This is Jim Cassius

2005-06-14T23:28:00.000+01:00

Jim Cassius is slightly dead.

He is convalescing here.

2005-02-09T17:02:00.000Z

Right. I'm really going to do this. Really. Really, really.

I'm going to do a post. A post about, erm, what music I'm listening to at the moment. That'll get me started again. Oh, yeah, while I'm doing it, go and look at the wonders of Popular again. Tom Ewing is just about the only music journalist I like reading. It is him what is making me come out of self-imposed semi-retirement.

So, here's some music:

Abba - The Visitors LP
Awash with strange feelings of inadequacy, cocaine, self-obsession and, I assume, marital strife. Kind of like Paciifc Ocean Blue but by Abba not Dennis Wilson. And replace Hal Blaine et al on instruments to cheap sounding synths. So, like Phil Collins then, circa Against All Odds.

Mojo cover CDs
This is the best music magazine and the CDs are better than that. Except the very disappointing Johnny Cash one. Rediscover the 'Raw Soul' one now.

Penguin Cafe Orchestra - Signs Of Life
And there you were, thinking that post-rock is a product of Chicago or somewhere. No, its a product of banking advertisments. If you were to shake off your anti-commerce/marketing/industry shackles and realise that would actually be complimentary, that's what this album sounds like. Who is responsible for those shackles? I assume I should blame the romantics and rich bohemians.

2005-02-03T13:14:00.000Z

I have been quiet on all fronts recently. But. But. But. There are exciting plans afoot in this ol' world o' mine. More as and when.

I'll also try and write some stuff sometime.

2004-12-22T20:56:00.000Z

Sorry for the long time no type. I've been having to do distressingly real world things. I've been getting my fix by doing an awful lot of DJing and promoting. Why pretend communtiy when you've got real community? Huh? Huh?

Please direct yourself to this video message from John Salt.

Have a merry one.

2004-10-17T11:42:00.000+01:00

Some very nice photos of Ambulance here, plus a live review that I did around them.

2004-10-09T23:53:00.001+01:00

Which reminds me, there's a few little things by me in Plan B (hint: Ray Charles, Mr Scruff, Tijuana Mon Amour Broadcasting Inc). My dread hand was involved with a bit more but I ain't putting my name to it. Apologies if your thoughts were butchered.

2004-10-09T23:53:00.000+01:00

Admittedly, not much J.Cassius action on the web lately but I've been:

i) working;
ii) doing subediting things for Plan B and persuading record shops to put it on their shelves;
iii) DJing and promoting this rather fun and successful and popular and its got lots of friends clubnight and lame excuse for a proper website;
iii) you know, doing stuff.

But, lo, go to NYPLM and marvel. This about Gwyneth Herbert. Oh, the stories I could tell/the embarassing articles you could find with a decent search engine.

2004-09-07T18:45:00.000+01:00

By me, for you, at other places: Bart + Kurt and Japanese girl bands.

2004-08-24T00:06:00.000+01:00

Just found out that Bob Burchman has composed the end theme to this documentary. To me, it looks fantastic. No idea if it is, of course.

2004-08-18T14:15:00.000+01:00

Looking back, it seems I never bothered to link to this.

2004-08-18T13:33:00.000+01:00

Ever wanted something ranty about German swing music? Thought so.

2004-08-17T22:45:00.000+01:00

More on NYLPM. I may soon be able to offer a slightly more considered appreciation of CBGBs as I was given Lester Bang's out-of-print book on Blondie last night by a friend at a pub quiz...

I also want to publish something about the influence of journalism. Watch this space.

2004-08-13T13:02:00.000+01:00

It's probably about tiem I got my arse in gear and put Popjustice in the links.

2004-08-13T11:58:00.000+01:00

This is turning into an advertising space for things I've done on NYLPM. So be it.

Recently, on the Vinyl Vulture forum, someone was asking about Soul Jazz records. I told them what I had (ESG, Arthur Russell, New York Noise). Man, its at times like these you realise the commercial power of musical fashion and them hipsters in New York and London. No Studio One compilations or reggae round-ups or soul bangers for me. Just your standard, run-of-the-mill genius avant-garde disco.

2004-08-13T03:35:00.000+01:00

Some people have been talking about the 'uses' of music.

It got me thinking about shelves.

2004-08-11T00:47:00.000+01:00

There's a half-hearted post on NYPLM by yours about songs about cake. Also, I'm currently finding a couple of threads fascinating on ILM. Not been on there for a while but it seems a lot more willing to get things *wrong*. People using words like 'postmodernism' unironically and quizzically doesn't happen often and I like it.

I've added a couple of things to the links on the right: Kontent and Stylus. Go to Stylus and read Anil Bawa. He's very good. Go to Stylus and read William B. Swygart. Also, very good.

Not been updating this like I should. Mostly, I've been getting incredibly mild panic attacks, paranoia sweeping into the small of my back when records and (especially) music journalism creep into my head.

Boy, do I ever need a job.

2004-08-04T14:14:00.000+01:00

For those of you both aesthetically and geographically interested, I'm DJing on Friday at Code in Southport, kicko off about ten. For those of you more metropolitan, it'll be the sound of the suburbs. For everyone else, it'll just be sound.

2004-08-03T18:45:00.000+01:00

This is, in my humble opinion, the best Popular post ever. And the one about The Temperance Seven below is brilliant and in the same ballpark as soemthing I've just mailed off for potential publication.

Three things are dwelling in my mind at the moment: history, specifically WWII; irony, as ever; the big band dance sound of charity shop lounge.

This can be at least partially explained by the fact I've just finished a back-to-back Vonnegut marathon (Slaughterhouse Five and Jailbird) and am listening to lots of Bert Kaempfert.

Those few facts will probably unlock lots of the things I say over the next few days, weeks, months etc.

2004-07-29T20:26:00.000+01:00

Yet more on NYLPM.

In other news, I bought the Emma Bunton album after the dithering downscreen. It's not all I cracked it up to be, but it's diverting nevertheless. Mostly effortless but occasionally listless. The best thing about it is the 'authentic' looking cover.

2004-07-27T00:25:00.000+01:00

More from yours at NYLPM.

Also, take a look at this, after reading the book. Stupidly close reading of the text, reaching little insight, nerdishness galore.

2004-07-14T01:03:00.000+01:00

This is pretty stunning. If there isn't one already, there's a good book in that.

Feel free to get in touch if you work for Phaidon or whoever and want to offer me money to pick 'em out.

2004-07-09T14:01:00.000+01:00

Two things of mine on NYLPM: a lovely reissue label and Mr Bob Dylan.

2004-07-08T20:27:00.000+01:00

More disconnected thoughts on Big Brother: compare and contrast the implicit and fierce desire of the producer's to make sure blonde Michelle is known as 'Shell' with the quiet downgrading of Ahmed to "Arrmed".

2004-07-07T23:33:00.000+01:00

Music journalism: a futile attempt at both relevance and immortality.

2004-07-06T23:11:00.000+01:00

I've been asked to contribute to New York London Paris Munich on Freaky Trigger. Which is nice. I suppose it's the equivalent of being elected to the Royal Academy.

Tom Ewing = J.M.W. Turner.

2004-07-05T16:39:00.000+01:00

It looks like Paul is calling it quits. Quitter.

In other news, I heard the latest Emma Bunton single recently. It's nice. She seems to be latching on to something, a bossa, sixties, lounge jazz feeling. It might be some of the most dignified music out there, especially considering who she is, or who she was. It's well-made, honed, easy. Guaranteed to chart, but lower down perhaps. I'd love to hear the album, mostly because it presumably has the potential to turn into one of those curios that crop up thirty years after the fact.

It's probably also very telling that the most interesting post-Spice music is being made by the least interesting Spice. Bunton/Baby/Emma B was always the one most at ease with herself, least prone to flashes of frayed personality and knicker elastic. She came across as the most socially competent, the least gratuitously upwardly mobile, the most comfortably middle-class. I've thought before that the Spice Girls' legacy was not 'Girl Power' but something more along the lines of 'Estuary Power'. I don't want to under-estimate the impact of 'Girl Power' itself. Feminism as a marketing tool is still feminism. Getting four year olds to understand that something like feminism exists is more than most infant teachers can muster. But I'm sure 'Girl Power' was as much a mask for class struggle as it was for gender politics.

Here, for the first time I suppose, was a group that demonstrated that FAME was a lifeline. It was an update of the working class boy (or occasional girl) made good that's been around since Elvis or Dick Whittington or Paul McCartney. This was lower middle class girls getting by on little else but energy, hardwork and enthusiam. In this sense, it borrowed from punk aesthetics. On top of the strategic use of Girl Power, the relatively cheap and modern broadcast media of The Box TV channel and the whole-hearted acceptance and assimilation of 'black music', the Spice Girls were more Clash than the Clash themselves.

For, against the much-maligned 'true' class of Joe Strummer, Son Of A Diplomat, were four girls with regional accents, the fierce conviction and will to succeed that typifies the 'pop' stereotype flip of The Street's now hip 'Barratt class' estates. Even so-called 'Posh' - Victoria not Vicky - was fairly obviously of Essex girl descent. Indeed, this playful classless class warfare might have been Simon Fuller's masterstroke. The broad Leeds accent of Mel B, the ironically 'Posh' Victoria, the 'sporty and Northern' Liverpool girl from Widnes Mel C wrapped up in the ever desperate ex-glamour model in the Union Jack dress.

But the fifth Spice stood outside of this. Emma was the The Spice Girls' Ringo, the sore thumb that unites the group into more than the sum of their caricature parts. The one emasculated and almost silenced by the curious 'Baby' moniker. The quiet one, the middle class one. Any claims to ubiquity or representation needed the 'true' middle class. But this is something that Pop Since The Beatles can't deal with. Witness the producers of Pop Idol fretting about Will Young's stockbroker belt lisp more than his homosexuality. So Emma is put in the girlie girl dress, told to stand at the back and fail to look Lolita-ish.

In a sense, as the other four were gyrating for Cool Brittania and a teenage riotously good time, Emma was wiggling for Middle England, for normality and a call to order. Which I'm relatively sure links in with her lurch away from the camp hyperpop and balladry of Geri and Victoria, the r'n'b of Mel B or the 'rock' leanings of Mel C. It comes as little surprise that Emma is still around, making delightful lounge-pop, soundtracking - at least in her head - the dinner parties of the People Like Them.

Of course, I'm writing this with absolutely no idea of Emma B's roots.

If anyone cares to inform me, that would be lovely.

2004-06-30T00:43:00.000+01:00

If you stumble across the hard copy of Plan B, you may stumble acorss two album reviews I did. In brief: Pitchtuner (excellent); Applied Communications (not so).

2004-06-24T23:37:00.000+01:00

This had occured to me already. But I stopped watching before the credits.

The friend I was watching with suggested Motson was like Hitchcock. This was after I had said Alan Hansen was the new Homer, oral poetry's need for cliche detracting from Peter Reid talking about Rooney, tamer of horses.

2004-06-23T17:18:00.000+01:00

Go to read John Salt's live journal.

The man is a genius.

2004-06-22T12:38:00.000+01:00

Here's the latest email from Bob Burchman, who collaborated with Dennis Wilson...

