Posts from 23rd January 2001

Jan 01

An observation

Pumpkin PublogPost a comment • 316 views

An observation It can be exasperatingly difficult to fasten a button-fly when drunk. Acutely embarrassing fumblings next to the pissior may occur. It’s much safer to ensure that, when off for an evening of alchofun, one is wearing trousers that are accoutred with a zip-fly.

Other items of clothing to avoid wearing when going down the pub include: caftan, clown shoes, top hat, Cradle of Filth T-shirt (in All Bar One), lederhosen, lifejacket.

No Rock & Roll Fun

New York London Paris MunichPost a comment • 526 views

No Rock & Roll Fun is another of those pesky music weblogs. I like this one because it is rude about music and quite funny with it.

Interview with Oxide And Neutrino

New York London Paris MunichPost a comment • 210 views

Interview with Oxide And Neutrino by one of the Hyperdub people. Not desperately articulate but definitely passionate and they touch on some of the stuff Tim’s been talking about in his garage coverage here.

(More Single Review re-runs from FT’s dark ages: this one’s for Maura)

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(More Single Review re-runs from FT’s dark ages: this one’s for Maura)

L’TRIMM – “Cars With The Boom”
I’ve dreamed about getting hold of this ever since I first read Chuck Eddy’s magnificent Accidental Evolution Of Rock And Roll, and lo and behold it is a masterpiece, the Shangri-La’s gone bass. It’s actually almost too gorgeous to listen to very often: never have voices as giggly-sweet as Tigra and Bunny’s hit vinyl, their sense of timing is exceptional (“We’re Tigra and Bunny / And we LIKE (beat) th’boom”: that micro-pause makes the song) and the final “Beep! Beep!” section where they dissolve into squeaky chat and scat is supremely tinglesome. Musically I like the identikit pop-electro beats (things become identikit because they work, duh), but my speakers are too puny for the boom to register. Sigh.

Empty exercises in formalism

New York London Paris MunichPost a comment • 171 views

Empty exercises in formalism are the lifeblood of rock criticism (see 1000) and hence I am delighted that Nick Mirov of monosyllabic has turned his webthing over to an alphabetical rundown of all the albums he heard in 2000. Good reviews, too.

How To Be A Feisty Rock Critic

New York London Paris MunichPost a comment • 361 views

How To Be A Feisty Rock Critic (via Bleeding Ears). So sad, so true. Spot the bits where I cringed.

Now, I like

Pumpkin PublogPost a comment • 279 views

Now, I like Fancy A Pint. I find it useful, and it has directed me to a few really decent boozers (like the Eagle on Marylebone Lane, although their recent redecoration leaves plenty to be desired). If I’m meeting someone in a pub featured on the site, bunging my meetee a link to the appropriate page is a quick and easy way to send directions. Plus the recipient gets a piccy of the pub, which further prevents confusion.

It’s easy to query their grading policy: The Mitre, one of London’s very finest drinking holes, gets a miserly three pints out of five, while the nasty Shaw’s Booksellers gets an unbelievable four, and several fine pubs get an off-putting two. But that’s just a matter of taste.

Their pathological hatred of anyone in a suit is a bit of a bore, too. If you don’t like pubs full of City boys, your best bet is not to drink in City pubs in the early evenings… just a little tip.

These aren’t major quibbles, though. I’m writing this because they’ve managed to annoy me with their Pointers on Pub Etiquette, and I’m not sure why. It’s mostly right, but seems to be written for the benefit of those visiting the UK from Mars, who don’t realise that pushing drunks around is a bad idea. I think what annoys me most about it is that it makes going to the pub sound like attending a particularly strict and vicious Victorian public school, replete with draconian queuing dictats and unknowable drink ordering rules. Bah.

Oh, and in my experience the easiest way to start a fight in a pub is to go up to a psychotic-looking fellow drinker, spill his pint down his trousers and call him a bad name.

More on the Artillery Arms on Bunhill Row

Pumpkin PublogPost a comment • 439 views

More on the Artillery Arms on Bunhill Row. One of the great pleasures of drinking there is that the graveyard you walk through to get there is a Wesleyan graveyard (there’s a statue of John Wesley near there and he had his headquarters there or thereabouts). The presence of the Artillery Arms cocking a boozy snook at the old pledge-taking abstainer himself is a (not very) guilty pleasure.

What’s more, it serves the full range of Fullers’ Ales. I know we’re not a CAMRA-orientated blog but a pint of Chiswick is an alarmingly difficult to find, especially one kept this well.

And more again, and this one’s crucial, it’s open on a Saturday afternoon. If you ever find yourself in this area in the dead-City zone which lies between Friday night and Monday lunchtime, you resign yourself to drinking in a Wetherspoons at best. To find a genuinely friendly and comfortable boozer which you’d go to by choice is amazing and joyous. The sunlight streaming in through the stained glass and dappling my pint and my crossword… mmm, lovely.

Which leads me to a question. When on one’s own in the pub, what is the most acceptable pastime? Crossword? Novel? Newspaper? Which is most likely to cause offence? Which is least likely to attract the attentions of unwanted interlopers?


I Hate MusicPost a comment • 625 views

(Note: This feature is in a way a tribute to the generous Dial-A-Song service which They Might Be Giants used to run, which would have a fresh song every day. As was pointed out in the pub the other day, freshness is not always a good thing. Every shit is fresh from the moment it pokes out its wee turtle head.)

A charming, and thankfully short, tune with two different and rather difficult to discern time signatures. The verses talk ponderously about the trials of puberty over a German style Oompah band backing and accordion. The chorus on the other hand borrows heavily on the tune, the words and the idea behind ‘Who Put The Bomp’, merely substituting the grossly unamusing line ‘He put his fist in my fistu-fistula — He wiped the pus on my new nylon sweater’. Luckily the song does not bother with another verse, though it still leaves the listener with the odd idea that one of the John’s in TMBG had a sweater made of nylon. Of course acrylic would have made more sense, but not scanned quite so well. Like the effort paid to that tiny aspect of musical construction was worthwhile.

Maura reviews some singles

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Maura reviews some singles over at her site. Good writing: about 60% right, too. Go L’Trimm! (she also isolates the appeal of the increasingly irritating Queens Of The Stone Age: nostalgia-rock for ex-grungers feeling the first-time bite of the generation gap. Where’s that world’s smallest violin?)