MOMUS

MOMUS

Whenever our old friend Nicholas Currie wants to tell us how, you know, *radical* and *sexual* and *dangerous* his music is compared to all those *repressed* and *parochial* Brit-rockers (hmmm … Fran Healy hollering his way through “Turn” as though he was reading out somebody else’s shopping list, Paul Weller shouting “He’s the keeper!” as though he’s warning young kids off the sinister owner of some Hampshire museum … for the first and only time in your life, Nick, you’re right) he draws our attention to one song - an irritating and inconsequential little throwaway called “Coming in a Girl’s Mouth”. This, apparently, is the most subversive thing ever recorded, the jewel in his crown which places him millions of light years of subversion above Primal Scream, whose most recent album got its most positive review in the Daily Telegraph (for the benefit of those outside the UK, a rabidly right-wing, fanatically pro-tradition and indescribably backward-looking newspaper).

Currie would doubtless have us believe that Telegraph editor Charles Moore would, if he knew of the existence of “…Girl’s Mouth” and of Momus himself, fire off some epic rant about how this marks the final downfall of British Civilization. Don’t fucking fool me about Moore’s priorities. We all know he’d just look up from his work, give a profoundly uninterested expression, and bray in an Etonian accent “Well, if that’s what the young coves like these days …” before getting back to wondering whether that letter which suggests that John Aspinall and the Dowager Lady Birdwood (two prominent recent stars of the paper’s obituary page) were the greatest Englishman and Englishwoman of the last century is *quite* racist enough to print, before writing another thunderous editorial suggesting that a ban on foxhunting would eradicate 1000 years of British tradition. Currie has certainly achieved his ambition of isolating himself from the Brutish (as he would say), the thing is that he’s gone so far that his regular outrageous scams are now greeted with predictable yawns here.

And that’s before we get to Momus’s actual music. His most recent “new direction” (if he’s had one of those he’s had 30) is Analog Baroque, which seems to consist entirely of ancient twiddly synths playing in an English folk style (as if Gryphon weren’t bad enough …) and Currie merrily trilling “Heigh ho the wind and the rain”. And he claims to hate Britain! Last time around he jumped on the loungecore bandwagon just when everyone was realising how stupid the Mike Flowers Pops were, and wrote a song about Tamagotchis just when everyone was realising how fucking irritating they were. And let’s not even mention the time before that (or was it before even that, I can’t remember or want to) he was going on about how he ate girls, rolled around in shit, and paid 5-year-old children to watch him having sex. It’s OK to be crap if you have to, but as for a man with such a mind …

Glossing briefly and happily over his poor imitations of Gainsbourg / Brel over late 80s British indiepop backing (once again, he claims to hate Britain but sounded weak and stiflingly polite throughout all those records), and all that twee business about Ancient Rome released on a label whose raison d’etre was to recreate the upper-class London of 1935 (and he claims to hate … blah blah blah) we can see Momus for the thieving magpie idealising poseur he is. Those who can’t create anything for themselves but instead opt to spend their time counting how many Japanese porn sites they can wank over and how many delicate Oriental girls he can dirty dream (number two) of making babies with will never create great pop music. All they’ll manage is a photocopy of a pale shadow, stuck in their own self-defeating fantasy world (Nick Currie wanks over Japanese porn sites the way retired couples from Utah wank over his hated parochial little Britain). See you, Momus. Would quake in terror if I ever had to be you.

Misanthropic children reunited shocker:

Misanthropic children reunited shocker: I Hate Music appears to have a kindred spirit in indieshite, which promises to be unremitting in its venomous bile and loathing for anything and everything. [link from us|against|them]

And coincidentally, it occurs to me that I have no idea whether Tom might have linked to this before. Am I non-lazy enough to check, even with Blogger’s search feature?

No. I am not.

DMX - What’s My Name? (MP3)

For so long, as a matter of moral principle, I despised DMX. Hated the blatant simplicity of his music’s production values, hated the way his every emotional response was intoned as a blood-red tabloid headline, hated the way he played into the hands of the shocking and disgraceful racism of the British media (half the time he *does* sound like an orang-utan to *me*, and if I can think that then what would the average Telegraph reader think if *they* heard him … ?).