Dennis was a complex character. Having suffered
unspeakable humiliation and punishing self esteem
blows from Murray, his father, early on in his life,
to having endured tremendous success and unimaginable
recognition while still in his teens, without the
rudder of inner stability, or the confidence to be
sure of his own inherent goodness or 'lovability',
Dennis struggled throughout his whole life to, in so
many words, prove to the world that his father was
wrong.
The risk taking, the sexual conquests, the status
symbols, the uncalled for generosity, the fame, all
were part of the way Dennis sought to prove himself
worthy of the love he desperately missed growing up.
Of course Dennis was the Love Itself that he was ever
wanting to find. But seeing our self is often the
hardest thing in life to do, and for Dennis, it wasn't
any different. So meeting with Dennis meant meeting a
dynamic swirl of energies, both creative and
destructive. I never knew quite what to expect when
getting together with Dennis. He was not very good at
masking his feelings. But whatever he felt, always
filled up the room. Dennis had a big presence like
that. One could say it was awesome. He could walk
into a room and be like a little kid on top of the
world, filled with excitement, or be very quiet and
pensive, if not fragile and endearing, or at another
time be so angry that you'd be afraid to breathe or
look the wrong way. He wore his heart on his sleeve,
that is for sure.
One time I went over to his house in Pacific
Palisades, as per our appointment on Saturday at
11:30AM, to throw around some song ideas, not having
seen him in many months. I think I got there at
11:45AM and rang the front door bell. No answer.
Then I knocked and rang the bell again. This time the
door flew open and Dennis was standing there totally
naked, saying, "Oh Bob, come on in. I'll be right
with you. I'm still in bed with Barbara!" Well
looking down at him, I thought this is a little more
information than I need right now, to tell you the
truth. But that was the Dennis I knew.

2004-06-21T19:29:00.000+01:00

I realise this is utter pissing in the wind but after arguing (again) with my dad and brother about the European Union I'm feeling a little compelled. Especially as we were being served by a French man at the time, while buying Greek and Italian food products...

...the European Union has meant that people in grey suits sort out the problems in Western (and now much of Eastern) Europe. Not boys in camo gear.

2004-06-19T23:16:00.000+01:00

Since we last talked, here's some of the things I've been thinking about blogging:

1. Peter Drury is my favourite football commentator. He describes football like Howard Shore soundtracks films. Compare him to Barry Davies, chirping on as if he's judging a village fete jam making contest.

2. Rome is incredible. For someone who is a little too obsessed with the Classical period and the Roman Catholic church, I was in paganistic heaven. For kicks, I went to mass in a basilica built out of the ruins of an ancient Roman baths, designed by Michaelangelo.

3. Michaelangelo's Pieta: imagine Mario Testino liberating Auschwitz.

4. More on the football: punditing the France game, Gordon Strachan said of Zinedine Zidane's back heel that 'if they call unmade beds 'art', that is art'. Of course he's right, I was thinking a similar thing to try and justify watching the football so avidly (compare and contrast me justifying watching Big Brother below). But, I had to wonder, why is it when people talk about Emin, they seem to suggest if she'd actually bothered to *make* the bed, it might be better?

5. At an event run by Defcon Radio in Liverpool last night, four bands played. All have some connection with my beloved Ambulance. The Electric Company seem to suggest that masks and side-projects free up some ideas, the freedom to fail being as important as the freedom to create. The Static Waves seem to suggest they are still the best unsigned, undiscovered band in Britain. Lovecraft seem to suggest they make songs that are tectonic and catchy, both fully formed and adolescent. My Electric Love Affair seem to suggest taking drugs, moving to Scotland and listening to Spacemen 3.

6. A rhetorical question: related to the above, what is the proper response to a truly exciting 'scene'? How does one make it deservingly huge? Without being irritating?

2004-06-19T23:03:00.000+01:00

I'm back from Rome. And my thoughts turn again to Plan B. It's out now. I've yet to see it, so I've no idea how silly I've made myself look.

Meanwhile, on the cyber version of the mag, you'll find an album review where I very nearly say what I mean and an over-written thing about Beach Boys collaborators, in particluar Bob Burchman. If you've found yourself here following the link at the bottom, you'll find the full emails from Bob in the archives, half-way down the page.

2004-06-08T21:00:00.000+01:00

Before I leave, one more thing...

On BIG BROTHER's LITTLE BROTHER, the apostrophe 's' is in lower case while everything else is in capital letters.

Look, mon journalist friends. The power of ze CAPITAL letters to make a point, to dominate and disturb.

Ciao.

2004-06-08T20:54:00.000+01:00

I'm going to Rome for a week. If you need me until then, tough. So fuck you all.

Although you could buy Plan B when it comes out on the 14th and create a cyber-tickertape parade for me when I arrive back. Save the rainforest, throw hard drives.

In other post-CTCL news, I've been quoted warmly and accurately in Stevie Chick's Sonic Youth feature in the latest issue of Loose Lips Sink Ships. Which is nice. Although I'm not quite sure why, as Thurston, Kim and Stevie all seem to disagree with me. Which is of course the point...

Vive le contrariness.

2004-06-03T16:13:00.000+01:00

More on the JMU final show, that will be of little interest to most. If it helps, take it as some kind of genral statement.

Agree with Mile Long about Joanna Billingsley. Individual highlights also include Roger Fitzpatrick's eminently professional pottery, some guy called Chris who makes cardboard architectural/cereal packet sculptures, some guy called Pete who made a genuinely scary labyrinth out of cardboard boxes that reminded me of a book called House Of Leaves, a couple of girls who use string to make sculpture and installations, a girl called Nadia who painted pictures that should be used in the best Chinese restaurant in the world.

General observation number one: the Paul McCarthy Liverpool show seems to have been 'seminal'.

General observation number two: honest, genuine, incompetent, stupidly bad art seems to be much more powerful than good art. The handful of things in the show that failed even to be rubbish seriously detracted from a lot of the really quite alright things. Moreover, I enjoyed them much, much, much more than the good stuff.

2004-06-02T15:11:00.000+01:00

Excellent bands seen at the 'Punk Aid' all-dayer on Monday: Voo (acoustic), Hot CLub De Paris, Victor FME

2004-06-01T15:48:00.000+01:00

‘This Is It’s Usual Call; In This Case It’s been Voiced As An Anxiety Note’

It must be hard for young artists this week. With the much-maligned masses apparently condemning ‘modern art’ after a small proportion of it was destroyed in an East London warehouse fire, they must feel they have their backs up against the gallery wall. And, to top it off, now is the time of year where they have to sum up three years of listening to pop music and watching French movies in visual terms. It’s time for those final degree shows. At Liverpool School of Art, alma mater for the likes of Stuart Sutcliffe and David Gray, they’re showing their wares to the public this week and next.

High on the first floor above Myrtle Street - in a white room, with no curtains - young graduand Matthew Critchley has provided a perfunctory full stop to his academic artistic career and - accidentally, inevitably - a semi-colon for the ongoing ‘debate’ over art, the artist and scamming advertising executives out of their cocaine money. Entering his space, you’re faced with a white wall. There’s no art on it but it appears he – or his lackeys at least – have built it. It’s darkened. There are no lights in this room, a trope Critchley has developed since his time at Southport College of Art, temporary home to Alexei Sayle and Marc Almond. To the right are two knee height MDF prayer book stands, supporting the requisite prep work. Beneath, to rest the tired legs of buyers and critics alike, are pillows. Critchley has scrawled his ‘aspirations’ on each: ‘to live and work in Chicago’; ‘to make someone feel beautiful just before they fall asleep’; ‘use a laptop in a public space’ etc etc etc. Round the corner – behind the darkened white wall, you see – is his final installation. At floor height is a TV screen, featuring Matthew whistling along to the bird song that fills the room. Above the screen is a shabby looking birdhouse/kennel/garden shed, hiding the mini-disc player and speakers playing the titular anxiety notes of the non-titular birds. The light has been channelled through the blacked out windows so it shines through the gaps in the wooden shed, making the black room glow, it would seem, with the reassuringly homely comforts of nature and understated artistic confidence. The noise from the street echoes the bird song giving the welcoming space an uneasy air.

It would seem trite and unnecessarily clichéd to suggest this installation was about Critchley being an art student. But it is. It’s about the process of the process of making art, the thoughts and worries. But, like Kafka’s insurance salesman, it’s, like, a metaphor. Matthew is obviously a homely type. A home-bird perhaps. And he feels at home with his anxieties and his self-defeating self-awareness, giving his work a charm that few at this stage can muster. With his shed glowing in the dark, acting as some pre-emptive and beatifying model for Emin’s burning work, this is the dream of the Chapman’s plastic soldiers as they are tortured in Hell. With Critchley’s dignified and enchanting piece acting as the reference point, it would seem those soldiers prefer their makers’ childhood dreams to endless vitriol defending or decrying contemporary art practice. If this is the future of young British art, dealers and gallerists are about to get a whole lot lovelier.

Liverpool John Moores University Fine Art Degree Show 2004
1st – 10th June, Monday to Saturday 10am till 4pm

2004-05-30T11:15:00.000+01:00

A Post About The Television On Friday (Part Two: The One With The Lying)

Some time ago, a designer friend, an artists friend and me set up a website called Original Miscreant. It's not there any more. It was a great site, amazing design and art and my wafflings. One of the best things on there, maybe the best, was a weird eyeball animation that my designer friend had done for something I'd written.

That soemthing I'd written was called 'American Sitcoms, Duplicitous Fucks'. It consisted soleley of those words. It was intended as a little barbed comment on the tendency in US sitcoms to rely, for some reason, on the plot device of one person lying to another person and the scrapes that got them into.

Friends, dearly departed, was/is the prime example of this. Reading the obits recently, it seems the show was based around the friends as family idea, close ties, emotional links. Sure. It was. But, more specifically, it was based around deceit, ego and duplicity. The conceit of virtually every show and virtually every joke was centred around Character A doing something and then hiding it from Character B. Frasier does a similar thing, but relies more heavily on one-liners for its comedy. Same with Cheers. But Friends, especially the later series, depends on the gullibility of its characters and the lengths to which they would go to pull the Ralph Lauren wool-knit over each other's eyes. For some reason, American TV comedy is much more Shakespearean than UK TV comedy.

Check it out next time it's repeated ad infinitum. Friends will never die.

As well as BB, I also fucking love Friends. For similar reasons actually.

2004-05-30T11:05:00.000+01:00

A Post About The Television On Friday (Part One: Big Bro. Taking over the show. Again.)

So, here comes another summer where I keep having to defending Big Brother with references to Warhol and saying 'but that's the point'. And having to explain why I think it's infinitely better on E4 when they just point the camera and show 'real life' rather than 'tasks' and 'diary room confessions'. And telling people that, despite the 'it's just edited' spouting, it's actually done incredibly shoddily, the editors/directors seeming to struggle to follow a character unless it's all bitch, bitch, bitch to provide them with a voiceover. Obvious example from this series already: the guy with the Che bandana + 'four A's at A-level', who is now sitting there frowning the whole time.

I fucking love Big Brother. I really do.

Prediction one: amount of time before I find out someone from Plan B actually knows or knows someone who knows Kitten = no time at all.

