NARC.

Lovely, wonderful and reliably informed magazine, NARC. have gone and got a brand new spangly, shiny, all singing, all dancing, spectacle of a new website. It features lots of stuff which won't appear in the magazines, so there's lots of news, features, single/album/live reviews.

Get on over to the website as fast your fingers will click.

Psapp - Tiger, My Friend (Domino), Published in NARC. #19

Domino have gone and re-issued Psapp’s 2004 effort Tiger, My Friend, so for those that missed it first time around, here’s a second chance to bask in the soft, mellow electronica of London’s Carim Clasmann and Galia Durant.

You’ll find all kinds of noises on this album, from rubber ducks squeaking and toy guitars, to computers beeping and finger pianos, with gentle and innocent vocals floating along the top of the sea of music. Psapp are famed for making music from all kinds of toys and toy instruments, so on every listen, you’re still picking out different sounds that you didn’t hear the last time and trying to place what exactly it is you can hear.

The album opens with the noises from a street, quickly followed up by Rear Moth, which sweeps along with what I can only imagine is a stuffed monkey toy in a waistcoat, with cymbals, proudly marching alongside the song with a giant grin on his face.

Next up, the mood changes, with the beautifully forlorn Leaving In Coffins. A song about forsaken love and friends with “Now all the things I hold dear to me are falling off in pieces”, Durant literally breaking her heart with her delivery. Meanwhile, on Calm Down, we have the type of music you’d find rotating in the carousel of a cot, whilst with the next song, Velvet Pony, it’s all about the wondrous noise you might find when dusting off and opening a music box that breaks through the cobwebs to show a twirling ballerina.

About Fun introduces us to Psapp’s cat obsession, with squeaking toys and feline sound effects strutting along for a day out to the park or the zoo and wanting “a bowl of cold milk, a different point of view, let's have a bite of raw meat”. Then Curuncula, my favourite song on the album, starts off with a clicking beat and a folk guitar, telling the tale of a couple stumbling and faking their way through their lives, with the simple, but frankly stark and truthful chorus of “we have only ourselves, only ourselves to blame”.

And so it carries on with the break up of King Kong, Durant stating emphatically, “one of us is leaving and it won’t be me”. The album is very much, in their own words, an album all about insecurity, loneliness and disappointment. Fortunately though, the vocals are so sincere and sweet, the music so challenging and inventive, that you’re left far from wanting to top yourself, despite the recurring themes. Instead, you’re left to listen again and again, delving deeper and deeper into the sounds, the lyrics, and the meaning and significance of it all.

Usually I associate the noise of clinking bottles, squeaky toys and squealing cats with some sort of adventure that my dog might be bumbling through in her sleep, but this time it’s an adventure all of my own. Tiger, My Friend is a great piece of work, definitely worth your time and money.

4/5



NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

X Factor

Well, with X Factor's live finals starting on Saturday and taking over our screens from then until Christmas, I thought it'd be a great time to have a look at the lucky twelve who've made the final and their chances of winning.

We'll start with Simon's groups....

Hope

This is the girl band who think they're the next Spice Girls. They were originally just in the competition as solo artists, but now they've formed as a band. We've got the arrogant pig main singer, who thinks she's her out of the Pussycat Dolls as well as all other looks catered for with the rest of the girls. If they were Spice Girls, I reckon they'd be "Token Black Spice", "Arrogant Pig Dog Spice", "Blonde Who'll End Up Getting Fucked Off Jude Law Spice", "Illegitimate Mackem Child Spice", and "The One Whose Been Randomly Added In To Make Them Five Spice". They are massive contenders to win I reckon.

Same Difference

This is the creepy brother and sister who look like they may well be a little bit more than just siblings. Prepare for really uncomfortable viewing and incestuous looks into each others eyes. Absolutely no chance of winning.

Futureproof

This is the arrogant set of lads that you get on all of these shows. By now, they'll have realised that one or two out of the five are better singers than the others, so the songs will be based around two main singes and the other three doing lame backing vocals. Look forward to the ballads where they'll be wearing suits, sitting on tall chairs, and then they'll stand up and have one hand on their heart as they walk towards the front of the stage on the key change or for the final chorus. Could get into the last 3-4.

Now Sharon's lot.....

Kimberley

This is the lass who is irritatingly "bubbly", looking as if she's got Downs, she may well get a few votes to keep her in because she hasn't got your standard pop star look. Good singer actually like, pity she looks like a mong. If it was judged on singing alone, she'd do really well, but I can see a proper heartbreaking exit when it comes down to her and somebody else, and even though her performance on the night will have been better, she'll get kicked out because she isn't as good looking as the other one.

Emily

Cue sob story and sympathy vote. This is the crack, she died, then came back to life, then decided she had to sing. Look forward to video clips before she sings of her saying things like "When I died, I realised you only get one chance at life", "I realised I have to live for today", "I realised life wasn't a rehearsal", "I owe it to myself and my family". Etc. etc. May well do alright actually, she's a good singer and has a bit of humility about her, despite going on about being dead all of the time.

Alisha

One to look out for this one like. She's the out there one and the fashionable one. She's good as well, but this is the one who'll make a proper shock exit because everyone will think she's safe. One week she'll end up going up against somebody really strong and will lose out. Or she could get lucky and still be there in the last few weeks.

Danii's group.........

Andy

Stereotypical handsome one. Can sing, but guaranteed to hit a few bum notes throughout the series. Louis will continue to put him through and praise him because he fancies the pants off him. He's probably already been down on cosmetically enhanced Danii and he will always get the female vote. Arrogant smug cunt as far as I'm concerned, but I wouldn't be surprised if he made the final.

Leon

Seems a nice enough lad actually, could well be the Ray Quinn of this year. Expect plenty of tears and shock that he makes it through each week. Won't win it, but will mention his mother every week without a doubt and start crying when saying "Am doing this for me mum".

Rhydian

Public enemy number one. He'll continue to get lucky as fuck and get through week after week. Total one trick pony, will try and do various operatic renditions of modern classics, see G4 and Il Divo (sp?). I can't fucking stand this cunt. Sharon hates him as well, but one week she'll say he was good and the audience will go mental. Get him out as soon as possible I say, his head can't swell any further, horrible fucking bell end.

And finally, Mr Walsh's lot.......

Niki

Her Dad died. You wouldn't know it like, she only goes on about it every two fucking seconds. "I'm doing this for my Dad", "I think he'll be proud of me", "I know he'll be looking down on me now". Look pet, fair play, your Dad died, but get over it. We're sick to death of hearing about it. Sick to death of hearing that you went through his papers when he died and found the X Factor application form, sick to death of hearing you going on and fucking on about it. She's blagged into the final with the sympathy vote alone and she'll continue to do it. At several points throughout, she'll start crying and going on about her dead Dad, Louis will say something like "Your Dad will have been proud of you" and she'll cry again. Honest to God man, just dig the cunt up and put his body in the audience so he can be there and we can finally put this to bed. Annoying bitch, she won't win, no chance at all.

Beverley

Big black mama. Expect more tears. Absolutely no chance of winning. Another one there to make the numbers up. She'll go on about the kids from the school she works at, how she's doing it for them. Aye, you aren't doing it for yourself like are you? Pathetic, no hoper.

Daniel

The only one in Louis' group who has a chance. Again, female votes will keep him in. he'll play the sympathy card by mentioning his 3 year old son. Has the pedigree to perform under pressure and used to have a recording deal. Could well be a dark horse.


So that's that. If I get really bored, I might do a report on each show. So I reckon it's between Hope, Daniel, Andy and maybe Kimberley.

Q Award Winners

The results are in from the thinking music-man's mag awards. Such a shame that Q has went from being one of the most respected pillars of British rock journalism, to stinking of corporate cock and jumping on the fashionista band wagon.

Best New Act winners were them absolutely horrible, tuneless charver cunts from Coventry, The Enemy. With their stupid vocal style and gash lyrics, it makes me physically sick that they should be heralded as what we have to look forward to more of in the future. And with Breakthrough Artist going to pop trench, Kate Nash, is there really any surprise why I'm losing all respect for Q?

Massive unpredictability points go to Q for the Arctic Monkeys being voted best band in the world. Fuck off.

They've also decided to give out several awards for more or less the same category. I'm clueless as to what the fuck this is all about. Did they literally have to create all of the different categories this morning, because the arrogant rock stars were threatening not to come if they didn't win anything? Check these awards out:

Q Lifetime Achievement
The Q Merit Award
The Q Hero
The Q Legend
The Q Inspiration Award
The Q Idol
The Q Icon.

Honest to God, I feel like chopping my cock off and putting it through the mincer. Yet again Sir Macca, horrible fucking cunt that he is, gets an award for the sake of it, just to boost his ego a little more, because he really needs it. The horrible patronising wig wearing prick. He's Q Icon. I can just see him getting the award. If he was there, he'd skip up to the stage, do a peace sign with one hand and thumbs up with the other, then rave on about how he loves the Arctic Monkeys. If he was unable to be there, a VT would come on the big screen, of him with his mop top wig on, sitting by a fire or a giant gold plated bust of himself, doing a peace sign with one hand and thumbs up with the other. Horrible cunt. Why don't you just fucking die?

