive them): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vU1640OesI8

So, there's the matter of this:

I am picturising things in my mind-brain: THIS IS Trevor Power's Wondrous Bughouse.

If you, like me, had heard Trevor Powers' first album, The Year 0f Hib3rnation, before you read this then you may understand my explosive reaction once you listen to his holyfuckchrist-this-is-shittingly-good new album. Coming from an album that is, well...
...background... you know, kinda ambient, kinda hypnagogic (to coin THAT phrase)
... not so much explosive as imploding in on itself, melodies hiding under bedsprings...  
I almost immediately liked the first YL album. It's not explosive music, as stated, but I guess it's not meant to be. This new release literally explodes, all over your ear-holes. And you should take that statement however you will because, yes, it is a marvellous aural orgasm. It's drenched in LSD. From the first intro track, to the delightfully held-back -- and you'll think I'm being a fool -- second track, MUTE, it drips Psych references. 

 [[And so it begins...

MUTE:

"Living in a 3-D world,where the clock is in control.He sits on his throne on top of my wrist and tells me what I know. 

The devil tries to plague my mind,but he can't quite get inside."

Ah. The Devil. As in: "What the devil have you been up to, Mr. Powers?"]]

The melody and strangely paradoxical manner in which the repetition of MUTE is, somehow, restrained will delight you. It's fucking beautiful. In fact I'm going to listen to it again. And again.

The third track smacks you across the jaw. It's dripping in psych. It's StrawbzFieldzForevz.
And... fuck... ARE THOSE HORSES IN THE BACKGROUND?
And then it goes on. A maniacal carnival ride through Trevor Power's brainspace.

And, after all is done, you'll sit, and think. And perhaps play it again. And then you'll say: "Fuck, I should do acid to this." And you'll try call a mate, or you'll SMS someone for a dealer's number because, SHIT, THIS NEEDS TO HAPPEN -- either way, you'll make plans for a picnic in the Wondr_us Bughous3.

Quick kids, we still have some few sunny days left. It's time for some day-tripping. For fucken sure.
At the end of it all, I have one small thing to say, really:
Thank you, Mr. Powers. Thank you very fucken much, you wonderful man.
"Youth Lagoon is something so personal to me because writing music is how I sort my thoughts, as well as where I transfer my fears..."

Trevor FUCKING Powers. Sexy. And good. And look, below:

YOU SHOULD PROBABLY DOWNLOAD THIS ALBUM RIGHT FUCKEN NOW.

THE PASSWORD IS: lagoon

"My mental state is usually pretty sporadic...a lot of this record was influenced by a fear of mortality but embracing it at the same time.  Realizing that human life is only great because it is temporary.  Experimenting with ideas about dimensions.  I'm not a gifted speaker, so explaining things is difficult for me.  But music always makes sense."
Sense indeed. You try make sense of it, friends.

Duckt@ils' The Fl0wer Lane

I'm scared of this album. Ducky, as I and his close associates call him but Matt M0ndanile to most... well, Ducky is scaring me.

I've always preferred Be@ch Fossils over Re@l Estate for that laidback non-commital beachy-poppy sound. See, Real Estate have always teetered just on the edge of Easy Listening - just close enough to listen to and not be awful cheesy.
Yes, they're two quite different bands, but I kinda see them in the same light. I feel the same non-commital vibes from them.

Ducky has always been Matty's - let's just say escape - escape from the Real Estate vibe; it has always been way more experimental, noisier, more lo-fi, drone-y, all sortsa things.

Listen, my wedding song:

That is definitely going to open the floor at the reception. Hands down.
The desperation. The fear. The one boy shouting at the walls of his mom's basement, in pain and anguish.
Ducky has always tread beautifully on hundreds of emotions.
Whereas Re@l Estate have always just been... well, chill. Maybe I haven't tried hard enough, but Ducky always just grabbed me way harder.

He's better. He's the best. And sexy too.

Now, the problem is this: Ducktails III: Arcade Dynamics was fucken sweet. Yes, it was. You know it.
That fucken song with Pandy where they kill the vibe? Yeah, THAT one.

Also Sprinter. ALSO: fucken Porch Projector. Jesus. I could listen to that for hours: almost nothing guitar lines laid with field recordings of fireworks and people cheering and talking and GUD TYMS, D00d.