2004-05-30T11:04:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the long term absence. I've had work, writing and bitching on the B.

2004-05-24T13:16:00.000+01:00

From Mile Long:

"Jim Cassius has fucked off somewhere else, it seems."

To Plan B comments/forum mostly. Come join me for now. I'll be back.

2004-05-05T15:54:00.000+01:00

So, people are beginning sentences with 'so'.

2004-05-03T18:51:00.000+01:00

I got an e-mail today from Bob Burchman. He says I should expect more about Dennis and the Wilson family. I can't wait.

2004-05-02T00:21:00.000+01:00

Observations on buying the Trojan Ska boxset today: ska has more to do with big band and Louis Armstrong than it does with reggae. Undoubtedly more on this to follow.

2004-05-02T00:20:00.000+01:00

Just come back from watching Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. I'm not going to write much except to say that, in all honesty, I think it may be the best film I've ever seen. I've spent a lot of time in my life working out which films rank where and it beats the previous favourite without much trouble. I've never felt like that when coming out of a cinema. I was in a real daze...

2004-05-02T00:14:00.000+01:00

I have no idea whether this will ever see the light of day anywhere other than this here blog. But, as I have a sneaky feeling it won't, I'll give you the exclusive opportunity to read a new piece of journalism from this very keyboard. Earlier on, I emailed it to the Plan B staff. It hints at some of the worries I have about the mag and chisels out what I thought about Beta Band in Liverpool last night. It takes the form of a letter...

Dear Reader,

Hope all is fine with you.

Introduction

If this letter had a title it would be ‘A Review Of The Beta Band In Liverpool On 31st April In The Form Of An Open Letter To Plan B Readers And Editors’. But letters don’t have titles so we’ll drop that. I suppose this should also be addressed to Posterity as it’s at least partly intended as my stab in the dark, my attempt to distance myself where necessary and to sidle up where not. But that would be unnecessarily pompous. So we’ll drop that too.

Background

The Beta Band played in Liverpool last night. For the last week or so, I’ve been planning to review it. Partly this was because I enjoy writing. But partly it was because The Beta Band seemed to be at a point where they needed talking about. Some kind of crossroads, an impasse maybe. The people I’d talked to about the single – the vast majority of whom had seen it on MTV2 and most of those on Gonzo – were a bit perplexed. What with the video and heavy rotation and the distinct air of indie-rock, it reminded them more of British Sea Power than The Beta Band. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, you understand. Just that it’s not particularly Beta.

Catalyst

Maybe for this reason, maybe for others, the Plan B hierarchy were a little reticent in allowing me to review The Beta Band. Not utterly Plan B, apparently. Not quite right for the mag. Don’t come up in meetings.

Caveat

Look, I’m not trying to score points here, or stir up arguments. I’m not trying to place myself anywhere near The Outside. I’m not trying to be a rebel, with or without a cause. And I’m trying (very) hard not to blow this out of proportion. That some people are wary about The Beta Band is fine by me. In it’s own way, it’s predictable enough. And, hey, Plan B let me write about them. Grudgingly, yes. But they still let me. And it’s only a minor affair anyway, even if it is actually evidence of something larger.

See, if I’d actually written this last night it would have come out differently. If the toilets hadn’t been busy, I was going to lock myself in and scribble some thoughts, some vitriol, some gonzo journalism. Tell Everett True to print this on the front page, in bold type, you fucking fuck. But I didn’t. I went and danced to B-52’s and lots of electro and the kind of house that uses that metallic whipping sound instead of cymbals. I watched two of The Coral ogling blonde bottoms and trying to sway around to MBV. And I’ve spent this morning in the fresh air, listening to Desmond Dekker in the sun. And anyway, this is more about staking claims than some-all-too-present sweary disagreement. Eternity and old ska records do wonders for your tone of voice.

The Point

So yeah, the gig was fantastic. The Beta Band are fantastic. Reports of their demise have been far too premature. ‘Assessment’, once it gets out of the TV speakers and into a PA, is something different entirely. So that’s the first point. No need to worry if you like The Beta Band already. Live and on the new record they’re New again. The Billy Childish but better ‘Out-Side’ will become a favourite and probably a minor hit. John Maclean’s ‘Wonderful’ is like a song I’d invent to cheer up my girlfriend. And the old things are as you left them, warmly remembered and contemporary.

But that is secondary. See, the Plan B reticence was part of something else: a hesitancy, a second-guessing, a distance. Let’s put The Beta Band in context. What are they? Some quirky, unprofessional indie band with pretensions to other genres, right? An oddity at best, some nice songs here and there, diminishing returns; as the spotlight gets closer, the magic heads backstage; mediocrity with ideas above their station.

I’m sure you can sense that I don’t necessarily agree. I’ll credit you with that.

Hagiography

The Beta Band are the most human band I know. They’re the most real band I can think of. This is a band where every little aside – ‘…this one’s got a really good guitar solo in it…it’s on a DAT in the back…’; ‘…Robin Jones…’; ‘…Steve’s disappeared…’; ‘…building the tension…’ - comes off like a chat, a piece of dialogue that nails something or other. This is a band that can warm the heart with some battered old stool. It’s all like some shared memory, homely and fuzzy and mundane. The self-made Samurai movie they showed beforehand is certainly an ‘in joke’. But it’s the kind of ‘in-joke’ that just proves how much we know each other. The whole gig is a demonstration of shared ground. It’s all well and good Lightning Bolt shying away from the stage, but just try and be this open and welcoming. It’s inclusive not exclusive. It’s friendly not backwards and hipster and knowing.

Right, you might not agree with me here, but I need to spell this out. If you draw an arbitrary line in the sand where music stops being current and starts being history, then The Beta Band are the best band on this side of the line. Last night, it was like watching a Great band, not just a great one.

Maybe that’s because they are so fractured, so ambivalent that they can make you think silly things like that. They have paths and routes spraying out from their songs and personas like god knows what. You know that book that talks about bands you like? ‘This Band Could Be Your Life’? It’s like that but not sarcastic. The Beta Band are one of maybe a handful of artists that are broad enough to make that comment stick without being reductive or obsessive. Of course, they’re far from a perfect band. But bands can never achieve anything like perfection. Songs can, bands can’t. But the best people turn that to their advantage and make their frailties and failings almost positive. Which gets back to my point about The Beta Band being real and human.

The End

I realise this isn’t important. That it’s just me waffling needlessly about some Scottish rock group. And I realise that The Beta Band have fans that know all this. But this isn’t meant for the people that see it already. It’s barely even meant for those that haven’t realised it. And it’s certainly not meant for those who just don’t like them. I’m not quite egotistical enough to think my view should equal your view, or worse, that my view should change your view. But I am egotistical enough to think that somehow this matters. That this is what should matter in this magazine of yours/ours. That – like ‘em or not – this bloody group have lessons that might just make everything (or at least Everything Distilled a.k.a. Plan B) just a bit better. Maybe that Thing can’t be articulated, maybe it’s just me liking some pop group and tying myself in knots. Maybe me falling short of saying quite what I mean is my bad, not yours. But, well, what I think I mean is, that matters too, you know.

Thank you for your time and I hope to see you soon. Further correspondence will be entered into on this matter.

Yours etc,

Jim Cassius

2004-04-29T08:45:00.000+01:00

So, I don't particularly see how you can dress this up as anything other than him being too stupid, too unsure, too potentially damaging to his own re-election...

In all seriousness, what is the justification?

2004-04-28T21:21:00.000+01:00

On Channel 4 news earlier, there was the requisite item about Iraq. With the Americans bombing the sanity out of Fallujah, C4 - like everyone else it seems - was struggling to get pictures. This was one reason why there were some beautiful, clunky videophone images*. Videophone seems like getting your journalists to don flack jackets now; necessity and social realism and honesty. One such image grabbed me. It was a panning shot, behind American soliders heads. Having the camera - literally - pointing at the enemy is nothing new, so it wasn't that which caused me to waken up. On the parapet, on top of the sandbags, next to the machine gun**, was a can of Sprite. Just like the one you get out of the machine at the station or at work or college. It was a tin of pop.

Simultaneous thoughts, not necessarily connected, in no particular order***:

1. Sprite = elf = spirit = guide = willow the whisp = goblin = demon = etc etc

2. All Quiet On The Western Front: butterfly replaced by product of the Coca-Cola-Schweppes company.

3. This might be an object of American domination, but are you telling me you wouldn't fancy a citrus drink if you found yourself in the Gulf, armoured up, sweating, shooting and being shot at. We drink Sprite.

4. How cold was the drink?

5. How much money is spent on shipping out the taste of home?

6. (a) That Sprite advert was really good.

6. (b) This was the kind of advertising that money can't buy. Of course, it can but, y'know...

7. My girlfriend was just bemoaning the lack of Diet drinks. She's diabetic.

8. How aware was the camera man of the can? The editor? John Snow? Sure he said something like, 'So, all quiet on the western front?' as a question to the journalist when the item finished.

9. The American journalist they spoke to via phone link to Fallujah ('symbol of Shiite resistance') was from the Christian Science Monitor.

10. As per, the story is in the details.

* Just you watch: there will be artwork stealing the form soon, if not the content. And then it will filter into films. Cutting edge technology has progressed so far as to embrace chaos. War is progress, right?
**Machine gun seems like such an oddly prosaic phrase.
*** It's become received wisdom now that bloggin' can't do structure, so let's run with that.

N.B. Footnotes are very hip right now. I'm reading House of Leaves**** so I'm seeing that they are currently the only way to articificially stimulate whatever it is that the internet is good at. It's all about the links baby.

****Check out the 'customers who bought this item also bought'. Pynchon and 'Modernism/Postmodernism'. I fucking love this world.

2004-04-27T12:54:00.000+01:00

More proof that grammar is important, that the internet is an interesting mistake, that Freud was a fuck-up, that interpretation is creation and that writing is about lack of communication: over at Mile Long Shadow... they seem to have taken ET to stand for Extra Terrestrial rather than the rather more prosaic Everett True.

2004-04-26T13:39:00.000+01:00

It was my brother's twenty first birthday yesterday. We drunk and ate barbeque and seafood all weekend. I bought him some cufflinks that have pictures of nudy ladies on. When you move them, said lady removes her top.

As a result of all this debauchery, I crashed yesterday afternoon, the buzz of the Playstation 2 lulling me into a stupour. I had a dream. The dream was as follows:

So, I'm outside some hotel, at least I think it's a hotel, kinda like the one in The Shining. And we're walking down the long, tree-lined path leading away from the hotel. On the right is a wire fence, with a rolling hill blocking the view any further. On the left is a steep wooded drop, perhaps down to some river. And I'm meant to be meeting Everett True, I think he's sent me a text message after mentioning via e-mail we should hook up as we'll be in the same place. It reminds me of ATP. I'm with my girlfriend and ET shows up with some other bloke. The other bloke is middle-aged with dark hair but I can't remember what his face looks like.