Anyway, bit bile out there, back to the awards. Smack hag Winehouse picked up best album. Admittedly, she has got an amazing voice, but we could do without the tabloid soap opera every day. And the only other one worth mentioning is Billy Bragg, who got Q Classic Songwriter. Maybe the only one I completely agree with. Put aside all of the left wing lyrics and socialist commentary, and Bragg certainly is one of the finest lyricists of our generation. Too many associate him with his political songs, which are pretty amazing, but Bragg is also a songwriter who can write the most amazing and real love songs, as well as songs that almost make me cry every time I hear them, like "Tank Park Salute".

A big salute to you, Mr Bragg, and a big fuck you to Q.

The Temple of Oofus Mosh

The first ever album I had, which was completely mine, was a cassette version of Iron Maiden's "Powerslave". I went through a bit of a metal phase when I was about 8-9 years old. I remember turning out to a school disco with my tragic mullet, combed through with glitter gel, headbanging to some song where headbanging was completely inappropriate.

I remember waking up in the morning with a stiff neck from all the metal action, glitter all over my pillow like I'd been sleeping with a drag queen, and the smell of boiled onions from the hotdog stand staining my 80's locks. Every single time I smell boiled onions, it takes me back to that school disco, to the glitter gel, and to the DJ with his mobile disco and four halogen lights inducing fits across the dancefloor.

It also takes me back to the even more tragic band I formed with one of my mates, and another lad who wanted to be in the band. He wasn't officially in, but we'd say he could be in, if he would do outlandish dares for our amusement. Kids are cunts, aren't they? We had him drinking a Panda pop bottle full of muddy rain water from where the fields had been waterlogged, and he did it, just to be in our band. I also remember another time when he ate a piece of my shit because he thought it was a Malteser. Absolutely shocking, I agree.

Around about the same time as us going through our metal phase, the Beastie Boys appeared on the scene. For anybody who doesn't remember, or wasn't around, this marked sensationalist stories in the papers and widespread car crime. Across the country, owners of Volkswagen's were reporting their VW badges missing, drivers were tying their VW signs on to the car grills, to stop Beastie Boys fans from stealing them to make necklaces. Other stories reported the Beasties visiting hospitals full of mentally ill children, with the Beasties poking fun at them and spitting at them. I had new heroes.

And so our band formed. We had one song. Although we had no music at all, it was basically a combination of rap and metal. It was called "The Temple of Oofus Mosh". I can't remember any of the lyrics, apart from the last line of the chorus, "We go to the Temple of Oofus Mosh". Fuck knows what it was all about.

Throughout the months leading up to the school disco, I'd go round to my mates house to practice our masterpiece. Practice involved sitting in his front room with a load of crisps and taking time out from rehearsals to play with his He-Man figures. I always had the one you could fill up with water and press his head down to make him spit at his enemies. Rehearsals consisted of me holding his sisters hairbrush and him holding the remote control, and the pair of us jumping up and down on his settee, pretending we could rap. If the other lad came along, who desperately wanted to be in our band, we'd give him a banana for a microphone and laugh at him. We both had lyric sheets, but the other lad didn't, so again this gave us lots of amusement. Again, absolutely shocking.

Eventually, the lad who wanted to be in our band was barred from coming round for band practice. It's sort of my fault as well. One day, I'd arrived round at practice and there wasn't anybody in. I trailed all of the way around, only to find nobody in. Believe it or not, I was just as bitter at 9 years old as I am now. I decided to wipe snot all over the front doorbell, then preceded to go to the back of his house and curl a massive shit out on his back doorstep. Needless to say, the lad who wanted to be in our band got the blame for both the snot and the turd. I think he was grounded by his own mother as well after receiving a phone call from a justifiably angry parent.

So the school disco night finally came. It had already been organised with the headmaster, that we would get on the microphones and do our rap. Thank fuckfully, it never did happen. And instead, we headbanged the night away to Rick Astley and the Pet Shop Boys.

A shortwhile later, after I embarked on a new phase, and had a band called "The S.S. Sloppy", I put sellotape over the tabs of my Iron Maiden "Powerslave" album and taped total and utter shite off the radio when the top 40 was on, being ever so careful to make sure I stopped the tape just in time from the DJ talking.

Whenever I hear Iron Maiden's "2 Minutes To Midnight", or "Aces High", it takes me right back to the smell of boiled onions, to glitter gel, to curling out turds on doorsteps.

Happy, heady days indeed.



Here's a bit of "Powerslave", I'll do my first bits of vinyl soon.........

I Love Black Kids

Further to previous correspondence, my new favourite band have been getting a favourable write up over at Pitchfork.

Their Wizard of Ahhhs EP has been getting a respectable 8.4 out of 10 from the Pitchfork journo's. You can download the full EP from their MySpace and view their Pitchfork write up here.

Hopefully it won't be too much longer before they're snapped up and I have a full album to listen to, instead of having the demo on constant repeat on my iPod. I actually woke up at 4 in the morning today with "Hit The Heartbrakes" whirring round and round my head at a million miles an hour. That type of thing hasn't happened to me for about 12 years and that is why I am so fucking excited about this band.

Please, get this band in your life.

The Laundry Shop

These folk won't just do your washing for you and get wine stains out of your favourite white shirt, they'll also play you music synonymous with 90's alternative rock whilst looking fuck all like Pauline Fowler or Dot Cotton.

A bit like Elliott Smith fronting Siamese Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins, the Dublin threesome certainly know how to make a big noise. Inevitably, the band will get all kinds of shite quips and poor puns in reference to their name, but regardless of that, they certainly sound the part and with a singer who looks like he could've been in Sonic Youth, a lovely lady on bass and a drummer who looks like Les from Vic Reeves Big Night Out, they certainly look the part too.

And, apart from girls in hats, is there anything sexier than girls with guitars these days? I think not. The band are getting compared with the likes of the Pumpkins, Pixies, Garbage, Sonic Youth and Weezer, so that can't really be bad can it?

So get yourself over to the MySpace and have a little listen to the wonderful "Stranger In The Headlights", "Highs and Lows" and my favourite song, "Say Goodnight...."(MySpace cuts off the title so I don't know the full name, let me know).

And that's that.

Lord Don't Slow Me Down

I've sort of managed to get back into the swing of things lately.

Being annoyed and pissed off with everything has given me a bit of a second wind. I promised myself that I'll try and make at least one post on here every day from now on, so hopefully I'll be back on form and firing on all cylinders very soon.

As previously mentioned, Oasis, they of swagger and Manc-ness, have a new single. They've went and got the video up for it now over at YouTube, you can view it, in all of its black and white glory, here.

For those who haven't viewed the documentary before, it's well worth having a look when it comes out, if not just for the part where Liam refers to Michael Owen as a cunt. As he quite obviously is.

Mad for it etc.

MGMT - Time To Pretend

A new band from my favourite place in the world, New York. And not just New York, but Brooklyn, home of the fat useless tramp of a wrestler that used to smoke a cigar, The Brooklyn Brawler, as well as high flying pilot and scientologist, John Travolta.

As far as I'm aware, MGMT aren't wrestlers, tramps, pilots or scientologists, but they are capable of making very entertaining music. They've recently been snapped up by Colombia, so it won't be too long till they're making massive in roads.

The song begins off with the type of madcap palaver that you might find in a Captain Beefheart record, or at least something else very of that era. But then the drums, and almost Gary Numan-esque bass and synths kick in, and MGMT take you away with a fantastic slab of music. Think Animal Collective, A Sunny Day In Glasgow, Sunset Rubdown, maybe even a little bit of Flaming Lips.

MGMT means "management" for the uninitiated and lyrics like, "I'll go to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars", mean that I have a great big smile on my face. Go and have a listen at their MySpace, and have a listen to the other gems they've got up there.

Great new band, great tunes and great lyrics. They're currently touring the States with Of Montreal, so hopefully we'll get to see them on our fair isle very soon. Actually, just as I'm finishing this short piece off, before running to the toilet, I've realised that the Time To Pretend EP is available on iTunes. I'd make the word iTunes one of them links that takes you straight to iTunes, but I can't be fucked on. Go and get it though, if you're that way inclined.

Oasis - Lord Don't Slow Me Down

Oasis’ first ever download single will be upon us in a matter of weeks. The past few weeks have bred a hive of activity on blogs all over the world wide web, and frankly, the internet is currently filled with the mess of thousands of dead links for the forthcoming single that have all but disappeared shortly after emerging.

Dodgy rips are still available in places if you dig deep enough, or you can wait for the official release on 21 October.