My partial change of heart has been brought about by listening to this track perhaps five or six times, and appreciating the incredible forcefulness of the production, the way every element falls into place perfectly, the “sonic assault course” element, the way it hurtles itself at you and it’s impossible not to be rushed along with its power. It’s one of the most fetishistically militaristic records I’ve heard in years (like nothing since Spandau Ballet’s “Musclebound”, I can imagine some dictatorship taking it as their anthem, dressing everyone in the same uniform, marching in time, crushing all those who fail to bow down to this awesome beat), and rhythmically it’s one of the least stereotypically “black”. There’s no rhythmic mobility to it at all, and I think that’s what I initally found myself despising (and is *that* cultural stereotyping? Maybe we’re all guilty …). Just a forceful, vicious 1-2-3 beat (”D-M-X”, the title, “Ryde or Die” and any number of other phrases), the same sequence repeated three times, and then it’s back to that 1-2-3 again. For four minutes. With the embellishments removed, the rhythm of this record (and the rhythm is all) could very easily be used as an attempt to force the entire world into order, to remove all subversion, all un-regulated physicality, all rogue movement. The way this record - and so much of DMX’s other output, indeed the whole Ruff Ryders axis - fetishise their “code of the streets” runs against every aspect of the hip-hop orthodoxy, which is about rhythmic looseness, a mentality where “self-control” is considered obscene. “What’s My Name”, rhythmically, is the precise opposite of “I Feel Like Being A Sex Machine” - perhaps the most rhythmically free record ever made - and DMX is the anti-James Brown - a black artist whose sound and style sounds openly like an endorsement for military dictatorship. No wonder white liberals like myself tend to hate him. And, yes, I know virtually everything he does is morally indefensible. Especially because I feel myself being taken over by it.

He’s probably one of the worst emcees ever - most of his rhymes are a pathetic attempt at sounding “hard” every bit as weak as Turbo B’s notorious “And I will attack - AND YOU DON’T WANT THAT!”. But “The Power”, atrocious emceeing apart, was actually one of the greatest sonic assault courses ever to reach Number 1 in Britain (I may have been 9 at the time, but it still sounds endlessly exciting and violent, at least in the terms of 1990 chart pop, and those are the only ones worth defining it in). “What’s My Name” and its ilk occupy a similar position in the US, but they go far further - they’re simultaneously superb and repugnant examples of something frighteningly addictive being created out of a monosyllabic and unpromising beginning.

I can’t stay musclebound for long. But when I am, it’s a mode I can, shamefully, hardly click out of.

MAX TUNDRA - Life in a Lift Shaft, Doggy Biscuits, Control It (Bistrotheque), Ampikaipakan (MP3s)

MAX TUNDRA - Life in a Lift Shaft, Doggy Biscuits, Control It (Bistrotheque), Ampikaipakan (MP3s)
I don’t know why I find myself listening so obsessively to Max Tundra’s skittering electro-jazz, since its air of aimlessness and slight self-satisfaction clash with my current aesthetic of self-promotion and self-belief. It has overtones of Nathan Barley-ism, true, but it’s saved by this uncontrollable rush, the way the sounds play with each other. Like all the best electronic jazz - and, indeed, all the best jazz full stop - it plays a game with excitement and indulgence, and just about saves itself.

I feel strangely assured by it, awful word I know, but it’s the best description for the mixed feelings of strangeness and security this music gives me (and it’s steering me through these unsettled weeks like nothing else). Something seems to be happening sonically in every one of these pieces, as well - the way “Control It (Bistrotheque)” hurtles along to what sounds like a frog on speed, the way “Life in a Lift Shaft” is powered throughout by a frenetic mad dash of concert piano. A large part of me will recall this as the backdrop to a cruel, unthinking summer.

I drifted away

I drifted away - the Guardian reviews the Festival Of Drifting. The mysterious asterisk next to the name of the event is actually the rating out of a possible five stars; one star, the paper tells me, means “terrible”. Is it just me or does this review make the event sound really really good?

I guess I must stake a claim as one of the nylpm curators

I guess I must stake a claim as one of the nylpm curators in Tom’s absence, though I suspect most know me anyway …

But I’m slightly embarrassed at my sporadic recent contributions here. There’s one coming in about 30 minutes, though.

SLEATER-KINNEY

SLEATER-KINNEY

Having “the rock” is often assumed to be a singularly male obsession. We chicks have got more important things to worry about that strapping on a set of leather strides, damaging our sleek body curves with ungainly guitar straps and standing with our legs 20 degrees apart. This is the misconception that Sleater-Kinney are here to batter down. They are chicks and they rock.

Well, actually no. Sleater-Kinney - a name more suited to a low rent one room law firm than a band - are merely the latest in a long line of trad rock bands peddling the fact they are women to give them that extra boost. For christ-sake, we had the Bangles, we don’t need another one. Of course the SK sound differs from the pop savvy nature of the mid-eighties girl band, but there is a direct line back to Suzi Quatro with all these groups. Okay, they don’t play on their looks (such as they are) because they are a proper, serious rock band. They do fast songs, they do slow songs but they do them all with a singular ineptitude. If they had put a bit of scratching on an early record they would probably be touted as the female Beastie Boys (oh hold on a second - that’s Luscious Jackson I’ve accidentally strayed on to).

My many years as a detached observer of pop music gives me the power to say that sex sells. The only thing that marks out Sleater-Kinney from The Dandy Warhols is that S-K are all woman. At least the Dandy Warhols appreciate that their female member is their biggest selling point, and she gets her kit off at every available opportunity. All the above may be a pretty generic set of criticisms to hang on just one band, but Sleater-Kinney Management Consultants have one more trick up their sleeve. It is quite common these days for girl bands to use the harmonising qualities of their voices to special effect. Sleater and indeed Kinney instead employ the member with the most caterwauling voice to bellow over the fast songs, scaring animals and small children wherever they go. I have seen the yelping on Little Babies make peoples ears bleed.