I say hello to ET, say how it's nice to meet him in person and he's like 'yeah, yeah, whatever'. He's keen to get the introductions out of the way, fed up with people knowing who he says he is. He wants to chat and be kooky. So he's being all 'I'm weird me', saying silly, offensive things like - apropos of some music I suppose - 'that's really concentration camp'. I'm grinning, waiting for my girlfriend to savage him with her intellect and wit - waiting for the sparks to fly. In real life, my girlfriend would never do this to anyone's face, she'd just make the subtlest snide remark disguised as politeness that only I'd get because I know how she thinks.

Anyway, before she can do any of this, a football bounces across the path, and gets stuck in the roots of a tree on the slope down to the river. ET says we should just boot it away, but either me or my girlfriend or the tall, dark stranger says it's probably just some kid's. As I/she/he says this, a kid appears over the top of the rolling hill. I climb through a little wire fence towards the slope to get the ball. I put my foot on the root of the tree, which is sticking out almost perpendicular from the sharp drop. I get the ball but the branch breaks. Without too much trouble, I climb back onto the path.

Then I wake up.

2004-04-21T16:08:00.000+01:00

A few clicks and whirrs on the early warning system trained upon my obsessions:

Pitchtuner are going to release an album called 'Spiny Lure' on DOXA records. It's bouncy euro-pop played as if it was hipsterish electroclash. It's disco like Isaac Hayes is disco and it's disco like Abba are disco. It's far too much fun than is officially sanctioned by whatever cartel runs Berlin's electro scene. It's really very, very good.

So much fun, I'm chasing after their first album and should be interviewing them next week. Expect a review in/on Plan B.

(Update: listening to their first album now. Sounds good but not as much fun as the second. Whilst I get out my article, content yourself with Kieron Gillen's review of 'Spiny Lure'.)

2004-04-21T00:42:00.000+01:00

Here's the full text of the replies to an email interview I conducted with Bob Burchman. He co-wrote the wonderful 'It's About Time' with Dennis Wilson for The Beach Boys' 'Sunflower' album...

"I wrote the basic lyric for the song "It's About Time" on July
2nd 1970,when I was 24 years old. I met Dennis Wilson a
short time before then, perhaps in May or June of that year,
through one of my closest and dearest friends from
Junior High and High School, Barbara Charren, who
would soon become Dennis's wife, and mother of two of
his children, Michael and Carl. Barbara had met
Dennis one night while she was working the cash
register at Hamburger Hamlet restaurant in Westwood
Village, here in L.A. I was living in Hawaii with my
wife and newborn son at the time when Dennis and
Barbara started dating, and so it wasn't until we
returned to Los Angeles that I finally got to meet
'the new boyfriend'. I must admit that I was not a
huge Beach Boy fan at that time. My musical leanings
were more toward Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, James
Brown, Sly and the Family Stone, Smokey Robinson and
The Miracles, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Joni
Mitchell. And I had had the impression from watching
early Beach Boy film footage, that Dennis was a bit
too cocky and not the world's greatest drummer. So I
was not really expecting to like Dennis all that much,
when my wife and I invited Barbara and him over for
dinner to meet. But the truth is I liked him. He was
quite charming, low key, and very funny. We sat on
cushions around a low Japanese style table in our
living room eating some sort of asian vegetarian
cuisine, as I remember. At one point in the evening
Dennis mentioned to me that Barbara had told him what
a good poet and lyricist that I was, and asked me if I
would recite something for him to hear. I recited two
or three lyrics that I were fresh in my mind, and
Dennis was blown away. "Wow! I wasn't expecting
that", he said. He went on to tell me that he was
working on a track for a new Beach Boy album, and that
he wanted me to come down to the studio and write the
lyric for this piece. Within a week I was at Brian
Wilson's Bel Air estate/studio to hear the work in
progress. Dennis ran off a cassette tape copy for me,
making me promise not to let anyone hear it. I took
it home with me and listened to the track a few times
to get a feel for what the music was saying to me.
Then I drove to shady spot in Benedict Canyon here in
L.A., parked my car and began writing, as I played and
replayed the track over and over on my portable
cassette player. The lyric literally took me 20
minutes to complete. It came in a flash. I don't
think I've ever written a lyric that quickly since."

"Actually the lyric itself had nothing to do with
the personal lives of Brian or Dennis or any of the
Beach Boys for that matter. The inspiration for the
lyric came rather as an extension of my own personal
spiritual journey, having been exposed to both the
vanity of name and fame in the world of Contemporary
Art and Rock Music, as well as the ancient eternal
wisdom of the East. Biographers have falsely tried to
credit Dennis for the message of this lyric, with his
or Brian's drug problems and all. But the truth is,
it was just a message that Dennis identified with.
You might be interested to know how the initial
draft of the lyric read, as Dennis first saw it:

I used to be a famous artist
proud as I could be
struggling to express myself
for the whole world to see

I used to blow my mind sky high
searching for the lost elation
little did I know the joy I was to find out
I am my only relation...

Oh I'm a-singinin my heart
I am a-singinin my heart
I am a singing in my heart of the Creation!

The Creation....Oh yeah
through which I play the part
of the open hearted laugh of realization...

And now I'm but a child who art
erect in humility
serving out of love everyone I meet
who is really me

Oh I'm a-singinin my heart
I am a-singinin my heart
I am a singing in my heart of the Creation!
__________________________________________________

It was Dennis's idea to hold the phrase "of the
Creation" and run it into the next line, "Oh yeah...".
The title, "It's About Time", was an after thought by
Dennis. I didn't quite understand at the time where
he was going with that title.

I was not invited to the recording session of the
song. But I did talk to Dennis by phone that day at
the studio, to find out that Al Jardine added another
whole other section to the lyric right there in the
studio, without anyone advising me or getting my
input. I must say that I felt a bit discounted and
disrespected with how that went down. One would think
that when collaborating on a song with someone, that
before bringing in a third writer, that one would tell
the original co-writer of his intention before doing
so, wouldn't you say? But it was The Beach Boys after
all, and I was not about to make waves, pardon the
pun!
A few days later I was invited over to Brian's
house. I was made to wait twenty minutes or so in
a front room where Al Jardine, who completely ignored
me, practiced "Sloop John B" on the guitar, six feet
away from me. Then after that awkward wait, Dennis
came and got me and brought me into the parlor where
Brian had this beautiful barber chair. I had never
seen anybody use a barber chair as a piece of
furniture before. Anyway, all guys were there; Brian,
Carl, Al, Mike, Dennis, and Bruce. Now all of a
sudden I was the center of their attention. Brian
said that he loved my lyric and that he wanted to put
the song on their up coming album, as he and others
congratulated me and patted me on the back. But he
said that first I had to sign some papers so that they
would have permission from me to release the song. I
was led over to a table upon which sat a legal
contract which I was to sign. I remembered someone
once told me never to sign a contract without first
having a lawyer read it. So looking at this
multi-page contract with all these guys breathing down
my neck, I said "Shouldn't I have a lawyer look this
thing over before signing it?". "NO, NO!" was the
united reply. "It's just a standard agreement to let
us record your song", Dennis said. Well, under some
intimidating pressure, I signed it. And everyone was
happy. It turns out that I signed all my publishing
rights away, as well as agreeing to just 25% of the
writer's share of royalties. What started out to be a
song by just Dennis and me, 50/50, turned into a three
way collaboration with Al, 33/33/33, to unwittingly
become 25/25/25/25, with Carl Wilson in name only
claiming 25%. You must have heard of the school of
hard knocks. Well this was my first big lesson."

2004-04-19T23:54:00.000+01:00

Go to Plan B, click on either 'live' or 'columns', click on either 'ATP Report 1' or The Muppets.

Whilst there, take a while to cruise round. At the moment, the things that are diverting me include Sarah Bowles' photography, Anil Bawa's reviews and the Taylor Parkes article that got him sacked from Bang (I think). The site is slowly becoming bloody good. It makes me happy to be involved.

Note also, the preponderance of references to charity shops both on the site and the forum. This is my specialist subject. All who should, should take note.

2004-04-14T12:05:00.000+01:00

I'm pretty sure that if you go onto Hotmail, one of the banner ads at the top features the girl (?) from Tiga and Zyntherius' 'Sunglasses At Night' video.

Will investigate this more later on.

2004-04-13T14:44:00.000+01:00

And lo, it came to pass that a mediocre review of Tramp Attack was published on Plan B's website. And verily twas enscribed by Jim Cassius.

(Update: re-read it and it's not as mediocre as I'd feared.)

2004-04-10T14:07:00.000+01:00

More grist to the rumour mill (part of an infrequent series of posts detailing emails sent to me by Proper Music Journalists):

My source - a.k.a. the gloriously smog-o-centric publisher of Plan B - tells me Dizzee Rascal's new album will be out in July and will be called 'Showtime'. His new stuff, based on my source's opinion of the gig at Fabric last night, is apparently a step up. After saying at ATP at the weekend that Fix Up, Look Sharp was a new benchmark, it looks like I might have to pull out the cliches again.

(Update: the source has confirmed it will come out in July.)

2004-04-10T14:02:00.000+01:00

Now, I'm quite a fan of Julie Burchill. Not that I think she's a particularly good writer or that she particularly says interesting things or anything like that. I just tend to enjoy her naturally contrarian nature. She's a bit of a shape-shifter when she wants to be, moving about in the shadows between The Guardian and The Times, sometimes looking like the Mail sometimes Catherine MacKinnon, sometimes Lester Bangs. Blink hard enough and you'll see all this at once.

But, in her latest column for The Times, my goat has been got. It's not the self-defeating, self-aware post-post-feminism (a.k.a. boringly pointless cage-rattling). It's just - for a former music journalist especially - saying 'reality TV shows gave us Charlotte Church, Beyonce and Joss Stone' is just plain stupid. As opposed to the pre-reality TV Victoria Beckham apparently.

I don't particularly mind her being (ooh, eek) 'offensive' or whatever we're going to say she does. But making rather glaring mistakes to try and back up what is a pretty weak argument anyway just turns me off.

2004-04-10T11:44:00.000+01:00

Go to Taylor Parkes' blog. Not only is he - as I rather crudely mentioned before - apparently something of a 'legend', he also writes the phrase 'Nestle Double Berry - so delicious the Third World doesn't even want its breast milk anymore'.

The guy seems to be on similar tangents to me - Kim Fowley, Double Berry, Richard and Judy - just, you know, not as pleasant and stuff.

2004-04-09T23:59:00.000+01:00

I've just come back from watching the second best comedy zombie film* I saw today: The Passion Of The Christ.

So, Mel clearly thinks the Gospels need a little glitz. Jesus falling just three times on the Via De La Rosa ain't good enough for Mel. This a film where the devil stalks the earth, looking like Bill and Ted do Bergman. More than that, this is a film where the devil walks around carrying a Chris Cunningham cabbage patch doll. It's a film where as Jesus dies - literally, I promise you - a tear from heaven causes an earthquake, which then splits the Jewish temple in two. Beyond this, it's a film that rewrites Christian teaching enough to allow - just as Jesus prays for the forgiveness of all humanity - a crow to descend from heaven to peck out the eyes of one who doubted him. Specifically, the one that is meant to symbolise the world of doubters that Jesus saves despite their sins. This is a film where the resurrection is probably the most underplayed aspect - except for the rather crude homage to the logo of Mel's own production company.

