Posts from 11th July 2000

11
Jul 00

BUSTA RHYMES – Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See BUSTA RHYMES – Get Out

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BUSTA RHYMES – Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See
BUSTA RHYMES – Get Out

A sorry tale of decline. “Put Your Hands….” is absolutely typical Busta, but his formula was so winning that the best example of it becomes his most delicious record by happy default: sly, twisty rapping, Busta’s quietly amused voice, mesmerically sinuous and low-key beats, and lots of rhyming the penultimate syllable of each line. It’s not rocket science, but it could easily be rocket fuel.

Newest single “Get Out” sees craft swapped pound-for-pound with crass. The sample credits pretty much say it all: ‘Sample from “The Ugly Duckling” performed by the Richard Wolfe Children’s Chorus’. For ‘Busta’, read ‘Nursery’, as Rhymes looks for a slice of Jay-Z’s ironic kiddie-hop pie. I hope he chokes on it: the first time you heard “Hard Knock Life” you may have found it blackly amusing and at least blessed with an original gimmick. The first time you heard “Anything” you gritted your teeth and cursed Jay-Z’s bank manager. The first time you hear “Get Out” and realise the poison’s spreading, you might want to weep: here’s a man with one of the subtlest, lithest flows in hip-hop backed up with a chorus of children pretending to be ducks. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

Save Napster

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Save Napster – how much more Napster commentary do you want? Just read it.

Lester Bangs

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Lester Bangs: “I didn’t go around shoving my prejudices down everybody’s throat. I just endured Cream every fucking day, “Spoonfull” and all the rest of that whiteheap bigdealsowhat . And you’d think it’s only be fair for them to endure Velvet Underground, Count Five, Oldies But Goodies, the Fugs, the Godz, and I forget what other godawful racket I doted on. But they wouldn’t let me have my equal portion of obnoxiousness. My music was “bad,” and theirs was “good.” and maybe that’s why I’ve ended up doing what I’ve done so far with my life.” – superb resource for the man’s online reprinted writings, from plateofshrimp.com, which also has lots of stuff on Peter Laughner too. Peter who? He played on one of the ten best singles ever recorded, so go and find out.

I think it’s starting to become unfashionable to like Lester Bangs – I see a lot of people talking about how the world of pop journalism is still clogged with wannabe Bangses, and they’re right, it is, but if you’re going to wannabe anyone, you wanna wannabe one of the best. (link via gobshite).

TOM WAITS

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TOM WAITS

Rawwwrrr, rawwwrrr, rawwwrrrr.

Your beloved Tanya has come down with a bit of something, faithful readers.

Oh, you thought I was impersonating Tom Waits? No, heavens forbid. Sure, the man has a voice that sounds like the result of gargling with razor blades, but where is the fun in mocking that? The man himself will surely admit that he has an awful voice.

No, if one wants to put down ol’ Tommo, what they need to do is talk about how he’s a second-rate Hoagy Carmichael. What happens when, for the duration of your career, you’re classified as a “classic songwriter” but, thirty odd years into it, you’ve yet to write one classic song? Or at least one classic song that doesn’t “appropriate” “Waltzing Matilda. Well, then you’d be Tom Waits now, wouldn’t you?

For the first half of the career, he played the lovable drunk that nobody loved; a man who could’ve spared the world a lot of misery if he had just written books or, hey, even DIED IN A GUTTER. Actually, that’s not even the bad part of it: In the second half of his career, he was “reborn” as a guy who banged pots and attached trumpets to toaster ovens…and people called him a genius! As if the singer-songwriter stuff wasn’t atrocious enough, when he started utilizing pump organs and wang-dang-doodles, he lost the ability to even put TWO NOTES TOGETHER!

Wait’s last album had a song which went “What’s he building in there?”. The sharp-eyed observer, and frankly the dim-eyed observer too or indeed the eyeless fucking hunchback dwarf could have guessed what Tom was building: yet another amusical contraption which like Tom himself would have been better suited to crowscaring. Since he alighted on this Bukowski-meets-the-one-man-band schtick, his every album has been the same. Even his fans were forced to admit that Mule Variations wasn’t exactly moving Tom’s art forward, but when you’re a genius that sort of thing apparently doesn’t matter.

