I Hate Music

31
May 01

FEMINISM – WHAT FEMINISM

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Oh music, let me count the ways I hate you. Not only are you content with rattling on in every pub I atttempt to pickle myself in, but you enviegle your way into adverts, television even cinema. Why I believe even now some Australian knobnose is trying to reinvent that most hateful genre of movie – the musical. When said person was also the man responsible for Sunscreen (a joke which wasn’t funny before it was even written) I get angry. When he is also the guilty party for turning a Shakespeare tragedy into a fucking worldwide disaster by playing Radiohead, The Cardigans and The Wannadies on the soundtrack – well lets just say you wouldn’t like me when I’m that angry.

You probably wouldn’t like me anyway.

25
May 01

BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – Positively 4th Street

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BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – Positively 4th Street

This being of course, Sir Bob of Dylan’s most scabrous attack on those dim-witted, unpleasant and dull fools who call themselves his fans. Now some might say biting the hand that feeds you is not the smartest of moves, but then I think we are quickly coming to the opinion that – despite what the UK’s finest intellectual discussion fora the Daily Mirror says – Bob is a bit on the dim side. Anyhow, I rather like the following lyric.

When you know as well as me
You’d rather see me paralysed
Why don’t you just come out once
And scream it

Okay. Infact I’ll go one better than that Bob – I will write it in capital letters in bold on a website. (I screamed it on a busy thoroughfare in London yesterday and got an interesting look from a youngish policeman who only let me go when I explained that I was only fulfilling Dylan’s wishes, had imbibed a number of double G&T’s and his Mum would probably want him home for tea soon as it was well past eight in the evening).Ahem:

MR BOB DYLAN. I WOULD RATHER SEE YOU PARALYSED.

There. Does that make you feel better, Mr Paranoid Haemorrhoid?

24
May 01

NOB DYLAN’S LEGACY OF CRAP

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NOB DYLAN’S LEGACY OF CRAP

Dylan Thomas Overrated Welsh poet/playwright who wrote Under Milkwood and much worse. At least he had the decency to kick the b. before his 40th birthday, unlike…

Bob Dylan Took his name from Dylan Thomas. Overrated Yankee poet/busker + sourfaced, superannuated guitar-playing drug-addled hippy. He provided the inspiration for…

Dylan the rabbit from overrated kids’ prog The Magic Roundabout. French guitar-playing drug-added hippy lapin. He was given his name by Emma Thompson’s dad – for more information, go and read tv.cream, you sad fanny. He provided the (lack of) inspiration for…

The Dylans Z-rated ugly guitar-based Sheffield indie band from the early 1990s. They were responsible for Lemon Afternoon and much worse. Also had the decency to call it a day before anyone got hurt.

Of course, any Bob Snobs reading this will point out that Bobby D has repeatedly claimed that he did not change his name in honour of Dylan Thomas. Of course he would say that. It’s like some teenager changing his name to Kryton and then claiming that it was totally unrelated to that unfunny arsehole from Red Dwarf.

BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – “Hey Mr Tambourine Man”

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BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – “Hey Mr Tambourine Man”

Hey Mr Tambourine Man
Play a song for me

Jangle, bomp, jangle, bomp.
Anyone who has been in five year old music class will be able to tell you that – for sheer song playing ability – the tambourine is about as good as a piece of cardboard. Worse if Rolf Harris is in the neighbourhood.

BOB DYLAN AND ME – Kindred Spirits?

Now you might think this ragging on Bob on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday is in particularly poor taste. Why? Well if there is one artist in the whole world who I should like it would be Dylan right? Let’s look at the evidence.

1: I Hate Music. It is quite clear that Dylan hates music too. Even when he writes so called classic pop songs – say Mr Tambourine Man – he performs them with such lack of skill that he gave Tom Waits the idea that he too could be a pop singer. I detest the Byrds (which is fair since they all detested each other) but at least they managed to make a silken purse out of a sows ear. It must be remembered though that silk comes out of a catapillars arse.

2: I am an insulting and unpleasant piece of work. At least that is how I present myself on this forum. And the only person more grumpy, misogenistic and downright rude than me in the world is Bob Dylan.