But, in the end, I guess that's the point. It's incredibly tempting to compare this to one of those altarpieces or chapels you see devoted to some guilty medieval landowner. This is, I suppose, Mel's testament to God and himself - not just ensuring his place in heaven but his place in movie/social/religious history. Forever more he will not just be known as the one that slew the English and the drug-dealers despite being too old for this shit. We shall know him as pious and rich and meaningful. Ecce Mel, this film says. It's like going back and trying to paint Lethal Weapon in 3D and bribe the lighting tech to give Riggs a halo. It's Gibson trying to replace Tina Turner with a choir of white-bread angels.

*I watched Shaun Of The Dead as well. I realise this is an obvious and inevitable joke to make, but that just means I HAVE to do it. By the way, Shaun Of The Dead is amazing. It's a film where - rather than devils - we get the cream of British situation comedy lurking round North London. You get a similar amount of gore as Passion... but at least the jokes are deliberate. It's also surprisingly hard-hitting, leagues ahead of ...Christ in it's raw nerve caressing. What's more, with it's treatment of parental figures, gruesome death, homoeroticism, friendship and lusting after life ever after, it's way more Christian than ...Of The... ever could be.

2004-04-09T11:29:00.000+01:00

I'll begin the pleading now.

If you work in book publishing, get Tom Ewing a deal. Someone needs to put Popular out between a couple of covers. At it's best it's astounding. Look...

"Cumberland Gap tumbles out of tradition, in awe of nothing but its own gleeful blurt, treating folk music like a music hall joke and music hall jokes like rock and roll."

"...nobody had sung the word "love" like Elvis does here - half thrusting, half swallowing, with that half-breath after it acting like a full stop."

Also, check out the recurring argument that 'laughing and rocking were not exclusive'.

2004-04-09T00:11:00.000+01:00

Ever been asked if you can be 'excerpted' in a feature on Sonic Youth?

Nuh, nuh. I win.

2004-04-08T22:26:00.000+01:00

Latest insignificant thought: why is Bert Kaempfert such an ignored producer? His records sound so damn good, everything rings clear and true. And his trademark bass sound is - in the eternal squabbling for attention that is my inner monologue - competing for the best bass sound ever.

Put it this way, I'm not one for that type of writing, or even that type of listening. I like leaving the sound well alone and dealing with the record. But I still wrote that previous paragraph. Probably proves something.

NB: I'm becoming increasingly obsessed with easy-listening records that are not quite big band and not quite swing but sing out in Super Stereo Sound. I'll write more about this when I get Swingin' Safari out of my head. That's the one off the ING Direct advert.

2004-04-07T22:47:00.000+01:00

So, I'm back from ATP. Met some lovely people, watched some lovely bands. More formal reminiscences are awaiting publication at Plan B.

You will see my review soon enough, but here's the musical highlights, in no particular order:

LCD Soundsystem
Lightning Bolt
OOIOO
Fiery Furnaces
Deerhoof
ESG (was thrown a t-shirt by a band member)
Fuck
Le Tigre
Love
Dizzee Rascal

2004-04-07T22:40:00.000+01:00

The Plan B site is up and running.

There's some reviews on there, including some neat, waffling pieces by someone I'm told is a legend despite being too young to really find out. Enjoyed the reviews (here and here) though.

On a similar note, pick someone to write a Courtney Love article. If you've ever read this book then you'd know who it should be. In my head, Courtney needs Everett. Especially now. This kind of review shows why.

It's worth it just for the (back)bite of the last ellipsis.

Boy, will I be in illustrious company. If 'illustrious' equals 'wrote for Melody Maker'.

In the e-circles I move in, I suppose it does.

I'm talking about Everett True and Taylor Parkes by the way. And my stuff will be on that site soon and in the magazine when it comes out.

Sometimes I forget that most of my friends in *real* *life* don't give a shit about this.

2004-03-31T12:03:00.000+01:00

If you ring Barclays customer service line and get them to put you on hold, you will hear 'Sail Away', David Gray's ode to independent spirit, tranquility and far from the madding crowd individualism. A Glen Morangie protest song.

Use this as evidence if you will - the decline of Western civilisation in a freephone call. But, against the backdrop of already saying that indie and dance have won their respective (same?) battles, look at it another way.

See, this is more even than pop music's true canonisation. It's a level of acceptance and assimilation that pop's revolutionaries would dream of. If it helps you get to sleep at night, think about how much Sam Phillips would love it. Think about how this is a generation gap closed or, more likely, exposed as the sham it always was. In it's own funny way, this irritating folk - beamed via satellite from some call centre to my upstairs bedroom - is as punk, as White Panther, as hippy or as yippie, as 'true spirit of rock'n'roll' as you like.

That pop music is so engrained and so deeply felt should be comfort to you as you decry the facts that no-one realises. Fifty years ago this would have been impossible, in more ways than one.

Alternatively, think of pop music as Mantovani and Wagner and Perry Como and music hall. The only things - or so we're told - that previous generations could stomach.

Don't think we're special. Our tastes are historical as well.

And don't say 'David Gray isn't our tastes'. You know what I mean. And he is anyway - it's just I'm talking about 'our' in a sense that matters.

(True) populism is a celebration of our victories and a revelling in our defeats. Like ewoks putting on some supermarket jazz to celebrate being warm and fuzzy.

2004-03-28T22:48:00.000+01:00

While you still can, go to Google. Type 'weapons of mass destruction'. Click 'I Feel Lucky'.

Hackers or not, this says something...

(Update: it's old news apparently.)

2004-03-25T18:36:00.000Z

I was watching Richard and Judy, eating my sausage and chips.

Judy was asking question of the Halle Berry in a plush hotel suite. She is, we're told, 'a person of colour'.

Judy - probing Halle's mixed race heritage - had realised the error of her ways.

"It's mad we're even talking about this...

...you're a lovely coffee colour."

There is such desperation in Judy's eyes, every time her mouth starts speaking.

Last night, Richard proudly announced that a novel on the treatment of women in contemporary Afghanistan was 'a metaphor for the pre-feminist movement'.

There is such despeartion in Judy's eyes, every time her husband starts speaking.

2004-03-24T23:43:00.000Z

I own an album that Google and the asssorted mess of internet knowledge cannot help me with. You get pop trivia by the bucket load, some of it on the guy who made the album in question. But you don't get any mention of the record I'm playing now. You won't find it on Gemm. It's nowhere on ebay or Amazon. All Music Guide doesn't help. Things forgotten seem so effortlessly ours. But some things slip past even blogging's beady eye. The internet suggests its doesn't exist. It's as if the revolution has forgotten to include it, as if postmodernism has been caught betraying itself.

So much remembered but much more forgotten...

So here's a telling reminder to the cyber-generation that Hans Arno Simon und sein Orchester made an album called 'Dancemusic For Sweet And Wild Cats'.

From now on, dancemusic should be written as alloneword. Makes it fit so much better, both more frantic and, by accidentally drawing attention to itself, more controlled and contrived.

The cover features a Siamese kitten. Next to the song titles on the back, you'll find handy hints on the style of dance required: 'Slow-Fox'; 'Jive'; 'Waltz'.

The album is German and was released on what appears to be the self-titled 'Simon Records'. At a guess - given its disturbed Shadows instrumentals with a Hammond twist - its from the very early 60's. On the German sleevenotes, you'll see the numbers 1961. With my common sense understanding of the language, this seems to be when Hans set up Simon Records. In Hamburg apparently. Same place, same time that four lads that shook the world were shaking little more than a seedy dive called the Star Club. In Hamburg, obviously. The record must have been made soon after that. Maybe when John, Paul, George and Pete were shaking up The Cavern and missing Stuart, who'd hung around for dancemusic and kittenish covers. Perhaps when Bert Kaempfert - Hans' fellow german easy-giant - had signed The Beatles to his own Hamburg label and produced their earliest recordings. Bert would later get to soundtrack the ING Direct with the title track of his 'Swingin' Safari' album.

Simon had to make do with attempting to ape The Shadows - something The Beatles conciously avoided.

In the inverted persepctive that hindsight gives you, The Shadows might have invented both punk and hip-hop. On 'Dancemusic...' you can hear their legacy in weird-lounge and, by extension, art-rock. If you're lucky enough to pick up Cliff Richard and The Shadows' 1960 single 'Fall In Love With You', then flip it over and listen to the b-side. It's called 'Willie and The Hand Jive' and you can hear Hank Marvin all over it. You don't have to squint too hard to hear Lou Reed and Sterling Morrisson squawling out Sister Ray. With the typically accidental perceptiveness he would later employ on 'Wired For Sound', Cliff has - via this cover version - nailed the link between rock'n'roll, adolescent bedrooms and self-directed sex-drives, which is probably why Eric Clapton later recorded a version. That you can trace art-rock back to a song about wanking is - in the way this kind of accidental discovery always is - absolutely spot-on. That you can link it back to a forgotten German easy-listening swing album is even more so.

Before all this, it appears that Hans had two number one hits in Germany, both in 1954. One called 'Wodka Fox' or, more likely, 'Wodka Polka'. But the internet will remember him for a song called 'Anneliese' - his other number one - despite releasing a lot more.

In 1956, he tried and failed to represent Germany in the Eurovision Song Contest. No-one can remember what the song was called.

Hans has been covered and translated into French jazz. But it probably didn't require too much translation - the content of 'Dancemusic...' is pretty polyglot in the first place.

Apparently, Simon also had a record out with a song on the b-side called - once translated via Google - 'My Wife Is Televisionaddicted'. With incompetent linguistics, it seems so much more DIY and punk and Pop (as in Art and as in Music), than 'My Wife's A Telly Addict'.

Here's a garbled biography in Googlised English. He was born in the same year as the Treaty of Versailles in a place called Breslau. Breslau is actually called Wrocklaw and is now in Poland.

This story just gets better, as if Thomas Pynchon was behind it. Pynchon being a 'recluse' just makes more appropriate. Anti-media terrorism, I suppose. Or un-media terrorism.

Here's something from the 'Society for Musical Performing and Mechanical Reproduction Rights' commemorating the ten year anniversary of Han's death.

Here's some kind of CD release of Anneliese on a German oldies cheapie.

At the time of writing, you can buy a rare autograph from when Hans was at the height of his fame - going for one euro plus postage and packaging.

I promise you this is true, even though it's so perfect and tragic and *now*. Hints of the downward spiral of a promosing post-war career. Setting up your own label in a decade so different from the one in which you became a star. Having to capture the beat explosion just to get by, to try and rescue a career and ensure future odd-philes would try and endorse you.

I wish I'd thought of it as a joke or the first chapter of a novel.

(Update: job done. If you now go to Google and search for 'Hans Arno Simon' or 'Dancemusic For Sweet and Wild Cats', you'll get back to this page. A succesfully circular argument.)

