Posts from 23rd March 2005

23
Mar 05

…and you will know us by the trail of dead: and the rest will follow

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…and you will know us by the trail of dead: and the rest will follow

They are a real lower case sort of band, a sorta Archers of Loaf/Polvo/Iron Maiden mish-mash. I like this song for three main reasons:

1. It’s an anthem with a marching beat – always a good thing.
2. It has silly melodramatic lyrics about how crappy the world is.
3. It has dolphin noises (dolphins are cleverer than us)

If this was in a Freaky Trigger Pop Music Focus Group (I miss them), I’d give it a 9.

SARAH’S POP POSER!

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SARAH’S POP POSER!

In “Negotiate With Love”, Rachel Stevens sings:

“The other day you said hello/We had a coffee/Now the next thing I know you’re playing me/Crap”.

Now. Is she saying, “the next thing you’re playing me – crap” – ie her rockist High cvnting Fidelty-esque cockfarmer of a boyfriend has taken her back to his flat for a cup of Kenco only to play her his special remix of the bloody Khazi Cheese and ooh, I don’t know, Interpol or something…

OR

“the next thing you’re playing me – crap” – ie Rachel Stevens is being “played” by a no-good cheating DAWG who only wants her for a bonk and is no doubt two timing her with every other woman on the street – hence the disappointed sentiment of realisation… “aw, crap”.

I personally like to think it’s the former. This is backed up by her later, “could you turn down the track a little bit please” which frankly out Sarahs both Nixey and Cracknell. Rachel – change your name to Sarah, it’s obligatory to be called Sarah if you’re going to be a sultry spoken-word pop queen. (Hey, does that mean I stand a chance at all? Is anyone looking for a female vocalist? I’m your girl). Also – who would play Rachel Stevens?! No-one, that’s who. Don’t be a fool!

Negotiate With Love = song of the year.

Who’s London

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Who’s London: plan your own walking tour for Saturday afternoon to get you in the mood, thanks to Diamondgeezer.

Mike’s Pop Pilgrimages No.5 – Wayne Hussey’s willy, London

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Mike’s Pop Pilgrimages
No.5 – Wayne Hussey’s willy, London

I used to be a bit of a goth. No, that’s not true, I used to be a lot of a goth; a suede-booted, black-haired, cross-in-ear, bangle-wristed embarrassment to my parents.

My gig-going days began when the Sisters of Mercy split, a spawn of goth bands scurried from their ashes. Ghost Dance one night, The Mission the next, reborn Sisters at the weekend. There were various establishments where people like me could congregate away from those who wanted to punch us. The Pink Toothbrush in Rayleigh and Prince of Orange in Chelmsford were both places with Snakebite-varnished floors and Nephilim friendly DJ’s, where gothic sub-culture almost looked like a movement. However, these places were merely staging posts on the path to goth enlightenment.

The holy grail of goth pilgrimage was the Intrepid Fox in Soho. In the late eighties acceptance in the Fox (by barstaff, by crimped nutters) meant you had passed your goth finals. The Guinness came decorated with a five-pointed star and the pool reserving system was based more on bullying than leaving a coin on the table. I revisited about a year ago for the first time in a decade. The Fox looked lighter, cleaner and a bloke in a suit sat at the bar. A gang of bikers should have been beating him with a stool, but no. It had changed irrevocably, although the smell of ancient sick still haunted the place.

My finest goth moment came at the Fox. All About Eve were touring their hippygotharse nonsense about harbours and meadows at the Astoria. Post-gig, Wayne Hussey of the Mission sat in the pub with his hairy bandmates. In an interview in that week’s Goth Times he’d complained about the inadequate size of his manhood. In the scrum for his autograph I asked him if it was true. He sighed and scrawled small willy Wayne on my arm in black biro.

So this meeting between the goth singer and the goth fan ends in anticlimax with the former writing ‘willy’ on the latter’s arm. Using the law of diminishing returns (scientifically proven by Cult albums) I think this ends the pop pilgrimage.

I washed my arm a week later when my manager in the Bank of England Financial Markets division asked what the writing under my sleeve was all about.