So what is it all about then? Well, basically, the single accompanies the DVD which is predictably out in time for the Christmas stockings. So it’s a one off and is certainly not good enough to be a leading single from a brand new full length studio album. Obviously Noel’s hype machine will suggest that it is brilliant, but it isn’t really.

It’s basically the type of one off song that Oasis can put out and make millions, just because it has their name attached to it. Idiots, like me, will more than happily fill the coffers in order to keep our record collection full, and this is why the single, good or bad, may well have smashed lots and lots of records if Oasis had cottoned on to selling stuff online yonks ago. It may not break records when it comes out, but I’d be very surprised if it didn’t go top five in the Hit Parade, if not number one.

The song itself has a Noel vocal, at times it makes me think of the same sort of pounding roll along rhythm of Sweet’s “Blockbuster”, whilst some of the vocal melody leans towards Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” and the song overall wanders the same sort of Oasis territory as “Lyla” or, and I can’t quite put my finger on why, but also “Force of Nature”.

It isn’t brilliant, but it’s hardly terrible either, and I know for a fact that I’ll be buying it. Oasis have been one of the most important bands in my life, let’s hope the next album will have some real singles, the kind we’re used to, and keep this type of song as a b-side.

Bruce Springsteen - Magic

The Boss and the E Street band are back together for a new album and new tour. Devastated doesn’t even cover my anguish at not getting tickets for the tour, and now them horrible tout cunts are trying to make me re-mortgage my house if I want to go and see one of the few people who actually means anything to me anymore.

Springsteen just gets older and older, more wise, more thoughtful and reflective. You’ll not catch The Boss skipping along the street with a pair of Converse on for iTunes like that horrible 85 year old cunt McCartney did. You’ll be more than likely to find him on the stage with his kicked to fuck acoustic, making everyone around him smile, singing and dancing, and putting just as much of a shift in as a panel beater.

People slag off Springsteen and say the music is overblown, pompous and whatever else a thesaurus might throw your way. But that is the whole fucking point. Pure unadulterated escapism. Where else can you find the saxophone bearable, apart from when it’s in the hands of man mountain Clarence Clemens, and where else can you find a band that has one of the coolest characters to ever appear on TV (Silvio from The Sopranos) strutting around in full rock regalia.

I absolutely adore this album, from start to finish. The album is sentimental and testament to how good the musicians are. From the opening “Radio Nowhere”, which I admittedly disliked on first listen, but now sounds somewhere between Husker Du and Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper”, to the final remorseful “Terry’s Song”.

With every listen, the honesty, romantiscm and sincerity echoes through. The album is a fantastic sing-a-long, overblown, pompous piece of work. And that’s the fucking point.


Here's a bit classic Boss...........

Black Kids

Don’t be taken aback or offended with the title of this post. I’m not making some sort of racial attack, this is the name of the band who are currently red hot on the radar, apparently.

Whenever I think of black kids, I think of this little kid called Mohammed who moved back to Bangladesh when we were 8 or 9. Good little kid, but we never ever seen him again. No idea what happened. I always remember Mohammed for the snotty crust around his nostrils. He always had it. It became even more prominent when we’d get our milk at playtime, and the focus was brought up to his mouth area, so you could always see the dried snot from behind his blue straw. Shouldn’t have drank milk, Mohammed, didn’t do his look any favours. Massive head as well actually, for a kid. The only other thing I think of, when I think of black kids, is the fact they only ever ate fish fingers when we got our school dinners. Doesn’t make them bad people like, just saying.

From now on though, when I think of black kids, (I’ll just stress, not in a noncey way) I’ll think of this absolutely brilliant young band from Florida.

I’ve come to find, by the powers of the internet and actual written words in magazines, that this band may well be the “next big thing”. On listening to the stuff they have on their MySpace and from the general “buzz” from the articles I’ve been reading on blogs and the like, I can certainly understand why. Although the sound is far removed from the type of David Byrne delivery that Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! offered us, I still get the same sort of feeling about the music when I listen to it, as if they are about to “happen”. They have a similar sort of delivery and excitement about their music that makes you feel like you’ve really discovered a band that you’re going to follow for years to come.

The comparisons are there for all and sundry, with the likes of The Cure, My Bloody Valentine and The Go! Team regularly name checked in the same breath as Black Kids.

These scamps are a very good band. Bands don’t just get younger and younger as I get older, they get better and better. Somehow, in the past few years, the world has started to produce young kids who can make amazing music. Gone are the days of sitting with a Musical Youth LP on, or teenybop wank stains Hanson appearing all over the TV set. Nowadays it’s became quite cool to like kids, again, not in a noncey way, and kids have became better and better at making music which isn’t just flash in the pan commercial, novelty shite.

The rumour mill suggests that they’ll be over to the UK in November and maybe releasing something at the same time. My luck tells me that they’ll probably just play one date in London, or they’ll support someone shite and come nowhere near where I live.

The band is still unsigned, but that shouldn’t be for much longer. So eyes peeled and keep a look out for Black Kids. It’ll make a pleasant change for a lot of people to start enthusing about Black Kids, rather than being mugged off them and accusing them of being terrorists.

Seriously though, go to their MySpace, and listen to “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You”. What a fucking amazing tune, absolutely amazing. Actually, fuck that, every song they have up there is amazing.



Here's a bit of Musical Youth to keep you going........

Stars - In Our Bedroom After The War (Arts & Crafts), Published in NARC. #19

Stars perform the futuristic type of music you might find in some sort of spaceship based romantic drama in years to come, a time when music rules the universe and people have blue hair and silver suits. Not the type of future where two cretins called Bill and Ted heal the world with their air guitar and shite catchphrases. No, this is a good future.

The Montreal based band seem to have the incredible ability of creating music that almost transcends comparison with any of their contemporaries. Choosing to create layers upon layers of amazing intricate electronica, duelling poetical vocals and melodies to melt the last remaining icebergs, Stars create intelligent, articulate and wonderfully expressive pop.

However, Stars do lose points in places. As much as most of the album is all lovely, warm and challenging, we do still have a couple of stinkers that wander the realms of Prefab Sprout at their crappest, and dare I say it, a little bit of Maroon 5, with The Ghost Of Genova Heights. Despite my ears not having complete agreement with a couple of the songs, no fool, no matter how crap their ears, can deny the glory and loftiness of Take Me To The Riot, Window Bird, My Favourite Book and the albums title track couldn’t be any more uplifting and triumphant if it tried.

For the most part, this is an absolutely cracking album, ignore my slight negativity, it’s just my way. This is certainly something that I’ll continue to listen to in the future. Whether or not I’ll be dying my hair blue and wrapping my fat torso in tin foil is another thing.

4/5



NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

Bone Idle

Paul Westerberg of The Replacements once wrote, "a person can work up a mean mean thirst after a hard day of nothing much at all". And that more or less sums up the past 4-5 months for me. I've basically done fuck all apart from yawn and drink.

However, things will hopefully now change. My days of sitting round the house in shorts, drinking Budweiser and getting all tearful as Dog The Bounty Hunter gives his speech to some Hawaiian crack head, are numbered. As of today, I'm back at the big school, which means that sooner or later I will need to get my finger out. Which also means that I should get a bit more stuff up on here, which is the most important thing after all.

Over the past few months, I've pretty much just wrote stuff for NARC. and neglected this place a bit. So within the next few weeks, I'll hopefully be totally recharged and I'll have kicked the drink a bit, and so I'll be able to post more shite on here that all four of you readers may be interested in.

Right now, I'm off to get pissed.

The Life and Times of Christopher Aguilera

It's always been tough for Aguilera. Growing up as the only boy in a small New York family, he took to dressing as a woman at an early age. Yearning for acceptance, he'd put his cock and balls between his legs, lifting up his cheerleading outfit and shouting to the coach of the football team, "suck my fadge!", a phrase which would later haunt him.

As time went by, young Christopher would force his mother to call him Christina. Many botched self attempts at penectomies were carried out in his schools science labs, with the sharp point of a compass and rough edge of a protractor leaving vile and crude scars across his scrotum. Finally, Christopher managed to save enough money up from dressing as a girl and performing fellatio for a nickel at the local psychiatric hospital. The money raised and the blowjobs performed, allowed Christopher to purchase a flight to Thailand and consequently the penectomy he'd hoped for his whole life.

On arrival in Thailand, Christopher was met by a small doctor with a glass eye, much like Charles Dance from "The Last Action Hero". The doctor was able to perform a successful operation on Christopher, and so finally he could become Christina.

With his new found confidence, Christopher returned to New York, where he pestered record executives with indecent text messages and fax messages penned out in the blood from his penis that he kept in a leopard skin purse. And so he returned to the dark days of his past, sending a message to the boss of RCA Records saying "lick my twat". The return to those demon days was complete when he daubed the side of a Walt Disney van with the words "shoot your muck on my foul disfigured Frankenstein gash". However, by some stroke of luck, and completely unbeknownst to Christopher, one of the head bosses at Walt Disney was a paedophile, who liked the cut of Christopher's jib. He was soon signed up to appear in seasons 6-7 of The Mickey Mouse Club, where he again carried out his love of dressing as a woman.