So, yeah Ducky III was great BUT:
It was treading a dash too far onto Real Estate territory. And, now, what terrifies me is that this new album isn't just Ducky anymore, it's Ducky and a buncha other bros. He has a band now. It's not just Ducky. Granted, the sound is still mostly there, but...
THERE ARE CHANGES. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....
[*runs screaaaaaming into the distance*]

Well, just DL it anyway:
[PASSWORD IS flowerlane]

HERE.

*YOU KNOW WHAT? JUST DL his PREVIOUS ALBUM, NOW, Duckt@ils III: Arc@de Dynamics

And then listen to these whilst you wait:

Please excuse the weird vocal sample. I have NO idea who put that st00pid shite there.

This is off Ducktails IIc30 [a cassette tape he made!]

This is the song he did with Pandy:

and this is Porch Projector:

New. Beach. F0ssils. Holyhells.

I want write about this album proper. Their first s/t release is still stalwartly in my Top 5 debuts. And it seems like it wants to stay there. At least that's what it keeps telling me. IN MY EARHOLES.

**But, I'm not going to write about it.**
IGNORE THAT. JUST READ THE NEXT SENTENCE:
I just want you to have it. NOW.
This album is fucking rad. It kills. It is the shit. Just fucking download it, ok? Ok.
Password is : beach


 Here is one of the singles. It kicks the shit.

CARELESS

Also, the one bro from The Men produced the album, if that gives you the krills.Find the link BELOW.

PASSWORD IS: beach

//TAKE IT//TAKE IT//TAKE IT//TAKE IT//

I can feel it in my bones!

Fuck, I love winter. This is what I tell myself. Many people love the sun. It makes them jump up and down and get filled with rapturous and joyous energy. It makes me feel like shit: lazy, crappy, non-committal shite.
I prefer Autumn, and the crunch of leaves; the threat of cold, the coats: the women's fashion. But then again, girls in summer dresses make me... well... VERY EXCITABLE.

I like the wintry cold, because it's serrated; it hurts, bites, makes me feel more alive. Not a warm puddle on the floor.
But then I remember this Richard Adams quote from his lovely book about all those awesome bunnies, Watership Down:

"Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it."

FUCK IT.

HAVE A MIX.
the pass is: winter

And while you wait for that to download, here is Duckt@ils' Porch Pr0jector:

[i don't have to say anything about it]

OH, HERE'S THE TRACKLISTING, IF YOU CARE:

Tw1n Steps

Twin Steps are from Oakland, Ca. and they are indubitably awesome. Undoubtedly. Fucken adjectives. They play a beautiful noisy blend of 60s Soul/Motown-Throwback blended with a fucken shitey noisy awesome-y Garage-Noise sound. It makes me sad I'm not in the band with them. Fucken cunts.

Here, listen to this:

And then, watch them look awesome and talk about stuff.
I'm lazy, I could write more about them, but just judge for yourself, dick-faces. :D

The Descendants...

Chad Liam Polley: "The Descendants. ..."

Vince:
yah
dont know if ive heard them
but ive seen the name around
oh
a film it is i see

C:
Probably s bsnd naame...
hahah
I feel so depressed.
Jesus.

H:
what was it about?

C:
A guy losing his wife and connecting with his kids set in Hawaii.

H:
ooooh
oh

C:
The setting is so important.

H:
i've seen that!
and he finds out from their friends that the wife cheated

C:
The look and feel of the thing hit me so hard. Feels like Durban.

V:
that film?
Yeah.

H:
or she had cancer too?
she died?

C:
She banged her head being reckless

H:
im so bad a t films

C:
It made me feel vicariously depressed.
And, strangely, it made me really want to be a dad.
What an effecting movie.

H:
i remember being sad about it too
i can't watch people die in filoms
anymore

C:
Why?

V:
dunno
i get very very scared

C:
...

V:
even thjough i think bout dying all the time
still can't watch it
just weird

C:
Makes a solis kinda sebse.
typing whilst lying down has made me sound like I have a blocked nose.

H:
hahahah

C:
I'm so tired now, but I don't want to sleep
I'm going to have depressed dreams.
And the look and feel of that movie...
It reminds me of...
something I wish I had...

V:
yeah it is lat there
wnting to be a dad
i've not felt that yet

C:
And just the washed out look of the thing...
Shit. I haven't been this effected by a film in longtimes.