2004-03-22T19:18:00.000Z

Here's what an extremely nice editor said to me, apropos of me tracking down Bob Burchman, who co-wrote 'It's About Time' on The Beach Boys' 'Sunflower'. I was going to write about this but she does it better than I could:

"It's a phenomenon in which you, the listener, slightly bored and over-Mojo'd by all this 'Smile! Brian Wilson! Tragic Lonesome Visionary! bollocks, checks out Friends and 20/20, and then (as in your case) Surf's Up and Sunflower, the albums on which (apart from the Smile ones that slip through) Brian did close to fuck-all. This usually, although not always, coincides with a period of introspection/mild depression in one's life, coupled by a curiosity to find out more about this most over-investigated but still mysterious band, and a slightly guilty love for the poignant early 70s pop they churned out while dealing with coke, heroin, health food, transcendental meditation, wife swapping, Manson, and the all-encroaching evilness of Mike Love. So you do, and before you know it you're interviewing Bob Burchman, swapping outtakes from Love You, trying to get hold of Pacific Ocean Blue, and you have what is known as The Beach Boys Problem."

Yes.

2004-03-22T18:44:00.000Z

I'm looking forward to many things at ATP. One of the most exciting has to be getting a chance to hear 'Melodies Of Kiosk Fortunes'. It's the first mini-album from a York band called The Static Waves. They've promised me a copy. It's been talked about (by the band and production types/cohorts/associates Ambulance) as 'the quiet EP'. It's meant to be folksy and loving, in the way their first three singles were riotous and loving. It's making my mouth water.

You can hear clips and buy their singles here. At the Daniel Johnston site run by his brother, they cover 'Some Things Last A Long Time' in a moving and *badly recorded* manner.

2004-03-22T18:37:00.000Z

Just been sent the new Deerhoof album, 'Milk Man'.

Oh.

My.

God.

I've just played it once, then had to play it again straight away. It's absolutely amazing, astounding. It reminds me of a band based in Norwich called Hyperkinako, if they were poe-faced in the slightest.

You really should get yourself a copy.

2004-03-17T17:49:00.000Z

More grist to the rumour mill: extremely talented Liverpool designers Burn are putting out a magazine. Exciting.

2004-03-17T17:45:00.000Z

More tales of unlikely (?) music tastes from male members of my family.

If your dad has a habit of whistling tunes by There Might Be Giants: you realise indie music has won its battle too.

2004-03-16T22:33:00.000Z

My uncle is often a strange man.

He was moving house over the weekend, pretty ineffectually as it happens. So he was shifting things out of the house, ready to spend '12 weeks' on the beach in Crete for family history reasons. He brought me some records he was going to chuck out after finding them lying in his loft. But this wasn't the standard fare - it wasn't even what he said it was going to be.

For some reason, he handed over a bag full of acid house 12" from the late eighties.

Now playing, 'It's A Trip (Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out) (Hacienda Mix) by Children of The Night: dance music has won it's battle.

2004-03-15T17:21:00.000Z

Did you see that South Bank Show last night?

Concept: jukebox owned by Lennon in the early to mid-sixties. Full of top notch 7" from that era. Take said jukebox to some of the artists who made said 7". Overlay with tape of Lennon discussing that kinda thing. Let the action roll.

Absolutely fantastic. Somehow, Lennon didn't come out of it like some dead saint*. Despite the presence of Sting.

In a way, Sting was our guide - someone who had been influenced by the artists in question chiefly through Lennon and McCartney. Someone who life was changed (literally almost) by the choice of things John put in his ears. He also treated the vinyl with the kind of backwards reverence all 7" demand. Which was nice.

Anyway, one thing that came out of it, for me at least: quite how much Lennon liked early soul records. You always hear (and this programme was no exception) how he robbed his licks and his chops from black rock'n'roll and pre-stolen white rock'n'roll: Chuck Berry, Litle Richard and Gene Vincent, The Everly Brothers. But you don't often get programmes that play up how much he stole from The Isley Brothers or Steve Cropper and Stax or early Motown records or treasures more obscure.

It's interesting considering the 'lull' some writers have encountered when writing about the early sixties. How do they account for the gap in 'white' music between, say, Elvis and The Beatles. It's seen as dead time, the world slowly re-stagnating as The Beatles learnt to be epochal, playing dives in rundown ports with sweat coming off the ceiling. But, if you ever needed proof, this ain't how it was. Lennon seemed to realise (and why wouldn't he?) the best music in the world - some of the best music ever - was coming outta Detroit and outta the mouths of people who can, in some 'rock' histories, seem second-tier or worse.

Are you gonna find Gary 'U.S.' Bonds in the 'Rock and Roll Hall of Fame'? Or Fontella Bass? Or Bobby Parker?

The second thing I got from this was what would to some people seem like the exact opposite. Here, you see how much - if you follow the logic that was used with the early soul stuff - Lennon 'stole' from the people that followed him. And not just Bob Dylan or whoever. On the jukebox he had some early Donovan. A Lovin' Spoonful song. Sure, as you can see, that was outweighed by soul and rock'n'roll. But to me its fascinating. How he borrowed back his folksy whimsy from imitators seen as peers.

Dear Prudence and Good Day Sunshine come out of the show as copies of copies. And, for me, seem even more powerful because of it.

See, that was the thing about this brilliant little programme. By demystifying Lennon, you could see not only how much he stole, but how much he invented. It humanised Lennon in a way that warts'n'all depictions rarely can. You might think you'd see him as the theiving little egotist you've heard tell of. But - credit where credit's due - everyone who's music was played came out of this as true heroes.

*I know all saints are dead. But I use the tautology deliberately and pointedly. At some later date, remind me to waffle about why the fact that all saints are dead is endlessly fascinating. But hopefully this will have done that job for me...

2004-03-14T12:39:00.000Z

Grist to the rumour mill: my favourite Liverpool band (and one of my favourite bands full stop) might well be hooking up with a 'legendary' producer to put stuff out. Seriously, if you like either of the camps involved, you'll be looking forward to this as much as I am...

2004-03-14T12:33:00.000Z

Paul over at Mile Long Shadow of a Cooling Tower picked up on the bit of obviousness downscreen about mainstream versus anti-mainstream. It appears he wants more...

"It should be interesting to see how his email debate with ‘Mr Industry’ pans out, once the facts of the matter become appropriate for publishing on his site."

Although my post was pretty much what you'd think I'd say, it is true. The editor is a nice guy, with interesting ideas about music and an open and genuine passion for all types of stuff (including the 'mainstream').

My main problem was that his 'anti-mainstream' talk - marketing speak though it was - seemed to unnecessarily limit what could be a damn good rag. Let alone misrepresent what is actually in it.

Paul seemed to pick up on my main points, but I wasn't suggesting 'Mr Industry' ignored the machinations of 'da industry' on 'indie'. In fact, he seemed to be motivated by those machinations - his was a response born of experience running up against a brick wall. Rather, he started from the point of view of being outside the industry, talking about people who were outside of the industry.

And I didn't like it.

As for how it all turned out, on the specifics of the argument (applying this dogma to his mag), he seemed to be more right than me. His mag is flawed but less flawed than most.

However, as I said to him, it all got boiled down to an instinctive reflex on his part towards the 'anti-' versus a reflex in me (if anything) towards the mainstream itself. Popularism and all that has always been fascinating for me, but especially when it runs up against the unimpeachable subjectivity that I love so much in music journalism. I suppose that's why - as a mutual friend of Paul and I said - I like music with 'gimmicks'. Popular things with a hint of ironic distance, making the ***emotions*** of the whole thing that little bit more complicated.

Over the last few weeks, this has been making itself more and more clear to me, and I've been getting more and more ready to accept it, herald it even. When a friend of mine invited me onto Friendster last week, I toiled long and hard on putting down the music I liked in a limited space. Inevitably, I could add to that forever. But, as you can see, my tastes certainly twist a certain way, amongst the unavoidable stuff:

"Edith Piaf, KPM, MFP, Johnny Cash, Paul Robeson, Jonathan Richman, Static Waves, Dr Teeth and The Electric Mayhem, Ambulance, early Cat Stevens, VU (and Nico), Hyperkinako, Aphex, The Supremes, Beefheart, Stereo Gold Award, Talking Heads, Elvis"

NB: MFP, KPM and Stereo Gold Award are all cheapo charity shop cash-in labels that accidentally (or not) make some of my favourite music. I'll write more on this subject - but for now have a look at Vinyl Vulture. Their taste isn't exactly the same as mine - a little too Manchester and funky - but you'll get the idea and some pointers on what to look out for.

2004-03-02T22:36:00.000Z

As you may have noticed from the TV adverts, the next installment of the Final Fantasy video game franchise is called 'Final Fantasy X-2'. You're meant to pronounce this "Final Fantasy Ten, Two", as in the sequel to Final Fantasy Ten.

It took me until typing that to realise that this wasn't the twelth episode.

If you're that way inclined, the entire history of civilisation is contained in that grammatical faux pas. From Caesar to Akio Morita via both the British and American empires. In eleven easy steps, with a commercial featuring girls that you'd call 'scantily clad' if they were anything other than pixels.

2004-02-29T22:22:00.000Z

I've just been having an argument via e-mail with the editor of a pretty high profile music magazine. The specifics are unimportant right now but it was both enlightening and saddening to see how a lot of the people that I frequently agree with have a knee-jerk reaction against the 'mainstream' in favour of a perceived 'un-' or 'anti-mainstream perspective.

First things first, I don't subscribe to that idea of pop versus underground (and neither does the editor in question apparently). Railing against the mainstream has - since I was about fifteen - come across as both boring and, if I'm honest, a little ugly. It seems to be allied to an elitist view of music, wherein the masses, or even the peculiar sub-section fo 'the masses' comprised of 'mainstream indie' fans, are portrayed as deluded, conned by 'the media' into buying whatver is put in front of them. Although I can see the pragmatic point about arguing for things that don't get argued for and talking about music that you wouldn't otherwise encounter, I don't like the direction this points in, or from. It seems to come from somewhere that thinks of itself as preternaturally enlightened, unaffected by Rupert Murdoch or AOL Time Warner, capable of seeing that one piece of wood amongst the thicket, carved and creaking to breaking point. It seems to take the anti-corporate vibe and run with it, infecting not only what you like but how you like it.

Whatever its merits, anti-mainstream invective too often comes across as anti-popular. And I want music journalism that reflects and comes to terms with music as it is: messy, twisted and democratic.

2004-02-17T23:45:00.000Z

Another addition to the links: Vinyl Vulture. Great, 'you are not alone' stuff - especially on the peculair sub-culture of crate-digging in charity shops for albums with weird covers, library albums and strange novelties.

2004-02-13T00:44:00.000Z

Good golly. This might not be the most groundbreaking news you'll hear all day but Popular is good isn't it?

2004-02-13T00:15:00.001Z

Oneida
Secret Wars
(Rough Trade)

Oneida sound like Velvet Underground. They use drone and that Sister Ray organ and paint a picture of the post-punk underground that was brought up in Lou Reed’s shadow. This is art-drone. But it’s so beautifully made that its narrowness is nothing but an optical illusion. If this is just an album of noise and artsy posturings – no matter how genuine – it seems to show its own limits just to break free. And it breaks free in a funny way, pretending it never left at all and it’s you who’ve changed.

The songs are deceptive. Try and examine them and it sounds like lesser bands: good, not great. But take even the slightest step back and it rings with so much veracity it’s untrue. Yes, they have all the hallmarks of post-Sonic Youth extrapolations in feedback but blur your vision slightly they become geographic in scale. ‘The Last Act, Every Time’ will break your heart like a drunken ‘Careless Whispers’. ‘The Winter Shaker’ will make you pretend that Chinese water torture is more romantic when frozen. It’s one of those few great albums that can, simultaneously and at different times, be everything you hope it will and everything you hope it won’t. It might be the Grand Canyon but it would rather you mistook it for a crack in the ceiling.