His career soon progressed and he soon afforded the right and the acceptance within the industry to officially change his name to Christina. Many more blowjobs and trading of venereal diseases would help to catapult him to the top of the charts, and buy himself the prettiest dresses and the most outrageous of wigs.

Christopher now lives with another man and has taken to wearing a false stomach, filled with chop liver and egg whites, to make himself feel and look pregnant. His mental problems do still continue, but it hasn't stopped him from being one of the most fantastic performers of recent times. His hard work and enthusiasm is a shining example to us all.

Dissection:Singles, Published in NARC. #18

Shy Child – Summer

It’s the noise of a mental scientist in a lab coat, running around his underground lair whilst the machine he created explodes around him. Sparks fly into the air, random cogs and gears whizz from the top of the machine and stick in the ceiling, wires loosen and start attacking like vipers, smoke engulfs the hodgepodge of disaster. Summer is the sound of electro chaos and pandemonium pop. They’ll get likened to Klaxons and called “new rave”, but don’t let that put you off. This deserves to be tearing up the dancefloors of our coked up kids across the country.

The White Stripes – You Don’t Know What Love Is

Where previous single, Icky Thump, nodded its head to metal, this new single is again deeply rooted in what went before. No matter how many times I listen to this song, it starts sounding more and more like Bad Company or The Eagles, with the little bridge before the chorus sounding too much like Dylan’s Quinn The Eskimo. It’s all very familiar anyhow - pounding drums from Meg, Jack does a little riff then a big chord, then another little riff and another big chord. Most will lap this up and get their lighters out; I’ll stick to the original records.

I Was A Cub Scout – Our Smallest Adventures

“Postal Service vs. Digital Ash-esque Oberst” seems to be the tag line that this band has given themselves. Actually reading the tag line is where the comparison ends for me. Although the vocal does slightly ape Oberst, the lyric certainly doesn’t benefit from Oberst’s wit and charm. As for Postal Service, well, I suppose both bands have the same amount of vowels in their names if you put the “The” in The Postal Service. This doesn’t do anything for me. Typical crap you’d get from a support band, whilst you stand and talk at the bar, waiting for the band you actually want to see to appear.

iLiKETRAiNS – The Deception

The band who like to write about historical people and events have a new single. Going off the lyrics, I think this one is about Nelson. It’s the regular sort of thing you’d expect from iLiKETRAiNS. When I was talking to somebody at work once, they said, “Is it ‘Gloomy Rock’ like Stereophonics?” about a band I was talking about. That might well be the best way to describe this band. So, more Gloomy Rock from a Post Rock band who are referred to as Library Rock. Depressing, pretentious shite is my best take on it. iDiSLiKETRAiNS.

The Orange Lights – Click Your Heels

This single will probably find its way onto the Radio 1 playlists. It’s the type of stuff that Embrace or Richard Ashcroft come out with. People who don’t like music will love it. I can’t stand it, personally. I’d love to get behind a Newcastle based band, but it’s not my cup of tea. It’s like Del Amitri doing The Seahorses, or a post-McCabe Verve singing Crowded House songs, that’s about it really. Very unimpressed. If this doesn’t hit the mainstream radio radar immediately, it will when it’s re-released in 9 months time.

SixNationState – We Could Be Happy

I could be happy as well, as long as shite bands like this stopped making records. This sounds like a crap local band trying to sound like The Smiths. They remind me of every local band across the UK, who think they’re already massive because of how many friends they can spam on MySpace and thinking they can change the world with their bulletins and slogan based T-shirts. This song makes me feel completely uninterested in being alive. We Could Be Happy bores me to tears. They Should Be Sorry.

It Hugs Back – Carefully

This is more like it. I was contemplating death a few minutes ago, but this has got me back on track to a long life of slowly going mental and losing control of my bowels. I like this a lot. These Kent based tinkers have a lovely warm American sound about them. It’s a bit like an I’m Wide Awake Bright Eyes or a Baby I’m Bored Dando. The song belongs in a small dustbowl town, where slackers meet up with a bunch of drugs to write songs in a barn full of hay on lazy summer nights. Think Wilco, or glorious lo-fi college rock that it’s cool to like. We have a winner.


NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

Thurston - Trees Outside The Academy (Ecstatic Peace!), Published in NARC. #18

Twelve years has passed since Thurston Moore released solo album Psychic Hearts. The Sonic Youth frontman has now returned with another solo attempt.

I’m not a fan of Sonic Youth; I’ve always found the music to be inaccessible. I bought a couple of records ten years ago, thinking that I had to get Sonic Youth into my life. I ended up returning them after one listen.

However, this is very accessible. I’ve always considered Moore as a talented guitarist but never really held his writing in high regard. The first five songs of the album totally changed my opinion.

In parts it’s a glossier Roman Candle-era Elliott Smith, with the stripped down acoustic guitar and bass.

First song Frozen Gtr is a laid back affair, with J Mascis closing the song out with his instantly recognisable “shredding”, whilst next track The Shape Is In A Trance seems to borrow the riff from REM’s The One I Love, with violin creating the pathos.

The stand out track is easily Honest James, a haunting song which could’ve been taken from Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan’s Ballad Of The Broken Seas, with Moore being joined by the amazing Christina Carter of Charalambides.

The album starts to lose its way a little after the beautiful Silver>Blue and the merrier, macabre Fri/End. The remaining songs seem to be made up of impromptu jams, as well as unfinished sketches.

It is a decent enough album though, if it wasn’t for the instrumentals, it really could’ve been one of the albums of the year. I certainly wouldn’t take this back after one listen.

Released: 17th September, 2007


NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

Rihanna - Shut Up and Drive

Fresh from ruining the summer with "Umbrella", the "Bike From Barbados" has got a new single out, full of suggestive retort and innuendo based content.

The story allegedly goes, that Jay-Z locked her in a room and wouldn't let her leave until she'd signed a record deal. Personally, I reckon Rihanna may have signed a bit of a confidentiality agreement on that one. You've got a desperate slut in one corner, determined to get a record deal, and in the other corner, you've got a millionaire mogul with a cock like a role of bin liners. Aye, he locked you in until you signed, he was that desperate to sign you. Clearly he grafted the arse off her and gained penetration through the offer of the contract, again, allegedly. Carrot and stick isn't it?

The new single uses incredibly talented writing skills to offer up the use of a car as some form of sexual metaphor. I'm amazed with the skill and craft that they have done so. The song basically makes Rihanna look like even more of a slut. But teen-slut does sell, so maybe that makes it OK.

The first verse goes something like this.....

"I've been looking for a driver who's qualified
So if you think that you're the one step into my ride
I'm a fine-tuned supersonic speed machine
With a sunroof top and a gangster lean"

My interpretation of this is......

"I want someone who knows what he's doing with his cock
If you've had numerous sexual partners you can put your bits inside me
I can go like a sewing machine
(Some American jive that probably has something to do with spunk)"

And so it goes on, appalling really. I'm presuming the title refers to Rihanna wanting a good hard shag and disposing of the frivolities of foreplay. I'm disappointed that the song doesn't include some of the more obvious crap lines, such as...

"She can suck on my handbrake"
"She can waggle my gearstick"
"She can back onto this"
"I wouldn't mind pumping her petrol"
"Wouldn't mind having a look in her glove compartment"
"She can go for a ride with me"
"She can polish my rim"

Etc. Etc. Etc. All equally as crap as Rihanna's songwriters.

It's all in the same category as any suggestive shite Spears peddled and the same sort of crap as the Furtado's "Maneater". Very poor indeed, but great for paedophiles to see young kids dancing to at school discos, unbeknownst that they're dancing and gyrating away to a slag anthem.

The single is out on the 3rd of September and will no doubt go to number one. View the video here..........

Richard Hawley - Lady's Bridge (Mute), Published in NARC. #17

At last, Richard Hawley is back, man of the people, with a new album, the follow up to the critically acclaimed Coles Corner. The new album, Lady’s Bridge, takes its name from the oldest bridge to cross the river Don, continuing Hawley’s theme of Sheffield landmarks in his music. Where Coles Corner had been a place for young lovers to meet, Lady’s Bridge represents what Hawley describes as, “a gateway from the poor bit of town to the rich bit”.

Hawley is unashamed of his working class roots, wearing his influences and heart on his sleeve. Last year, I remember imagining the newspaper headlines of “Sheffield man robbed by four youths”. This wasn’t the description of a mugging in the “poor bit of town” though; this was the Arctic Monkeys victory over Hawley in the Mercury Music Prize. Dusting himself off from defeat, the former Longpigs and Pulp man has managed to create another wondrous spectacle.