Okay, okay, here’s my Waits impression:

“Rawwwrrr-rawrrrrrr-drunk. (ping)

Rawwwwrrr-rawwrrrrr-midgets. (honk)

Rawwwwrrr-rawwwrrrr-broken-heart. (boom-chicka-boom)”

(Repeat ad nauseam and play in 17/12 time.)

Tom Waits. I know right where he can stick that swordfishtrombone. Up his arse? Fuck no, down his THROAT, so we never have to hear him again!

THIS IS SEEE-REEEEY-USS

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THIS IS SEEE-REEEEY-USS

Yahoo! suggests I should address the Celine question. Now I will admit that Dion isn’t much cop, indeed would happily concede that the very existence of Celine Dion invalidates all prior achievements of human civilisation and surely makes us a galactic laughing stock from Arcturus to Rigel. But the point is that everybody holds this view – I have travelled the world looking for somebody who likes Celine Dion records and no, from pole to pole there is agreement that she’s a frightening hag with a voice like cough medicine in your eyes and the purse-lipped looks of a Job Centre undermanager (esp. with her horrendous ‘new wave’ barnet).

So who is buying the records? Two possibilities present themselves: firstly, people who haven’t learned to speak. This isn’t entirely unlikely. The second possibility is that nobody at all is buying them, that Celine is a fiction and her chart positions are coded messages planted by our military-industrial masters for the attention of deep cover agents. “Hmm, Think Twice at No.1. I must bomb Quebec.” (OK, so that’s a rational reaction rather than a secret message).

Celine serves a useful function, though: by serving as a totem of all that sucks in music, she keeps the happy consumer oblivious to the fact that all the Proper Records they listen to instead are just as bad. I’d rather sever my foot than play “My Heart Will Go On”, for sure, but I’d happily lose at least my toes rather than hear David Gray again – don’t come bleating to me about how Celine’s no good when you’re just going to go home and listen to the goddamn Corrs.

IHM Lyric watch: I rock the house with the power of a bee

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IHM LYRIC WATCH: I ROCK THE HOUSE WITH THE POWER OF A BEE

“I move with the strength and speed of ants” – Ghost Face Killa, “Wu Bangers 101”

Sorry, I must have misunderstood, I thought rap boasts were meant to present the rapper in a positive light, how foolish of me. How fast are ants? How strong? Precisely. He might as well have added “and brain”. (And none of that ‘proportional’ shite either, please. I didn’t believe it coming from Spider-Man, and and I don’t believe it now.)

dr. fetid’s wizards of the sonic

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dr. fetid’s wizards of the sonic: if you’re the kind of listener who likes to hear celebrities singing terrible versions of schlocky pop standards, or who is into bizarro covers of more ‘respectable’ material by obvious lunatics, then this site may well prove a bit of a goldmine. I run a mile from that kind of thing – life’s too short for Shatner – but I’ll pause in my flight long enough to mention that Dr. Fetid gives you plenty of soundfile fun along with those old rogues commentary and links.

Jejune

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Jejune asks a question: “is there any song on this earth more horrible and unlistenable than Roxanne by the Police? (Assumed answer: no.)”. A quick call to Tanya’s mobile elicits the following answer:

“Roxanne” by the Police is indeed terrible, in that it assumes that the attentions of one Sting would save the eponymous Roxy from a life of prostitution, rather than, for example, driving her to one in a desperate attempt to put the nasty Tantric man right off matters. Sting’s horribly affected cod-Jamaican accent is the icing of purest pus on this cake of shite. However, Sting’s solo song “Russians” is still worse than anything ever done by anyone who has ever lived anywhere. If the Russians do indeed “love their children too” they will as one rise up and cut their ears off rather than risk them hearing that track.

So there. In further news Pitchfork may apparently be redesigning. I rather unfashionably like Pitchfork, but why is so much – read: any – fuss made about redesigns? Somebody sent me an e-mail with this news using the amusing phrase “your scoop”. The Pulitzer surely awaits, or would if I was American. But hold! Amp To Rock has received the very same e-mail. Who is flattering these amateur journalistic egos / boring these amateur web critics? We have to know. Or on second thoughts, we don’t.

I also still love HumanClick. This evening somebody from Poland chats to me about Position Normal, which I think is fabulous. Ten years ago this would have been impossible. Mind you, ten years ago Position Normal would have been pretty improbable themselves.