H:
you need to put somthing in your brain to get happy

C:
I just want to listen to Washed Out. It's that bad...
hahahah
Everything is a reminder.

V:
what is washed out


C:

C:
But it isn't going to help, I know.
The look of that film reminds me of every holiday in Durban I've ever had.

H:
that song just makes me ore sad

C:
Exactly.

V:
    :/ [saddish smiley]

C:
I need to stop listening to Chillwave.
It's ruining my life.

V:
what
hahahaha
that's insane

C:
It's half true.

V:
it makes you happy

C:
I am in SUCH a weird mood right now.
But I have had thought of deleting all my chillwave before
because I feel it trickles into your life.

V:
it does
watch you listen to
what*

C:
I thought this would help: silly me.

V:
th original will help
it's more upbeat

C:
Deerhunter...
Cover Me Slowly...

Ah...
Soothing..
Much. Better.


V:
good

C:
But, no, really, those opening swoops...
Jesus.
I love this band.
Some bands can save lives.

V:
they can

C:
Spring Reverb.
I need to fall in love with music all over again.
I feel like I have fallen out of love or we are fighting or something.

V:
hmmm
difficult
you cant go to more good shows
you would love it then
or listen to different msuic
classical music has given me a whole new taste
and new ideas
seeing people perform that stuff
it affects me different than normal band music
band music cant match it

C:

:'(
:)
I feel like I've been avoiding music, in case it hurts me: listening to hazy chilly stuff.


V:
hmmmm
it cant hurt you

C:
Yes it can!!
Look:
[[ JOHN: Will attach a piece of writing ]]
**The cold is serrated but the cardoor remains open; he slumps over the dashboard, the minute bits of wind tickling his reddish-brown hair, wafting it about, in trickles. The dash is cool on his skin and the wintry cold is seeping from all other fronts - his bones feel it, his scars feel it; they are the coldest. He looks at one of his hands - the fresh cuts and grazes - and he smiles at it, as if it knew, as if it has known all this time.

The sun is obscured by cloud above him, shattered shafts of sunlight filter through, feebly, silhouetting a steeple. The bells aren't ringing.
If he listens carefully, concentrates, he can make them appear, in his mind:
They sound out, ringing across the cavernous space between his ears. He concentrates harder, and now, as he lies back in the seat, arms folded behind it, they are ringing across the trees, filtering through the leaves, floating over the telephone wires. His eyes begin to burn fiercely and now the sound is liquid, golden-bronze, palpable, charred by green rust. It buffets birds off their perches who squawk, graciously, as it flows under and around and above them; but never through. He relaxes and the wind depletes it, cuts it into smaller and smaller  ribbons; bites into it with insufferable cold, sharding it. And just as it once was there, now it is gone.

He lights a cigarette as he feels the passing tingle in his hands, then feels them shake uncontrollably. It's been like this for weeks, he says. He shivers, briefly, lets out a yawn and waits, flicking ash every now and then onto the pavement. When the cigarette is done he lights another one, the smoke curling around his face, obscuring the dash of freckles that meant he used to like the sun once and that it liked him back. He blows warmly on the window and makes a mark , with the condensation, and the shardy sun glows on it, slowly, so that it sparkles, glinting with icy fire -  he smiles at it as he switches the stereo on and  the wind whips some of the leaves around as a shimmering cyan liquid sound seeps from the car, like a fog - like a soft benevolent lava - wrapping and writhing itself around objects in it's path, strangling them with joy; it is heavier- almost entirely unlike the golden-bronze of the bells - flecked with orange and pink and and lime green flourescence.
Some time passes, pedestrian feet flick leaves up into smudgy ballerina-like twirls or crunch down hard upon them. After some time Paul switches off the stereo, scrambles to his feet, grabs his backpack and closes the door, locking it. He breathes deep, inhaling the wintry warmth and then makes his way swiftly towards the steeple - it's pull seems hard to fight; as he walks he waves his hand about and around, clearing a path through the leftover cyan, breezing it out and away, to nothing. The sun begins to dissipate out and away and clouds build to form a blanket sky.**

C:
I can see patterns.

V:
music doesnt hurt them
it soundtracks it all
but it isnt the thing that hurts

C:
It's a symptom.

"People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands--literally thousands--of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives."

V:
that is true
but it is the brains fult not the music
havign a creative brain
not being happy come s with that

C:
I hate my brain.
...Arg... I think I am going mental.