Tonight The Streets Are Ours is the first single from the album, and easily the best choice. The perfect arrangement and orchestration, making me want to fall in love and run hand in hand through Sheffield without a care in the world, even if I am missing the point of the song. This is when Hawley is at his best, the melody of a northern Burt Bacharach, singing away like a South Yorkshire Sinatra, with what could be the cast of a musical backing him up, chiming away like a Christmas anthem with a dark under current. Believe it or not, the song is actually inspired by a programme that Hawley watched about ASBO’s.

We also have the familiar ballads that we’ve come to love from Hawley. Valentine and Roll River Roll could ring true and find their home in a tiny cramped working mans club, just as much as they could when echoing around a giant theatre. In parts Bobby Darin, in others it’s Scott Walker, he paints pictures and tells fairytales from a morose, northern story book.

Elsewhere, with Serious and I’m Looking For Someone To Love Me, the music is more up tempo. Trawling through his influences from the past, the songs remind me of being a kid and listening to my Dad’s Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochrane cassettes, with a little bit of Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash thrown in for good measure. It’s all about the purity and innocence of oversized guitars in the 50’s with giant brass Bigbsy’s leading the way.

I get lost in Hawley’s world with every listen, I’ve never been to Sheffield, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Everything seems to make sense and seems to fall into place. I can see men walking home from the steelworks through the puddles of the slums, women with beehives running back to meet their husbands, clutching their fish and chips under one arm and their baby under the other.

Behind the melody and beautiful production, we have gritty social realism, as the album stands up and shouts out loud from the rooftops of Sheffield about pride and a sense of belonging. It’s safe to say that we have something very special indeed with Richard Hawley. This is without doubt, my favourite album so far this year.

Released: 20th August, 2007


NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

Billy, Johnny and Tommy

Who are Billy, Johnny and Tommy? They seem to appear everywhere throughout popular culture. Whether it’s Dylan’s Johnny mixing medicine in the basement, or Chuck Berry’s Johnny going across the town with his guitar, destined to be the leader of a big old band. The Fine Young Cannibals wanted to apologise to their Johnny, and wanted him to come on home, whilst U2 sing about a Johnny looking for spiritual enlightenment and self fulfilment and Dire Straits have their Johnny busking away like Chuck Berry’s, trying to make an honest living and get somewhere in life.

Bon Jovi’s Tommy is having problems with the union and subsequently losing his job at the docks, The Who’s Tommy witnesses murder, becomes blind, deaf and dumb, gets shipped around between social care and family members, gets sexually abused, becomes a pinball champion and then regains his lost senses, The Clash’s Tommy is a gun-runner, whilst in “Tell Laura I Love Her”, Tommy dies in a stock car race.

Meanwhile, Bob Geldof is telling Billy to take a walk, to take a walk, to take a wa-lk and get away from the town he’s trapped in, Paper Lace don’t want Billy to be a hero and don’t want him to fight in Vietnam, Bill Withers’ grandmother doesn’t want him to run so fast, in case he falls on a piece of glass, Sheryl Crow’s Billy likes to peel the labels of his branded beer bottles and waste his time away drinking and lighting matches.

Are Billy, Johnny and Tommy literary embodiments of the songwriters themselves, without saying “me”, “we” or “I”? Do they exist as a part of the songwriters personality or past? Or are they an attempt to allow us to connect to our rockstar heroes, no matter how far away their world is to ours? Are we supposed to associate with Tommy, because he’s blue collar like us? Because he, like us, has lost his job? Because we’re also down on our luck, and it’s tough, so tough. Or is it all a desperate attempt for people like Jon Bon Jovi to try and associate and connect with us, rather than us desperately trying to associate and connect to our unattainable hero.

Sitting in his mansion, does Bon Jovi secretly wish he was just like us, does he seriously wish he’d get paid off and have to live on Pek and beetroot sandwiches, bubble and squeak on Monday to Wednesdays, and a piece of fish with ammonia on, if you’re lucky, on fry up Friday. Or is being seen as a working class hero, in workman clothes a la Springsteen, just a great marketing angle?

The Who try to cover all of the bases with their rock opera, to try and make sure that something exists that everyone can find an allegiance with. Poor Tommy goes through the mill at the hands of Daltrey and rock paedo Townsend. Although we don’t all witness murders in mirrors and consequently lose the use of our senses, we all, as music lovers, have that primal lust that resonates through us when we listen to our favourite bands, or reminisce about the good old days when we hear a song from an album released many years ago. And that’s the key with The Who’s Tommy. He is deaf, dumb and blind, but he still has an association with the music, he doesn’t know what it is, much like the rest of us, but it stirs something wonderful up inside of him, something indescribable, yet wonderful.

Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode”, embodies all of our hopes and dreams, carrying our burdens on his back, along with his guitar, chasing a dream, trying to aspire to everything that we want. Johnny wants to end up with his name in lights in the same way that we might want to end up being married with a nice house and kids, in the same way that we might really want that promotion at work, in the same way that we might want to eventually meet the girl/boy of our dreams.

And Johnny B. Goode is not just exactly like us, he’s exactly like Tommy from the docks in “Livin’ On A Prayer”, he’s exactly like Billy from The Boomtown Rats’ “Rat Trap”. They’re all stuck in nowhere towns, all experiencing shifting social changes and upheavals, all having dreams to follow but with so many political and economical obstacles in their way. Johnny lives in a basic little log cabin made from earth and wood, he can’t even read or write very well. But he has a talent that can make him fulfil his wishes. Tommy may have a limited education, he’s definitely working class, he’s working in the docks, whilst the love of his life works in a diner. The pair of them work as hard as possible to get through life, they may not be the most talented individuals, or the most intelligent, but they’ve got each other and that’s enough. Whereas Billy needs to escape his town, he isn’t going anywhere and it’s running him down and holding him back, he needs to be free, to pursue his personal happiness. For Tommy, his relationship is more important than the music is to Johnny, cashing in his guitar, whilst Gina dreams of running away, just like Billy does, and just like The Fine Young Cannibals’ Johnny.

Sometimes it isn’t just about us, though. Sometimes, Johnny is literally a well known person called John, rather than a generic person who we can associate with. “Mysterious Ways” by U2 is said to be about John The Baptist, The Libertines’ “The Boy Looked At Johnny” is said to be about Johnny Borell from Razorlight, whilst other Johnny references are often attributed to John Lennon.

Maybe it’s a rockstars vain attempt at ushering in social change? Bob Dylan’s Johnny is too busy fucking about making drugs to sell, whilst Bob is standing on the pavement, thinking about the government and taking advice from the various passers-by about what the government has done to them and what the government is capable of.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe Billy, Johnny and Tommy are used as tools, the personification of ideas, to make us think, to make us have a bit more self awareness. Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues”, suggests that Johnny is an idiot. He’s down there in the basement, fucking about, destroying his mind, when he should be out on the streets, or at least out somewhere, educating himself. The Clash’s “Tommy Gun” illustrates Tommy as an idiot as well. A man waiting round at an airport, dealing in small arms, it’s eventually going to be his downfall, as Joe Strummer lets us know the errors of Tommy’s ways. And then we have Sheryl Crow’s Billy. Sitting around in bars, wasting his time, and going through bottle after bottle, whilst over the road, people are making an honest living for themselves, cleaning cars or working for record companies.

What does the future hold for Billy, Johnny and Tommy? Will we soon have songs with the lyrics, “Johnny’s caught an STD after fucking some lass off MySpace”, “Billy’s gone and bombed a mosque”, “Tommy has been unable to find a job, has started to suffer from depression and has taken up heroin, since losing his job to a Polish immigrant”, or will it be more like social messages, with, "Johnny's in the crackhouse getting a blowjob off some crackwhore, I'm on the pavement thinking about my carbon footprint".

Billy, Johnny and Tommy do exist somewhere, whether it’s in that milieu between our bedrooms and the television screen, or the space between our nine to five jobs and the arena, they exist somewhere in our imaginations as the people who we aspire to be, giving us hope, or as the people who we feel the same as, symbolising all of our inadequacies and fuck ups.

Maybe Billy, Johnny and Tommy are just like us, or maybe lyrically, they just work better than David, Steven and Michael.



Here's Marty McFly inventing rock and roll, as played by Parkinson's hero Michael J Fox.......

Saving Lives With Songs

This Saturday, it’s time to raise awareness about global warming, carbon emissions, energy efficiency and the rest of it, with Live Earth. Massive death bringing gigs in London, Hamburg, Sydney, Shanghai, Japan, Johannesburg, Rio De Janeiro, and the USA, Turkey apparently as well, will unite the world and make us change our lightbulbs and put felt in our lofts.

I could be the cynical type and say, “oh, but they’ll be flying to all of the gigs in planes and helicopters”, and, “oh, but what about all of the energy that’s used by the hundreds of miles of cables, the on stage equipment, the lights, the satellites, the televisions of 500 billion people watching”, etc. etc. etc. we could go on all day couldn’t we? It’s a joke in all fairness, that we still feel that we can change the world by making a giant carbon footprint this weekend.