2004-02-13T00:15:00.000Z

Preston School of Industry
Monsoon
(Domino)

‘Preston School of Industry’, song titles like ‘If The Straits of Magellan Should Ever Run Dry’, ‘Escalation Breeds Escalation’. Detuned guitar not-quite-solos quietly making a radio-friendly alt-country tune just a little too unfriendly. Scott Kannberg, nee Spiral Stairs, ex-of Pavement, sure don’t want what success he really should have with this album. The less jaded would make this a smash, a middling review in Q, a few daytime plays on Radio Two. When this sounds like Pavement (the re-working of ‘Two States’ in ‘Get Your Crayons Out’ for example, or the fantastic ‘Line It Up’), it’s rather darling, but mostly it doesn’t, it sounds like Spiral Stairs working things out for himself/Malkmus, just doing it because he’s a ‘musician’, it’s what he does. And then you’re frustrated – it’s easy to see him doing silly things as some kinda vindication of your love for pop music, but, really, if someone urinates talent, wouldn’t you want them to at least try and piss the highest on the wall? When the sensibilities are so often so pleasant, don’t you want him to make other people realise it? Rather than sabotage himself with the indie, lo-fi tendencies that made Pavement so inviting, as they backed themselves into the limelight? Especially when it seems more to do with shyness than awkwardness. Part of me wants Scott to be the new Randy Newman and find accidental success by writing for Disney, but even Randy had a hit.

2004-02-13T00:09:00.000Z

Fallacy
Blackmarket Boy
(Virgin)

And again: another hip-hop album that just can’t keep it swinging past the first thirty seconds of each track, even with celebrity help from Roni Size, Shy FX, Rodney P et al. Busy neighing ‘let’s have fun’, the beats sound like a lazy six-inch cowboy falling off a three-foot horse and absolutely fail to live up to the glory of ex-single ‘Groundbreaker’. With the synth big band conducted by some slow motion party clown, its particular nonsense makes everything else sound predictably tedious, despite the oddly ’77 London punk feel to the sleep-walking, street-talking minimal chauvinism. Beats over here, rhymes way over there, repeat until one of the disinterested parties falls asleep or decides to put track three back on.

2004-02-13T00:07:00.001Z

Madrugada
Grit
(Music for Nations)

In Spanish, ‘las madrugadas’ means those early hours populated by partiers and sleepless depressives. But, oddly, on this new addition to the Scandinavian rock canon, it’s the sedately amazing alt-country songs like ‘Ready to Carry You’ that seem imbued with anything like an infectious spirit. Compare the great opener ‘Blood Shot Adult Commitment’ with the de rigueur rock of the likes of ‘Seven Seconds’. On the first, the not-quite-Smog vocals chime with the sun just about to hit your face. The second sounds like a companion to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club that’s too tired to be drunk. If ever proof was needed that most albums would be better as EPs, this would be it. It might capture the early morning brilliantly, but who wants a sunrise spoilt by a hangover stirring in your throat?

2004-02-13T00:07:00.000Z

The Veils
Lavinia
(Rough Trade)

One of the b-sides to this single is produced by Bernard Butler and has a title that means very little but could, if pushed, be linked to something a wee bit ‘high brow’. If proof were ever needed that it all, both in sound and spirit, is in the Starsailor oeuvre of nominally indie guitar music and swelling orchestration, surely that would be it. This could, or could not, be a positive thing. I’d rather not say. Never let it be said that this writer could be accused of snottiness or needless assumptions about popular miserablists.

2004-02-13T00:06:00.000Z

Jimmy Edgar
Access Rhythm EP
(Warp)

…and so our civilization’s obsessions continue; youth, technology, genres, ‘black’ musical forms, homophobia, swearing, cool. Maybe it’s cos he’s nineteen, or maybe it’s because he’s on Warp, or maybe it’s cos he makes music that is unquestionably new, but new in the way that you think you can easily ignore. Maybe this is why Jimmy Edgar’s EP thunders with the rumbling feet of ideas reflected.

This is the kind of nice techno, or moderate house that gets played everywhere where haircuts are demonstrated and not worn, but with the requisite glitchy beats that anyone who signs to Warp/listens to Timbaland seems to perfect with ease.

2004-02-13T00:03:00.000Z

Fiery Furnaces
Gallowsbird’s Park
(Rough Trade)
Not to flatter - and assuming they’d comply – if my friends were asked to make a de rigueur garage rock album, you suspect they’d do one of two things. The Fiery Furnaces do the second.

They’ve made an indie, Broadway, pop, synth and piano, soul, freakbeat, country, arted up ‘garage’ masterpiece. It’s oddly sprawling, but is three quarters of an hour long, the sprawl set against some not-quite-hip-rock-music backdrop. It’s not really garage but you can hear garage in there, and as that’s what our generation seem to be doing with themselves, that’s how you tend to listen to it. It’d be easy to say the album was not just a garage rock album, but was *about* garage rock albums.

See, although they’re a) one boy and one girl b) brother and sister and c) live in New York, you can tell they listen to The Sonics only as much as you can tell they listen to Mud, Steely Dan and Mercury Rev. The Velvet Underground they rob off is the I’m Sticking With You, Lonesome Cowboy Bill version, making an album to pop bubble wrap and chew gum to. They don’t do stripped back for stripped back’s sake. And they’d probably think you stupid if you called them ‘eclectic’. Cos they (hopefully) realise quite how annoying ‘eclecticism’ is. ‘Eclecticism’ is a cop-out. And this album ain’t a cop-out: you can tell that they want to grab onto this chance they’ve got, this bit of publicity after getting signed to Rough Trade. Maybe it is a monkey on the backs of The Kills and The Strokes and The White Stripes and the rest but they still grasp their fifteen minutes and try and to show us something else. So we get ideas and instruments falling out of our ears, and cryptic Pavement type lyrics that are half-nonsense, half-epigrams. The fact it’s so mixed up and unfocused shows just how much this means: the songs that, in a medical glare, could be dismissed as mediocre or half-formed prove just how great this how enterprise is. Can you imagine saying that Jet or The Hiss or whoever have too many ideas?

Saying that though, at their most obvious, they master the kind of moderately avant, evolutionary pop that Granddaddy occasionally perfect, except better and more consistently lovely and enchanting. Check out the single, Crystal Clear, for evidence. The album is great but, even more importantly, you get the impression this could be the start of friendship that lasts longer than a career. And it’s the kinda album that you can almost legitimately use the word ‘friendship’ about. It’s all rather wondrous, really.

2004-02-13T00:01:00.000Z

The Hiss
Back On The Radio
(Loog Records)

The Hiss, with ‘Back on the Radio’, have made what is perhaps the most mediocre single to come out of the ‘new’ ‘rock’ ‘revolution’. With a riff that does very little for very long, it’s all rather miserable. If the whole shebang was some pinpoint satire/comment about the resurgence of (average) rock in the popular mindset – see pop videos featuring ‘live’ performances etc etc etc – a part of me would rather like this, not least because it would back up my theory about British Sea Power doing a similarly subversive thing with indie. But that part of me doesn’t get attention too often and even the drawn out Kelly Jones vowels on the b-side fail to suggest I should laugh along.

2004-02-13T00:00:00.000Z

Hoboken
Vainglorious
(Royal Jelly)

Note to all those of you who are even thinking about becoming music journalists: never let a press release excite you. Idiotically, I was led to believe this might be the very thing I’ve been waiting to latch on to for all these years. My ears lit up when I saw that it was, apparently, electro – meaning ‘electroclash’ given the fartsy context, one would think – with a Scott Walker voice over the top. But this guy’s voice is the single most annoying thing I’ve heard in pop music in ages. It’s that icky, Robbie Williams style, lame Rat Pack belting-it-out that is completely and utterly unlike anything any of the Rat Pack ever did, accidentally proving a neat little idea I’d had about Frank Sinatra et al. And it all sounds a hell of a lot like some stuff I got sent from some ageing Austrian crooner-hipster called Louie Austen, but a hell of a lot worse. Shame.

2004-02-12T23:58:00.000Z

‘Wherever we go now, in West Hartlepool or Walsall, in Ipswich or Inverness, the same sights confront us and the same sounds come at us across the air’

NB: All italics in this article are taken from D. Elliston Allen’s ‘British Tastes: An enquiry into the Likes and Dislikes of the Regional Consumer’, which was published in August 1968 by Hutchinson & Co. of London. Apparently, according to The Collins English Dictionary, italics are ‘chiefly used to indicate emphasis, a foreign word’…

A wry anecdote: again according to The Collins English Dictionary, the word ‘italic’ entered the English language following an edition of Virgil printed in Venice in 1501 and dedicated to Italy. Sigh: ‘the speedy reach of fashion’…

Although Martin C. Strong says a band from Lewisham called ‘Japan’ had a Japanese hit with ‘Life in Tokyo’ a full year before their first UK chart placing, there are no Japanese bands in The Great Rock Discography (6th edition). The most famous East Anglian contained within its pages, probably the East Anglian that has had the greatest and deepest impact on UK pop music, is John Peel. A Liverpudlian. Peel contributes a foreword to Strong’s book, in which, unsurprisingly, he tells a brief anecdote about his mother, mentions The Fall and Captain Beefheart, and is mildly, knowingly, self-deprecating and wry.

In East Anglia, ‘little cable-laying means fewer telephones than there should be and few rediffusion radio sets’.

Last year, I heard the Peel session that woke me up the most. Hyperkinako, two Japanese people, a Yorkshireman, an Australian and a female bassist from Sussex, all based in Norwich, were astounding. They sounded like heavy metal, if metal bands wanted to sound tiny and battery powered rather than elemental. They had plinky-plonky keyboard effects and a Japanese girl ‘wassailing’ about ‘tadgers’ as if ‘tadgers’ were computer generated archaeological artefacts. She used verbs and constructions of grammar as if she’d been asked to conjugate ‘deconstruct’ in an English class. They were, unlike far too much of the music I listen to - and for reasons I can’t fathom - in and of themselves, simultaneously and unsimultaneously, funny and moving; moving parts like a doll, like those tacky/clever plastic Freud figurines. ‘It all has the weird deliberateness of a long-forgotten religious cult’ despite its pure, untainted newness. As if the ‘pall of homogeneousness imposed by modern, mass-consumption economy’ was maybe something to be frightened of. As if ‘our over-concern with novelty and our delight in all those trivial alterations that help to give spice to the otherwise boring sameness of so much of daily life’ was recognised as perhaps the only misshapen, ineffectual key to beauty. If it’s not about where you’re from but where you’re at, Hyperkinako were at East Anglia and Japan, transmitted across the frequencies, both on radio and on their self-made demo/single and the song on a GoJohnnyGoGoGo compilation.

‘Havelock Ellis, in the Dictionary of National Biography, found East Anglia was one of the three great foci in England of intellectual ability. This ability, moreover, was of a distinctive type.’