V:
last night i tried to switch it off with half a bottle of vodka in half an hour

C:
I know!

[[HERE IS MY SUPER LOSER MIX, IT SAVED MY LIFE]]**THE PASSWORD FOR THE RAR IS wizard

BEYOND THE WIZARD'S SLEEVE

...is one of the greatest band names EVER. EVER EVER.

So... I haven't really slept much this evening. I snoozed a little but, mostly, I spent the evening alternately writing and jerking off.
I think I've exhausted the seemingly inexhaustible supply of fetishes listed on TubeKitty - I mean, there's only so much more and more bizarre and, somehow enticing, your searches can become before the chance of a hit obviously, and unfortunately  lessen.
I mean, searching "Midget Amputee Anal Watersports" is guaranteed to not get you a hit.

But all that is mostly besides the point.

I have a little rockenroll tale to weave before your eyes. I'll try to keep it brief and concise, but the chances of that are very slim as to be practically non-existent. I can only promise to not lie. I'll presume to myself that I only speak the truth in the following paragraphs - Like James Murphy, who only cuts like a knife. I'm just going to Lester BANG this shit out.. like a dribble.. just a fucken WRITE. Faces of Coltrane SHIT.
You see, the thing is, for the past year and a half so me and music have been fighting; I think we've been mostly avoiding eachother so that we don't hurt eachothers feelings. This makes alot of sense considering my recent penchant for the washed out, the overly reverby, the mostly non-comittal sounds that I have been absorbing - it started unconsciously but, at some point, I realised something was very very wrong.
Now, this may seem absurd to you. A rather overdramatic statement, perhaps. But, since you are reading a music blog, I can mayhaps assume you are as much of a music obsessive as I am: once you have noted this characteristic it doesn't seem like a silliness at all. We all know how effecting music can be. It can hurt. It can change and transform you. It is fucken magick, and powerful magick at that. And you are a wizard, of course. You know how to wield this power, and I don't have to say much more than that, do I?
No.
Fuck You, you fucken wizard.

You see, I didn't want to feel. I really didn't. There was some dire avoidance. And this rode over into other sectors of my life; bleeding into things with a slow insidious sickness - don't get me wrong. I love shoegaze. I love nu-gaze. I love SHOEHAZE. I love the non-committal: hazyness is fucken awesome.
But not ALL the TIME. It starts to do things. :O

BUT POINT.
Essentially this little tale comes to head this past weekend which, I can unequivocally state was one of the best I have EVER, EVER had. It really was. I still feel a warm transformative white fiery glow burst from my chest region. No lies.


I was tired. Tired of HAZE. Tired of BEATS. TIRED OF CARING ABOUT ALL OF YOU.

So, for my DJ set at Kitchener's this Saturday past I sat and meticulously crafted a rather torrid, confrontational, obnoxious noise-based set. I wanted to kill. I wanted to walk up to music and strangle it and shout:
"FUCK YOU, CUNT. LET'S JUST FUCKEN HURT EACHOTHER AGAIN, OK? OK."

I thought this set would be painful, in the wrong sense, for people. I thought, I really truly believed, it was just a mite bit too much: people would run in utter terror and fear back to the bar, at a slow walk, a small patronising shake of the head, murmuring: "what the fuck".

I didn't succeed, to my intense surprise. I mean, people danced. And I killed myself, Ishouted out choruses; I spazzed myself the fuck out. I, to sound a touch silly, FELT IT. I fucken did. And, apparently, so did a whole bunch of others.



Now, of course, I need not mention the obvious ones, the ones from our personal Post-Secret Legendarium, the fucken heroes that decided they'd pop through. The ones with true magic bursting from the fingertips and pouring from the mouths like liquid gold: the ones for whom music truly HURTS. It PAINS them.
But good PAINS. PURE HEART.
I needn't mention them, but I think I very well shall. They are great, truly great human beings.
There is Rob Cass for whom music is a battle. We swear at eachother in sheer wonderment, cursing and gesticulating wildly, we look like we're fighting eachother when we do our little bursts.
There is Kyle Wallace. God. That boy. What a fucker, eh? And so fucken young [quote Losing My Edge under your breath why don't ya?]. How does he have such grand taste. Young little cocksucker.
There's Colleen Balchin.
*She is the most beautiful GURL in the whole of Joburg.*
 She makes dresses seem like some bizarre transformative uniform of utter and disastrous power. And she can DANCE. FOR HOURS.
REALLY. REALLY REALLY, LIKE FOR REALZ. And SEX. AND MARRYING RIAAN.
There's Iain Cluett, that fucken faggot. And, yes, if you're in and about and out in the, dare I use the word, motherfucken "scene", your girlfriend has undoubtedly fallen in love with him. Who wouldn't?