The list for our very own concert in Blighty, is as follows:

Beastie Boys, Black Eyed Peas, Bloc Party, Corinne Bailey Rae, Damien Rice, David Gray, Duran Duran, Foo Fighters, Genesis, James Blunt, John Legend, Kasabian, Keane, Madonna, Metallica, Paolo Nutini, Pussycat Dolls, Razorlight, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Snow Patrol, Spinal Tap and Terra Naomi.

The thing I’m most dreading this weekend is James Blunt. When he comes on stage, and he plays “Your Beautiful”, if he introduces the song by saying, “This songs for Planet Earth”, I will unscrew my head and batter the TV screen until it smashes from the force of my balding detached cranium.

Several of the above acts must have a genuine reason to be playing, other than to save the planet. Genesis? Not sure if that’s with or without Phil Collins. They getting back together, are they? Are they announcing a new tour, are they? Do they have a new greatest hits compilation coming out? What’s with Duran Duran popping up everywhere as well, yes, we get it, her name’s Rio, she dances on the sand, great, fuck off please.

Paolo fucking Nutini, his chip shop owning parents have already done enough to destroy the planet with their battered Mars bars and pollutant friers, without him going on about wearing new shoes all of the time to make himself feel better. Horrible, selfish, exploitative cunt. Aye, let’s get a load of orphans in a sweat shop to make you some new crocodile skin loafers, it’s cool, as long as it’s going to make you happy Nutini, you twat.

So, possible new album? Possible new tour? Possible greatest hits? It’s practically all of them isn’t it? The whole event is about playing your hits, so when we do get a twat like Johnny Borrelle saying “this is a new one”, I’m going to be less than pleased.

But all of the shameless self promotion aside, imagine the CFC’s emitted from the tonnes of deodorant used by Madonna on the collosal stench of stale sex emanating from her worn out, practiced on undead vagina. It’s a shame that Sting is in the USA as well, I reckon he could have produced all of the energy needed with a tantric sex orgy to fuel the entire gig.

The only solution I can think of is looking to China and India. The fastest growing areas, producing huge amounts of carbon. I propose that humans should carry around cards stating their energy efficiency, just like buildings. The ones most guilty, along with the oldest member of each family (they’ll be dead soon anyway), should be rounded up and mixed together with a load of carbohydrates and suet to make a giant dumpling then put in an incinerator to create energy for all of us. Eye for an eye and all that, imagine how much energy these little yellow types must hold, after all the rice they eat.

I’m sick to death of it, personally. I reckon it’s too late. Do we really want to stop the joy that an Eskimo will have when he finally has to stop wearing tennis rackets for shoes and saw circles in the ice to catch fish. Let the ice melt man, give him a kebab, he’d be over the moon. They must be sick to death of wearing those parka jackets and looking like Liam Gallagher.

For my part, I have given up. I’m of the opinion that if the world is going to take me out, then I’ll take it out with me. The only power I have left now in the grand scheme of things, in my sad pathetic excuse for a life, is red LED’s. Every single TV in my house, I switch them all on and then put them on standby with my remote, because that red light emitting diode is the only power I have left in this world. That red LED is my Hal 9000, I’ll walk round my sitting room, dressed as a space man, talking to my red LED, plotting with my red LED, thinking of other machines we can plug in, putting on my food processor to create a new red LED, caressing my kettle, I will be Lord of the LED.

Just the same as when we have a hosepipe ban down south, I like nothing better than switching every single tap on in my house, switching the shower on, pulling out all of the plugs, then going out for a good 8 hours to chop down trees and burn fuel, before coming back to switch it all off. Fuck them, they’d do it to us.

Even if we get through it all and I end up having kids, I’m inevitably going to have to pay the price for my previous energy efficiency sins, so I’ll probably have to ram a wire and a plug up my sons arse and make him jog on the spot so I can watch Lethal Weapon II on ITV2, occasionally cracking him over the head with my walking stick and coughing phlegm on him, telling him, “go faster, the scene with Patsy Kensit’s right tit is coming up”.

We all know mobile phones will eventually get the blame in all of this though, don’t we? Let’s face it; they get the blame for everything else. Mobile phone gave me a brain tumour, mobile phone gave me ear cancer, mobile phone up my arse made me come. So what do we do, when a “new study” declares in 10 years time that mobile phone use is killing the Ozone? It’ll definitely be too late by then.

Maybe it is all just a sick PR stunt, Gore massaging his ego, becoming a hero, re-igniting Bush vs. Gore, and coming out as the popular one. I’ve got no reason to doubt that Gore’s intentions are worthy and noble, but it’s all still a bit sickening. He’s been campaigning about this stuff for years, so it’s not a fashion, he probably is honest, but I doubt very much that many of our popstars are.

Nevermind, it’ll all be over till next year, when we have Flood Aid, for the people in Hull, when we have a total washout next summer. I can just imagine Paolo Nutini in a little rowing boat, with his new shoes on, saving drowning pensioners, and then bargaining for their lives by forcing them to knit him some even newer shoes, the twat.

Bringing The Disabled Into the 21st Century

We just don't have enough handicappers on our screens, do we? Fair play to Ironside, and kudos to Hawking, but neither really excelled in the field of entertainment. Despite Hawking and his attempts at shagging the tarts at Peter Stringfellow's club, and Ironside saving the life of a black deviant, forcing the black to drive him around in his van and wipe his arse, instead of pursuing a life of rape and burglary. These things aside, they never really did anything to represent the wheelchair bound.

Former England football manager, Glenn Hoddle, famously proclaimed that karma had came along and put sinners into wheelchairs when they were re-incarnated. Obviously this is ludicrous, not the concept, but the idea that these people suffer. I personally feel we can do a lot to turn those frowns upside down. OK, I can't think of anything to make them walk again, but we can make them more acceptable, instead of them being outcasts and freaks.

For starters, for the most part, they live in houses without stairs. Personally, I don't trust people who don't have stairs, they're either lazy or up to something. I haven't worked out what they could be up to, but I just don't trust them, bungalow dwelling weird fucks. I've got my eyes on you. Let's stick some stairs in their bungalows, turn housing estates for the handicapped into assault courses. Let's leave "No-legs" Nora at the bottom of the stairs and her chair at the top, life is all about challenges and going that extra mile. Come on, you can do it, Nora! And once you get to the top, you can have a gold medal with the words "I'm not slow, I'm special".

Secondly, they don't make any attempt to doll themselves up. I know some right dogs who scrub up well, so why can't the cart-bound? Here's an idea, stop ploughing money into buying sports rims and flash seats for their carts and get the fuckers some make-up. Obviously get someone to do it for them, like. Some of them jitter all over the place and they'd end up looking like Widow Twanky or Adam Ant. Also make it anti-smear stuff, I've seen some of them in McDonalds before, poking themselves in the eye with straws. Trust me, a mix of Coca-Cola, eye liner and Sweet Curry sauce running down the cheek is not a good look.

Third, clothing. Now come on, have you seen the state of some of the cast offs these disabled's get dressed up in. Is there really any need? There's no excuse for looking like you're modelling for SCOPE, even if the charity is supporting you. Saliva all over your chin is also not a good look, so let's sort out a nice designer bib, maybe a diamonique bib, or even one of those nice tea towels you get at tourist places, one with a picture of Blackpool Tower or something, or maybe just one of them scarf come poncho things that pop stars wear. Honest, some of the clobber they're wheeling themselves round in, thinking they're some hot piece of ass, truth be known, I've wiped my cock on nicer threads.

Fourth, dentists. I'm sorry, but I can't bear people who clearly have too many teeth in their mouths. Get the lazy little fuckers along to a half decent dentist and he'll fix them up. Maybe even give them a couple of gold ones, make them look a bit more "street". How much more respect would Hawking get? Thugz for life, word.

Fifth, school. Yes, school the bastards, man. They wonder why the fuck they can't talk properly and grunt incoherently. They haven't even been taught how to talk properly for Christ's sake, I've no idea what their parents must've been doing. Unless of course, the talk and grunts is some spastics code that I can't decipher. Actually, it'd explain why Hawking is so intelligent, I suppose. He can't talk at all, but he's still capable of chatting up lasses in "Stringfellows" with his Commodore 64.

Let's move forward, look to the future and make our wheelchair bound friends more attractive. You hardly ever read about disabled's getting raped, that's because they're so ugly, nobody would touch them, not even a rapist. Let's all work together and try and make these hideous creatures more approachable and easier on the eye. Who knows, in the future, even "No-legs" Nora could be wheeling herself down the catwalks of Milan in the latest must have trousers or cut off jeans.

Let all of our handicappers be popular and stop Hawking from stealing all of the girls, as well as the limelight.