The band is kind of based around the University of East Anglia. An Anglo-Japanese pairing of music PhD students; a female bassist from Sussex with a masters in culture and communication studies. Hyperkinako therefore almost certainly make ‘intellectual’ music. Journalists, if they are so inclined, can semi-reasonably hint at ‘deconstruction’ in features on them. But of course they’re better than that. They deal with intellectualism the only real way possible – agree and laugh, then laugh and agree.

In East Anglia, ‘cinemas are few and the low borrowing of books, too, suggests that the trouble of going into town never allowed them to gain a soundly based popularity. Indeed instead of going out, therefore, the tendency, as in the South East, is to stay at home and bake or garden.’

Phil from Hyperkinako says:

‘I love lots of Japanese music - Melt Banana, Buffalo Daughter, Takako Minekawa etc etc, and so does Lisa. Toko and Shigeto hadn't come across a lot of these bands that I thought would be really famous in Japan, and instead were more interested in Western bands. So we have a strange mix of Westerners trying to make music like they think the Japanese do, and Japanese people making western music.’

Imagine what that would sound like. Then forget the shrieking cacophony of Boredoms et al. Or the faux-naïve Japanophilia of Flaming Lips etc. Sure, you can hear all this kind of stuff in Hyperkinako, but this a band more attuned to something pre-post-modernists might call ‘universal’. A band to which Hello Kitty is a pretty stuffed cat.

They’re as fun a band as I’ve heard in many a celestial rotation: ‘we don't have plans for world domination, and we want to keep it fun’ they say. As touching a band as I’ve heard in as long. A band that have the good sense to prick any delusions of ‘universality’ by answering a question thus:

Me: What is your favourite place?

Them: Hmm, tricky. Dunno.

A band that not ‘only serves to stress the lack of liveliness for young people already swept into self-conscious Angst by fashionable teenage convulsions’ but also gets busy ‘introducing newness to a contentedly somnolent public’. A band that could well be much more than something to hang a limp socio-geographical thesis on.

Another wry anecdote, as if to prove something: apparently ‘some two-fifths of one of the counties of Britain cannot properly taste a certain common acid’ that produces ‘the bitter tang to grapefruit’.

2004-02-12T23:33:00.000Z

The Fence Collective
Fence Reunited
(Fence Records)

In lesser hands, this might be the soundtrack to a party that you’re not invited to. Records like these can sound as if they are designed to keep you out just long enough to buy a few examples of the main players’ back catalogue.

It’s an album featuring collaborations between the Fence Records posse: James Yorkston and The Athletes, U.N.P.O.C., Lone Pigeon et al. It’s cover versions and people singing harmonies and me on guitar and you on accordion. If lo-fi folk is a not-quite-inversion of rock glamour then this could seem like a flip of those pictures of Reed, Pop and Bowie looking debauched. Are we meant to marvel at how otherworldly they are, and see how mundane we are in comparison?

Luckily, this is more ‘community’ than ‘scene’. Down The Tiny Steps covering Pip Dylan’s ‘Lemonbelly’ stands out. Like Jim O’Rourke with Beta Band vocals, it’s enchanting. Like a lot of this album, it sounds like a warm fire and a good conversation, with shared references and shared memories more important than that glass of scotch you’re cradling. Elsewhere, this is acoustic guitars being disarming. Or electronica played as if it was an acoustic being disarming. And whatever the limits of ambition of genre, it all has a real warmth. It’s so welcoming that being snide just doesn’t seem so attractive anymore.

2004-02-12T23:30:00.000Z

I bumped into the Classics teacher from my old sixth form college the other day.

She said that the single biggest intake on her course was from the Catholic high school that I went to. She said she thought it was because Religious Education was compulsory.

Interesting idea: Catholcism and Catholic guilt leading to students seeking the silliness and meaning in someone else's idea of god(s). Interesting.

Again, more to follow on this no doubt.

2004-02-12T23:29:00.000Z

I was sitting on the bus earlier. Some college students got on and started talking. One - face not quite pretty, in a pretty way - asked if the other was having a seventies theme at some fancy dress party or other. The other replied in the affirmative.

"Is that like Grease: seventies, big dresses and that?"
"No that's fifties. Seventies is like disco."

If ever we needed proof, every generation but your own is history. Fifties nostalgia, seventies style, filtered through a nineties idea of ironic fun, very much in the only decade of this century that will be able to get called the first. Every other name for this decade seems so nineties.

And, remember, 'every generation but your own is history'. That includes the one's that follow.

At a new club night the other week, my friend and I sat bemused as the zeitgeist sidled up to the bar and was impressed that it didn't get IDed. The crowd, DJs, onlookers et al were either seventeen or eighteen. Song followed song followed song and we felt old. Old at 22. Gomez was played and I realised that this would be like me at their age, playing something from 1989. The Hives was played and I remembered that this would be like me playing prime '95 Britpop at their age. We got cynical, wondering if they'd have things that they either definitely would or definitely wouldn't. Of course they suprised us when we asked. To a certain extent.

We enjoyed our cynicism. It's a new way of looking at what is essentially ourselves.

Too often this kind of thing gets in the way of critical fun. It gets to the situation where its a big ask just to say 'let them have their fun'.

Let us have their fun.

2004-02-12T23:28:00.000Z

Roy Ayers
Virgin Ubiquity
(Rapster Records)

Smokey Robinson was, as Dylan delighted in saying, often thought of as America's greatest poet. One reason, if not THE reason, was his ability to carve soul that straddled so much. Soul that was powerful and aggressive and frank, but disguised as ballads and hummable tunes, gentle, lulling platitudes to loss. Perhaps this kind of soul, the Motown/pop/ballad side, opened up America's minds, opened up the world's minds, more than we give it credit for. But it's a hard thing to master: how to make soul (and other avowedly popular forms) that soothes and eases, while staving off the easy listening, wallpaper pall.

Roy Ayers, on the evidence of this album, can do that. But not always. In every song, there is the power and funk pent up and ready to correct you. But in every song is the idea that this is music to talk over in bars, and not even particularly good bars.

Let's not be too harsh though. This is a collection of rarities - studio detritus pulled out and made to face the sunlight and the noise of the traffic. There is pure, unadulterated talent in these songs. There is beautiful, echoing chambers built within the bass line, ready to let your opinions fight it out with the sense of something other than your self. In the way that Motown often masked its abrasiveness behind a Brill Building clincial beauty, this often hides its uneasiness behind a tipsy lounge vibe. Occasionally this grates, its too saccharine. And occassionally its not saccharine enough, it has very little taste at all. It draws out, say, Smokey Robinson and uses unassuming repetition to achieve either relaxation or boredom. It’s expertly crafted soul, with the emphasis on expertly crafted rather than soul. Which is, in it’s own way, a good thing.

2004-02-12T23:27:00.000Z

I've just finished reading Greil Marcus' Mystery Train.

He seems to nail something exactly on the head. He gets at something in me that longs for a sense of nation. A sense of history filtered through pop history. Geography, politics, religion, archaeology subsumed by pop. Common myths.

I appreciate he has a peculiar way of setting about the high brow/low brow divide. He tries to treat the apparently low as the apparently high, rather than demonstrate the fallacies of the whole idea. He makes pop sound like the single greatest folk art, and it probably is. But he is weak, if not ignorant, of why pop's commercial appeal - that is, it's major 'low brow' trope - makes it more of a folk art, more important, more damned 'high brow'. The only time he gets near this is when he very nearly gets at the importance of the Elvis myth, specifically the Elvis in Las Vegas myth. Yet he still forgets Elvis' commercial success, his business and financial and industrail success. But still...

I appreciate that perhaps his is a peculiar viewpoint, romanticising what shouldn't be romanticised and generalising what perhaps shouldn't be generalised. I mean, Stagger Lee as the 'black' sense of self, rather than, say, Robert Johnson or no one at all. But still...

Where can we find the English, or British, examples of music than spans history as well as generations? Where are the myths, the simple stories that bind us? Have we been too keen to pretend the Amercian myths are too powerful for even us?

I want more on English popular music pre-skiffle.

More on this to follow, no doubt.

2004-02-01T22:45:00.000Z

You should look at Lyrics Interpreted. It's an extension of the rather minimal Jim Cassius empire.

2004-01-27T22:19:00.000Z

Weird War
If You Can't Beat 'Em Bite 'Em
(Drag City)

This might well have been a testament, a reclamation. The nu-garage bands are being told who is the daddy, who is the mommy. Ian Svenonius, ex-of The Make-Up, is the daddy. Michelle Mae, ex-of The Make-Up, is the mommy (or one of them). In their heads, Weird War are where it's at. The whole album has a genuine swagger, as if Svenonius is gutted that he never made it, or made it too early. But it's a false swagger, a swagger for swagger's sake.

From the title down, the album sounds like an deluded 'back where we belong', an attempt to prove just how great he/we is/are. It's the point where self-belief becomes laziness. Using the lo-fi aesthetic - at times so liberating and fresh - to prove that we are better than you. If lo-fi was ever DIY then it isn't on this album. If lo-fi was democracy, this is elitism. And it's elitism that fails to back itself up. The half-heartedness of most of the album sells Svenonius short. His arroagnce becomes his downfall. Where he thinks he may be a figurehead, he becomes a caricature. This is cut-out-and-keep hipsterism, pretending to be a retort and a final proclamation that 'we did it first'. Svenonius ropes in Jennifer Herrema. She co-writes the title track and, we assume, is 'JJ Rox' who provides second vox.

We did it first. Us and Royal Trux.

The whole thing seems over confident. As if the rhetoric was to be believed, so the production doesn't have to be. It sounds like it was recorded by a bad MP3 player rather than a bad transistor radio. A mistaken rehash of a second-hand schtick and an attempt to pretend The Make-Up invented it in the first place. It sounds like a chance to see that all this was pre-patented. That all the things you listen to were made cool again again in the nineties. And that time around it was definitive. I mean, isn’t lo-fi and bedraggled Ian’s legacy?

It’s an ugly kind of contempt, a backwards hipster ambivalence.

Two songs, though, sound differently proper. AK47, the nominal single, is bloody good - making out that DFA was a Maoist acronym all along. NDSP does a similar thing, but with Bohannon's disco stomp and lyrics that seem to link fucking and the Middle East in a way that forgets which is a metaphor for which. They are stunning. Utterly, utterly stunning. They have something approaching a desire to actually have fun and communicate rather than scupper yourself with some careerist, half-arsed agenda and topsy-turvy self-importance.

Elsewhere, ideas are started and repeated ad infinitum, making out that they just don't care. Even if they are good ideas, like on 'Shop Bought Pot' or 'Tess', the lack of movement is deadening. It is static music, frozen, the boredom and arrogance masquerading as a history lesson and a polemic. 'This is a moment in time' sings Svenonius half-way through, but you get the feeling he wishes it wasn't. He seems to wish he stood apart from the machinations of fashion and industry, while remaining it's deity in waiting. Forever underground and forever sanctified.

Contradictory till the end, this is filler.

2004-01-26T19:09:00.000Z

Welcome.

This is a blog. It is encompassing and occassionally all-encompassing.

I have been known as other things, but you can call me Jim Cassius.

As to why, look at Act One, Scene Two of Julius Caesar or, to a lesser extent, Post Records.