Still, let’s leave the last word to the girls themselves. The hint is in the album title. You buy their record and you will have All Hands On THE Bad Thing. It’s a bad thing. A very bad thing.

The Top Three Songs I Want To Listen To This Very Second. Now.

The Top Three Songs I Want To Listen To This Very Second. Now.

1. Wookie - “Battle” (MP3, forthcoming single)
Underground soulful 2-step ex-Soul II Soul man UK Garage. Would be big except for the fact that I’ve not heard it on the radio yet. Perhaps the Dreem Team are playing it? Large sections of the track repeat the most repetitive two-note melody EVER and then the singer breaks into a more chart-friendly melodic vocal section leading into that staple of crossovers: the singalong chorus. Every day is like a battle but we’ll overcome / When we get back in the saddle faith will bring us home. Hardly the most profound of lyrics but when the track sounds this nice who cares? Tim might be interested to take a listen.

2. Craig David - “Seven Days” (MP3, forthcoming single)
“I work with a stylist. I can trust him to go out and buy stuff for me. It’s not like when your mum buys you clothes.” Poor lad. Despite a Select magazine interview’s best efforts to trip him up along the way he still follows up “Fill Me In” with style. This isn’t as immediate as his solo debut but it’s equally as strong in a very different way. Rather than the 2-step beats he’s become associated with this has a very straight R&B beat, with hardly any groove. It’s a technique I like; it reminds me of Otis Redding tracks the way it has a totally straight beat and the soul coming from the vocals rather than a more obvious groove.

3. Black Star - “Re-Definition” (MP3)
One two three / Mos Def and Talib Kweli / We came to rock it on to the tip top / Best alliance in hip hop. The claims are arguable but this is still a good track, if let down by those weak Rawkus production techniques. Mos Def and Talib Kweli are undoubtedly two of the hottest rappers in the underground at the moment and they work well together on this one, as they do on the other Black Star material I’ve heard. The one reason I often feel like listening to this particular track is that for some reason I really enjoy this lyric: “Re-Definition”, turning your play into a tragedy!

Here comes Greg to stop the lethargic NYLPM from slipping into a coma and look what happens while I’m writing my entry! Anyway, here goes…

Here comes Greg to stop the lethargic NYLPM from slipping into a coma and look what happens while I’m writing my entry! Anyway, here goes…

Napster: The Computing Equivalent Of Unsafe Sex - and so the backlash continues. A band named the Tabloids (nope, me neither) have launched a site named StopNapster.com with the intention of spearheading guerilla tactics against your favourite music download tool.

While I’m not wholeheartedly supporting Napster - I do think it has lead to some nasty traits in music listening, but more of that later - I feel it’s unwise to attempt to ban or restrict it at this point in its life. The Tabloids suggest “Napster bombs” and “Trojan horses” as methods by which bands may deter fans from downloading music. Having the ideas is one thing, getting the rock stars out of their jacuzzis and onto their laptops might take a bit more doing. Will an army of Thom Yorke, Dave Rowntree and Matthew Bellamy be enough to fight for the artists’ rights? It’s unlikely.

The group describe their ideas as “diabolically clever” while missing some pretty obvious flaws. For a start, who in their right mind is going to keep in their shared folder a file containing Charleton [sic] Heston reading a public interest message? Secondly, Napster makes it easy enough to determine who you’re downloading from and not download files from certain users. I’m sure the Tabloids investigated the program but it appears that trying it out didn’t enter their minds; they state that Napster is not yet available for Macs. Well kids, try Macster or Rapster - once you’ve actually had a go at using the thing maybe you might change your mind.

Unsurprisingly, a quick search of Napster reveals absolutely no tracks by the Tabloids. Perhaps the band’s tactics have worked and people are too scared to share their songs? However, judging on the lyrics…

faith told her mom
she was going to the
prom then she
stayed out all night
doing little white
lines with a rich fat
banker and his next
door neighbor

the banker bought
her implants and
paid for her tattoos
she said get out your
gold card there’s
nothing I won’t do

…maybe they just don’t want to?

spiritualized - “ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space” (elvis mix)

spiritualized - “ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space” (elvis mix)

have you heard this, josh? if not, you should coax tom into making you a copy.

for me, it’s quite revelatory: if i was jason pierce, i’d be majorly pissed off at the writers of “can’t help falling in love” for nixing the elvis mix from the record. as it is, “ladies and gentlemen…” is a nice song and a great opener, one that sets the mood of the album; as it was, “ladies and gentlemen…” was the emotional centerpiece of the album, a true heart-wringer. at the climax of the song, one can hear what sounds like elvis, floating in space as it were, singing the refrain to “can’t help falling in love” over and over. when the choir joins in and the juxtaposition of the two major themes of the album — an unhealthy addiction to both drugs and love — is fully realized, if you have a soul, shivers will run down your spine. truly breathtaking and awe-inspiring.

and here i was worried that the mighty nylpm might go a day without an update. perish the thought.