Scene And Heard - Local Reviews, Published in NARC. #16

URBAN CIRCUITS
Urban Circuits (album)
Out now

It starts off extremely grim, more like the soundtrack to a film, maybe with a man walking through the desert with lots of religious imagery going on around him.
I’m quite dumbfounded by all of this to be honest. I’m not entirely sure whether Urban Circuits are a really bad, ill-thought out joke, or if they are actually serious. Its lyrics are like sixth form poetry from pencil cases and toilet walls. I’m happy that this is a CD that I can turn off; I fear that if I ever went to see them live, I might get stuck in the venue forever, like some sort of bad dream. When they do a bit of melody, and put the spoken verse bullshit and sloganeering to one side, it is listenable. But as much as Ophelia is a brief respite from the crap, the rest of it is unbearable to me. Imagine a Gothic Gogol Bordello at times, or some drama students on crack at others. I’m sure that the pretentious music listeners will dig this, it’s doing nothing for me though.

Visit the Urban Circuits' MySpace


DIRTY WEEKEND
Red Mist EP
Out now on Matchstick Records

Boasting a CV of support slots for The Pigeon Detectives and Little Man Tate, Dirty Weekend are certainly the type of thing that the youth of today may listen to. It’s all pleasant enough. The only problem that I have is that the songs don’t quite have the riff or the chorus to hook me in completely. I don’t doubt that they work hard on their tunes, but they’re just lacking that little bit of something special at the moment. The songs are all pretty rigid in their structure, without much adventure or direction. The standard progression of verses and choruses is there, as well as the quiet interlude/guitar solo before the final, climatic chorus. I don’t think they’ve quite found their own sound yet. In King Of The Rats, we have Paul Smith-esque “accent rock”, whilst the ballsy vocals of Look At Me, with its almost ShitDisco stylings, only confuses me more. If they do find their own sound, they could have something.

Visit Dirty Weekend's MySpace

ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN
Gravy Is Gravy
Released as download only on 02.07.2007

The Gravy Is Gravy single is released on the 2nd of July. This is wonderful stuff. The duo infects my brain with all the post-rock pomp of a Godspeed You Black Emperor or a Mogwai. Atmospherically bouncing along with what could be an Alex de Large monologue over the top, it’s quite uplifting. I love the fact that it doesn’t go down the same route as a lot of spoken word songs, which can end up contrived and too arty-farty. It’s the perfect balance of everything that is right, sticking to what they know, without going over board and spoiling things, they’re right, “gravy is gravy, there’s no need for mayonnaise”. You could do a lot worse than getting hold of this.

Visit Antennas To Heaven MySpace and their website


THE MOSAICS
The Mosaics
Released 25.07.2007

Commercial radio friendly rock by numbers. This isn’t anything at all that a million and one unsigned bands across the country aren’t already doing. Do we really need another watered down Coldplay type band? There was once a time that bands like Oasis, Blur and Pulp ignited something inside me, making me feel free and liberated and yearning for a new future. This modern take on British music puts me in an orange boiler suit and chains me to a radiator, whilst a laughing soldier takes polaroids of his comrade wanking on my forehead. Absolutely dreadful. I’m sorry if I offend this bands friends and pushy parent management, but please go and get some new ideas. I barely made it to the end of this album without losing the will to live. I have no doubt they have the talent, but they definitely don’t have the tunes. Glossy production and fashionista don’t always equal success if there is no substance, I’m afraid.

Visit The Mosaics' MySpace


THE BURNING DICE
Temper Temper
Released 24.03.2007 on Hello Trouble Records

Once it gets going, the single chugs along like a pretty little New Wave train, with its soaring vocals, like a young, fun Broken Social Scene celebrating the spirit of The Album Leaf. The second track, The European, is much more upbeat, an all out audio assault leaving you worn out and needing to have a sit down, slippers on and a cup of cocoa. Meanwhile, the final track, Jagalie, is the stand out song for me. I personally would’ve went with this as the single, slowly building you up from the dysphoria of being “trapped in a heart attack” to a state of euphoria with the closing hoe down.
Grab a listen at…

The Burning Dice MySpace



Whilst NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

Die Hard 4.0

We all want to be able to tell our boss to fuck off don’t we? Unfortunately, we’re not only bound by the bureaucratic protocol of our workplaces, we also have mortgages to pay, cars to pay for and pets to feed.

That’s why we admire the loose cannons of Hollywood so much. Confined by the ‘red tape’, the rules and regulations of the bureaucrats, the do’s and don’ts imposed by society, but Die Hard’s John McLane and Lethal Weapon’s Martin Riggs all give a big “fuck you” to them all.

Running around town with their phallic pistols, pointing their big metallic cocks at terrorists and crooks, it’s something that we’d all love to be able to do.

I watched Lethal Weapon last night, and it finally all fell into place. I’d never even realised it before, but it became so clear last night that Lethal Weapon is nothing more than a Reagan era propaganda flick.

The white man rejecting suicide and alcoholism to help a black family, evil sinners (prostitutes) throwing themselves from balconies or getting blown up, the evils of drugs procrastinated mainly by the Aryan antagonist, Mr. Joshua (maybe taking his name from the military leader who succeeded Moses) and the drugs fought with all the vigour of a Reagan “War On Drugs” policy.

The whole film is centred around Christmas time as well, the time of year when we celebrate the birth of Santa and the death of Christ, the ending showing the black family inviting in the oddball Christian actor (and his dog) for Christmas dinner.

The film actually stinks. It’s as if Reagan dusted off his Hollywood threads and got together to write the script. All of the themes are there. Reagan was a religious Republican, just like aforementioned racist, Mel Gibson.

And this is a similar theme with Die Hard, with real life Republican, Bruce Willis. Again the first two films are set around Christmas time. Hans Gruber’s rag-tag set of criminals, with their token black man (the computer expert) and the Aryan, “Karl”, mirroring Gary Busey’s “Mr. Joshua”, are just as evil as the fuckers who stick a bullet in Hunsacker in Lethal Weapon. It’s all highly original, McLane working alongside two black men, (the cop and the limo driver in Die Hard I, the short guy and the leader of the army people for a bit in Die Hard II, and the ‘buddy-cop’ style of the Lethal Weapon series mirrored with Samuel L Jackson in III), raging his personal war on terror, fighting against the criminals for the sake of family values and wanting to be with his family at Christmas (in both I and II).

Riggs and McLane are pretty much the same character and all the themes are pretty much the same. The Die Hard series shows the battles between Capitalism and Communism, with former member of the Volksfrei movement, Gruber (representing Communism) sticking a bullet in the head of Takagi, the leader of the capitalist empire, whilst Lethal Weapon does its bit with the free world mercenaries of “Shadow Company”, sticking the bullet in the capitalist money launderer, Hunsacker.

Die Hard plays on the “buddy-cop” premise, but not to the extent of Lethal Weapon; the big fat twinky eating cop stereotype of “Powell”, is not as much of a main character as Danny Glover’s “Murtaugh”. However, just as Powell reaches for his penis shooter when Karl comes back to life, Murtaugh and Riggs also do the exact same thing when Mr. Joshua comes back for one more “shot at the title” in Lethal Weapon. So where Lethal Weapon’s protagonists are equal throughout, Die Hard’s Powell does manage to get back a few redemption points by killing off a main character whilst beating his fear of ever using his gun again.

So that’s pretty much it. Two white loose cannons, plagued with their own personal demons, thinking outside of the box, working against the rule book and the law when necessary, using whatever methods they can to defeat evil, removed from their female counterparts but using this removal as motivation, accepting the help of a black, using corny one liner’s against the most dangerous men in the world, escaping inescapable circumstances, causing thousands of pounds worth of damage.

But remember, the next time your boss gets you in the office and tries to give you a written warning for internet usage, or using your company mobile phone too much, or because you’re always late, don’t light a cigarette and tell them to fuck off, and don’t go blowing the building up. Leave that to Hollywood.

Lethal Weapon 4 was a horrible film, which destroyed the series. I do hope Die Hard 4.0 won’t do the same. Either way, expect cliches, stereotypes, one-liners and the inevitable heroics.

The Be Be See - Disney Eyes

I’ve been a fan of The Be Be See for a while now. Even if their manager was a total cunt when I tried to book them for a gig a few months back, it still hasn’t put me off them. This says a lot about the band, as usually my vindictive and bitter nature would make me have a pathological hatred of the band and management, but luckily, the tunes are strong enough to quash my vendetta.

On first listen, it’s not as instant as the “You K Gold” single, but it certainly has it’s own charm and deportment about it. The piano and guitar recall the sound that Supergrass went for on their second album, which is by no means a crime. In fact, pretty much all of the song has a distinct Britpop influence.

The vocals and lyrics do lack the social commentary and wit of a Jarvis, maybe more in line with Louise Wener, but still fun.

The only thing I dislike is the shouting and bawling about going to Tokyo and seeing Kilimanjaro in some sort of Shaun Ryder style. However, this bit is closely followed by my favourite lyric of the song, “some people walk between the raindrops all of the time”.

I love the chorus, it's uplifting and sing-a-long, it’s the type of thing that kids should be dancing to on the indie dancefloors up and down the country, instead of putting their hands round each others shoulders and jumping up and down to “I Predict A Riot”.