There is the Jewish Vampire, Warren Cohen, 138 yrs old, give or take; we're not sure and neither is he. I suspect he was drunk as fuck when he was turned, had blacked out, and woke up undead. He hasn't expounded on how this felt. Frankly I couldn't care. His heroin chiclessness is striking and he kills people with his Anti-Folk guitar. AMPERSAND. LOOK IT UP, CUNT.

OR, HERE:

 Dead.


And, last, but so not even close to least, if we were grading, is Riaan motherfucken Botha; He knows too much, Bonapartie. Too much. It's absurd. He'll make a link from something you like and rant off 5 acts you should, and MUST, be listening to. What a cunt. I don't understand how he fits it all up there?

All you others know just exactly who you are. But my fingers got tired.
*lights fag, sips mampoer*

Shit.
So... there was them, they came, they watched in awe [sick sic] and pure joyous enrapturation or something of that notionness as I got away with THESE:

LIARS and
EVANGELICALS and
COLD CAVE and
EAT SKULL and
JAPANTHER and
 noise noise noise. FUCK OFF noise. FUCKEN <3 br="br" hz="hz" noiz.="noiz.">

I thought all the noise/lo-fi/garage kids had died out in the Electro-Jock massacre of 2k6.
No, they were waiting, apparently.

And, as I poured out my heart, played songs that I had KNOWN before just would KILL the FLOOR and make me ingloriously sad; and as I smoked and steamed and downed beers and thrashed and pained and raised my hands heavenly for THAT chorus, and pushed some buttons here and there which is, ask anyone, SO FUCKEN DIFFICULT, I, of course, felt validated. I was right. About it all. I had forgotten how to make Magick Spells. I had forgotten how to be effective. God, I even 'finished' with JPNDRDS' The Boys Are Leaving Town which, I thought, was a rather magnificent song to end with, of course. Haha. Hoho. Sly musical thingymadoodles.
I ended with an Addendum. A secret track by noise-pop-dancey as fucken hell Think About Life's secret track form their S/T which BEGS you to:
"CLOSE YOUR EYES." It's fucken SCREAMY AND SHOUTY AND FUCK OFF AND DIE AND DEAD DEATH AND... strangely, so full of fucken life I can't believe it.

I was happy, truly happy, in that moment. My joy washed ridiculously around after that as I spilt burnt ochres and swished around bitter oranges and fiery maroons and shit in my wake, in front of me, behind, above, on people's fucken faces: I musta looked like a beatific retard.
I would proclaim, when introducing one of my Wizard's, THIS GUY! GREAT! AMAZING! to anyone within hailing distance. And, I meant it. I did.

Music and me have reconciled, we can play again now.

DL THE SET BELOW.
*******THE PASSWORD is:
wizard


###################################3

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HERE'S THE SET.

HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.HERE'S THE SET.

######################################33

YO! Grapes, MuthaFucka.

Well. What the fuck else is there to say about this splendiferous side-project from Mr. Craig Durrant of Tutus' fame?
The smashing thing here is that there is no riding on coat-tails or bandwagonism on his part; he hasn't hitched his trailer to his former companions' cars, getting dragged along in their dust. This very much is his own project, isn't it?
Ok, you moan, and you'll see: The new track, I Need A Lift has some ridonkulous cowbells during it's intro. I guess you can't escape your past, can you? But, upon further perusal, there's a delight and splendour as I awaken to the realisation that it's merely a recapitulation of dance-punk as a whole, quite-removed from the self-proclaimed 'kwela-punk' of his compatriates' offerings.
More Tom Vek than Indie, more plonks and squelches and synth-splurges than angular guitar riffing, more genteel Kings of Convenience influence: Think Whitest Boy Alive - their side-project than, well, something other than that, more joy and delight in the small things than overworking of structures. It's simple, joyful, fun music done for that sake. It's delightful to see this man grow and grow and grow from the compost-heap that is the Joburg rockenroll scene into well, something cheesy, like a sunflower or something.