Seems like a match made in heaven? Well there is the age difference of course. Not to mention the vague possibility that if we had offspring they would turn out as bad – if not worse – than Jakob, peddling his piss poor Wallflowers hopefully into an early grave. And I must admit, I do own a Bob Dylan record*. But it was a rip-off, which is why I shall never make my peace with Dylan. Five years ago in a charity store I shoplifted a copy of Blood On the Tracks on vinyl. Took it home with baited breath, slid it out of the cover – and what did I see?

A few scratches, the odd bit of fluff. By no actual blood on any of the tracks. I was going to sue him under the Trades Description Act but I could not find him (off on his never ending tour – it’ll end when I get my hands on him). So I just melted it down and made a pair of vinyl hotpants with it.

*Note – I do not actually have a record player.

BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – “Sara”

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BOB DYLAN LYRIC WATCH – “Sara”
Now the beach is deserted
Except for some kelp
And a piece of an old ship
That lies on the shore
You always responded
When I needed your help

Hold on! Can you spot, O readers, where the Greatest Pop Poet Of The Twentieth Century gets a tiny bit desperate for a rhyme? Better than Keats? Not even up to Ronan bleedin’ Keating on this evidence!

BOB DYLAN – Anagram Corner

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BOB DYLAN – Anagram Corner

Bob Dylan = Bland Boy.

BOB DYLAN – The Never Ending Tour

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BOB DYLAN – The Never Ending Tour

Happy Birthday Bob. No, really. I mean it. Whatever you say, sixty is a milestone that a lot of musicians don’t make. Look at Lennon. People think he is more of a genius than you. Why? Because he’s dead. Whereas you just trundle along like some insane breeding experiment between a man and a squeezebox on your never ending tour.

The idea of a never ending tour may – to the average music fan (ie simpleton) be a jolly good one. After all Bob gets to wheel out his atonal prose poems to all of his tone deaf monkey-like fans. But when you look into it there is something much more sinister going on. What would drive a man who is to all intents and purposes even grumpier than Van Morrison to keep moving on? Surely not love of his fans. So what can it be?

Perhaps it is a gypsy curse. That said even the most uinluckiest of Romany baiters in the world surely could not be cursed three times in their life. (Curses one and two being that voice, and that voice again). It is quite possible that he has been inhabited by the Wandering Jew of legend – which is kind of scuppered when you consider Bob was born again a couple of years ago – but maybe the Wandering Jew of legend felt that his curse was linked too directly to his religion. And its got to be said the Wandering Born Again Christian of Legend certainly does not have the same ring. Perhaps Bob is merely trying to break a Guinness world record for the longest tour, the most venues played, the most peoples ears destroy by his catawaulling. All these are possible.

However I think I have it. It is well known that both the CIA and the FBI held detailed files on Dylan from his arrival on the scene. The CIA in particular were very interested in the military applications of such a bad singing voice. Nevertheless it is clear that the relationship soured some time in the late eighties (when Bob was really into painting his own album covers). Therefore a number of deserved charges were laid upon Mr Dylan, mostly for breach of the peace but one at least for stretching a metaphor too far (Lily, Rosemary and The Jack Of Hearts). So the Never-Ending Tour is merely Dylan on the run from the Feds. For a crime he quite obviously did commit.

At least at sixty he gets a free bus pass – which will make his slow trundling evasion of the pop branch of the FBI easier.

23
May 01

LUDACRIS

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LUDACRIS

Ludacris is the kind of guy your mother warned you about. But then so is your average flasher, and Moby aside nobody offers them a record deal. “What’s Your Fantasy” is a three-minute job application for Fiesta Letters, and ‘fantasy’ is the right word: a glance at Ludacris’ weaselly form lets you know that in this case his name is no joke.

In any other case, though….look, you people keep telling me that rap is still a thrusting young artform and the peak of musical creativity. In which case, why has it only taken them twenty years to run completely out of good names? Ludacris? Juvenile? Nelly? P.Diddy? Make a bit of effort, for pity’s sake! And “undie” rap is not immune (incidentally I have ecological problems with undie rap – vinyl is non-biodegradable, you know, and burying unwanted records underground is merely evading the issue). A member of highly-touted avant-hop combo cLOUDDEAD is called, aptly, Why? Too lazy to use the shift key, too lazy to think of a good handle – though the one he’s picked will at least kick off a few fights. Ludacris’ real name is, obviously, Chris, which simply makes the whole thing worse. Might we expect him in the future to join forces with Apauling, Terryble and Silly Billy?