By your second and third listen you’ll be smiling, and after every other listen, you’ll be completely sold.

I suppose they can’t go on forever with the puns and play on words song titles, but it’s definitely great fun while it lasts. Enjoy them before they get massively popular and become public enemy number one.


The single was out on the 11th of June, get more information at The Be Be See's MySpace.

Here’s the video………….

Air Traffic - Shooting Star

Wikipedia reckons that Air Traffic took their name from “air traffic”, as they used to practice near an airport. It’s lucky that their practice room wasn’t next to a gigantic piece of dog shit, or they could’ve been called something quite different, but maybe more apt.

From the outset, I’m going to be lazy about this. It’s been a tiresome few weeks. I’m currently recovering from the burnout of examinations and coursework at university, I’ve had the stress of returning to work after four weeks off, the anxiety of the rapid rate that I’m going bald, throw in a handful or so of beers I’ve already had today - and it’s only 2.30pm on a Monday, so I thought it’d be best to jump back into the breech, Private Ryan style, and get my first piece of “work” out of the way for June. Hopefully it’ll start a snowball effect, as long as I can drag my sorry arse away from the beers and Football Manager long enough.

So what can we say about this band? Well for starters, they’re being touted as being good. Can’t see it myself. But we do have a fine line between what’s good and what isn’t these days. I used to think that good was music that was actually good. But nowadays, “good” is basically classed as any old two bob shite that will get played on the local wireless station and shift lots of units at the record store.

This band probably fall into the latter of what is classed as “good”. It reminds me (brace yourself for the lazy reviewer stuff) of Coldplay to start with. Not just for the piano, but also for the whiny vocals of the Chris Martin sound-alike, he even does the same little twitchy things that Free Trade tosspot Martin does.

The bits in between the poncey Coldplay/Keane bits are a bit like Muse or a very commercial Radiohead.

Radio One stalwart, Lamacq, has been championing this band, which doesn’t sit well with me, but maybe I’m just getting too old, too cynical and too indifferent. I remember a time when Lamacq and Whiley would make me go out and buy shite records many moons ago though, so perhaps things haven’t changed that much. Echobelly? Rocket From The Crypt, anyone?

Bad Company, Bob Dylan and Elliott Smith all recorded songs called “Shooting Star”, amongst others, so I don’t think we need to have any more flying meteoroid based songs.
Anyhow, if a bit of commercial, radio friendly guff is your thing, then you’ll probably like this. It’s not that bad, I just think that it is. But then we do have a fine line between what is bad, and what isn’t these days.

The single is out on June the 18th, folks.

Annuals - Brother

Beginning like some sort of meeting of minds, with all of the eloquence of a book club, the music casually meanders along. The vocals dance along with the gentle guitar and the sounds of nature and strings. When summer comes round, try putting your pillow in the freezer before you go to bed, the feeling of bliss and calm when you rest your head on the pillow, is just like the beginning of this song.

The song gradually builds up to a crescendo of chaos and an orchestra onslaught. It’s the cats’ pyjamas. The lyrics poetic, the music vicious and passionate. Annuals want you to sit up and fucking listen, and you should.

It all calms down a bit, so that the conclusion of the parable can be delivered, and so their work is done, and they can go off on one again.

This song goes to show that you don’t need the formulaic verse, chorus, verse. In fact it just goes to show that you don’t even need a chorus. Good, honest, proper music, just like a good honest, proper meal, easy to digest and leaving you wanting more.

It defies logic that a 3 minute song can be an epic, but this is. Taking you from lying down, resting your eyes on your frozen pillow, to the upper echelons of elation, pinned against your ceiling, not wanting the music to stop.

The album will be out on the 18th of June, whilst this single is out the week before, on the 11th.


Here is the video…..

Oppenheimer / Mushi Mushi at Independent, Sunderland - Live Review, Published in NARC. # 15

First it was 9pm, then 9.30pm, then 10pm, I have no idea what time it was, but support act Mushi Mushi were finally forced on to the stage. Ten of us stood in the vacant space, whilst three sat in "comfy chairs". It was loud, I found myself being an old person, thinking "oooh, turn it down" in my head, but the noises got louder and more penetrable. They weren't my cup of tea. I have to admire their tenacity though, for playing to a bakers dozen of us, in a seedy room that smelt of an old person's sitting room.

A change of scenery on stage, and Belfast duo Oppenheimer are ready to go. The place has filled up a bit more. Looking around at the barely legal girls and the fresh faced boys, I start to feel old again. But then something wonderful happens, Oppenheimer start playing.

Suddenly I don't feel like a 28 year old having an early mid-life crisis, suddenly I feel as if I'm one of these 18 year olds again, I just wish I'd get ID'd at the bar instead of the girl looking at me as if I was a sick old pervert.

Oppenheimer are a big shiny plane, dropping pop parcels with parachutes to the needy. I find myself singing along, and bopping my head up and down like a Churchill dog on the back window of some scamps Renault Clio.

In the darkness and smokiness of Independent, it could almost be the summertime, as Oppenheimer's electro-pop seeps into my ears like a runny egg yolk from a bacon sandwich.

The chorus of "This Is Not A Test" makes me want to cry, "Breakfast in NYC" makes me want to dance, and if I hadn't already been converted, single "Saturday Looks Bad To Me" makes me want to force feed this band on a big giant spoon to everyone that I meet.

It's not often that I venture to Sunderland, and it's even less often that I expect to fall head over heels in love with a band. Oppenheimer are outstanding.



You can get more information about Oppenheimer at their MySpace, or at their website. Their album is available now.

More information on Mushi Mushi can be found at their MySpace, too.

Whilst NARC. is currently available in all good record shops, pubs, practice rooms etc. etc. View more information on NARC. magazine, including outlets, at their MySpace, and at their website.

When Bands Break Your Heart

It’s the realisation that the band you’ve stuck up for so vehemently, the band that you’ve believed in and pinned all your hopes and dreams on, the band that write songs about your life, you realise that they are nothing but a sell out like the rest of them.

It happens to them all, don’t trust your favourite band, don’t dare fall in love, because Burt Bacharach was right, the only thing you’ll get when you fall in love is, “A girl with a pin to burst your bubble/That's what you get for all your trouble”.

That bubble that bursts can be anything really, it can be the chance meeting of your idol, when you realise they’re actually a cunt. Even though for years, you’ve knew that they were a cunt, you just kept lying to yourself. You heard them on radio, you saw the interview on TV, but you still kept on going, you still kept believing in them, no matter how much of an arse they sounded, and no matter how much you didn’t agree with what they were saying. You stood by them through the addictions, through the relationship problems, no matter how many times they let you down, you’d still be there.

And all they ever do is build you up to let you back down again. They sing songs to you that you swear were written about your childhood, about your town, they croon about how your last relationship petered out. You defend them when your friends say they’re shit, you quote and post endlessly on Internet forums when somebody has the brass neck to say they didn’t like their new album.

You turn obsessive, bidding endlessly on cardboard cutouts that some eBay entrepreneur found, whilst rummaging through the skip at the back of HMV. You buy the German, Australian and Japanese versions of the new single, just to get the extra B-sides and live tracks. You enthuse about them wildly at parties and gigs, not being able to comprehend why nobody else is as passionate as you about them.

But Noel Gallagher was right, you know. “Please don’t put your lives in the hands of a rock and roll band, they’ll throw it all away”, he sung in “Don’t Look Back In Anger”. But even when you hear Noel saying that, he becomes just like you and you move on from your broken heart, because you’ve found an affinity with another rockstar, who is just as hurt and vulnerable as you are, and the cycle begins again.

Everything is just there to suck you in, to make you buy more records, to make you buy every version of every single, to make you buy the vinyl twice, once in black and once on limited edition pink vinyl. They’re using you, cheating on you. And then comes the ultimate, just when your clinging onto the romance by a tiny thread, they go and put their songs on an advert, they sign to a major label, they start going to celebrity parties. It’s the final nail in the coffin of your relationship.

You go to work the next day, and the band that you held so dear, the band that you thought nobody else knew about, the band that you’d discovered long before they were on the radio or in the NME, suddenly, they belong to everyone. Suddenly the fat bastard at the coffee machine is humming the tune from the advert, suddenly everybody wants to go and see them live, suddenly the person with no taste that you hate is in love with the lead singer, the twat who knows nothing about music tries to dress the same way as them. You should be happy for the band, but in a selfish and jealous way, it’s eating your insides up. You’ve lost everything; it doesn’t belong to you anymore.

Inevitably you still hold a torch for them, you try to convince yourself that they mean nothing to you, but as much as you join in with your friends in slagging them off, you still remember the good times that you had, and the memories that come back every time you hear that song on their first album.

Whether it's a band you love, whether it's your heroes, Burt was definitely on the money.

“What do you get when you fall in love?
You only get lies and pain and sorrow
So for at least until tomorrow
I'll never fall in love again”.