Here is the track to listen to whilst reading my unprofessional interview:

Yo Grapes - I Need A Lift on Soundcloud

SB: Hi Craig, How are you?

Yo Grapes: Very fine thanks and you.

Since it's inception [which was when?]...

Ok, so since it's inception, what has been the most revelatory thing about working with yourself?

I made one or two songs in 2010, but made most of my songs in 2011 and 2012. I don't rate myself as a technically good musician, so every time I make a song - it's me trying something new. I mix and master all the stuff on my own then just chuck it out there and if people dig it then awesome.

Fuck, we hate to do this, but, well, we as listeners see our own shit in your musical palette; what kinda stuff you been listening to of late? I mean, what drove your last piece, I Need A Lift? What was gaining major rotation whilst you were crafting that guy?

I've been listening to a lot of nu-disco and indie-dance in the last few weeks. Mostly stuff like Peter & the Magician, Cassian, Pnau, Classixx and Gigamesh. With 'I Need A Lift' I tried to make something that would be cool to hear on a dance floor - something remixable too. I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out.

I like the simplicity and, well, haha, good-naturedness, of your lyricism, do you see the world as a giant fucken cupcake? We've heard you only see in pastel colours? Is this a gift?

Haha, I have tried to write serious songs but I just can't take it seriously - I end up reading the lyrics back to myself and cringing. So I try to keep it sweet and true.

Jocularity aside, it's great to see a new musician working solo in the electronic field. Have you gotten any inspiration from artists working 'along-side' yourself?

I am loving stuff like Vampire9000, Matthew Mole and Christian Tiger School at the moment.

Electronic-vibez of this nature are continuing to become more and more of a vogue in JHB and SA in general, and less of a underground, background thing, in terms of a more, shit, better word, fuckit, 'indie' kinda thang: do you see a scene building itself up around this? Will it fizzle out?

I think it's pretty exciting, there's a new wave a bands and electronic artists - maybe not as many bands as there were when D&TT first started but still there's new stuff happening all the time which is great. I think it will always exist - bands will always form and then break up. But I just hope that the guys doing awesome things will not give up soon. We saw cool bands like Eat This, Horse and New Loud Rockets disappear and it's a damn shame that for many bands, the emotional rollercoaster that is the SA music industry is just not worth it.

When I saw you last I was struck by the intensity of joy on your face. Is it a terror being onstage? Did you have doubts as to whether you could perform this stuff live?

I like to think that when I play live it's more about the songs and less about me being an outrageous performer. That's my aim anyways, I want people to dance and sing along, thats cool too.

I wish I was doing this with a tape recorder and not via fucken e-mail.
Ok, for tech geeks: What gear do you use? What do you craft your electronic-vibez on?

I use a Telecaster, Fender deluxe reverb, a Novation Launchpad that triggers samples from Ableton Live. I used to use a Roland spd-s live too but it was unnecessary - the launchpad is a really sick little gadget that can do pretty much anything.

Ok, tough question, for all the gurls out there: What are your all-time Top 5 debut albums?

in no particular order:

1. Silent Alarm - Bloc Party

2. Guns Babes and Lemonade - Muscles

3. Manners - Passion Pit

4. Dreams - Whitest Boy Alive

5. Bright Like Neon Love - Cut Copy

Also: More cowbell?

there can never be enough cowbell. ever.

Thanks, Craig. Have a lovely day. Hugs 'n shit.

New Duckt@ils Song...

Ducky has a new song for a nwe album... and it starts with this plonky bite of some kinda cheesy lounge-y synthy organ (without the swirl that you'd associate with previous Ducky work) before jolting you back into awareness with Ducky's natural sound. Well, at least as far as his delightful last album. But there's more. The guitar sound is different here somehow. It's tighter and coarser, sonically and structurally. I kinda miss the old Ducky who swirls and scopes and lo-fis EVERYTHING out into a distorted nuclear fallout-beach coated with kids and pizza and spectral mutants.
However, this song is delightful, I can't deny it.
However, Ducky now has a full-time band, so I almost can't refer to HIM anymore as DUCKY. Which kinda grates.
However, now that Ducky isn't just Ducky anymore, how much creative control has he won or lost?

Just listen to this fucken song and not worry about my awkward ramblings [it's early]:

http://soundcloud.com/dominorecordco/ducktails-the-flower-lane