I Hate Music
‘ You know someone said that the world’s a stage
And each must play a part.’
Someone said that did they? Just some old Joe Soap knocking around so that you Elvis Presley, self styled King Of Rock’n’Roll and the man a well known burger chain was named after, could quote it in a song. That someone was fucking Shakespeare you illiterate, greasy, corpulent dead guy. And you got the quote wrong.
PINK FLOYD – Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Parts 2 – 8)
Anyone who has had the misfortune to listen to the Wish You Were Here album will be aware that this magnificent piece of (shit) work is bookended by Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Parts I-V) (Parts VI-IX). Now I am not going to mention the fact that this album only has five tracks on it, and that two of these are the same song. I’m not even going to mention the fact that the Floyd are so lazy that despite only having four songs they got a guest vocalist in for one of them. No – I am here to make a revelation of possible national magnitude.
I have found parts 2- 8 of Shine On You Crazy Diamond.
You see whilst the song goes on forever on the album it only has two verses. What I have found, scrawled in Roger Waters worst orange crayon, are the vitriolic lyrics which would have formed the final verse. Unfortunately it was exorcised by EMI lawyers from the song when they realised that even in his most drugged up state that Syd Barrett would notice that they were libellous.
Remember when you were mashed, You spent all our cash.
Fuck off you junkie bastard.
You spent all of our dough, for a half pound of blow
Fuck off you junkie bastard.
We are art school career boys
With mother fixations
We want to do prog rock.
So fuck off you user, psychadelic boozer,
Fuck off you skagman, you pothead you loser and DIE.
Now I have a conundrum. I am sure that if I release this barely cogent but somewhat nasty lyrics to the non-sexed fans of Pink Floyd I could easily make enough money to fund my campaign to destroy music properly. However by doing so I will be helkping prolong the legacy of Pink floyd, musicians. So after much debate I have decided to set fire to them, much like the man on the front of Wish You Were Here was both on fire in the picture, and the copy I stole from a Marie Curie Cancer Shop that I burnt. And then you will hear my madcap laugh.
PALL OF SHAME
More from the readers. ‘Rob’ writes on behalf of his idols:
“Please do not insult legendary artists when you clearly have little or no idea about them or there music. Anyone with the vaguest idea of Elton John’s music should know that the lyrics to “Rocket Man”, and, for that matter, all his other songs, are written not by Elton, who writes the music, but by his longtime collaborator. Any pathetic and juvenile criticism of the lyrics of Elton John songs should therefore be directed at his songwriting partner, Bernie Taupin.
Both men, by the way, are in the Songwriters’ Hall of Fame”
My apologies, Rob – in fact I was avoiding mentioning Mr Taupin out of a misplaced desire to protect the man from the consequences of his folly. All Bernie did, after all, was write awful poetry – never a good idea but not in itself worth a slating. His one terrible mistake was to hand this poetry over to my old pal Elton John, who promptly converted his verbal castor beans into musical ricin. However I now see the error of my ways: believe you me, from now on whenever Elton needs the Tanya Treatment, Bernie will get it too.
Thankyou also for reminding me of the Songwriters’ Hall Of Fame – though if Taupin is an alumni I can only think it’s some kind of Internet spam scam. I have two suggestions to make this sorry institution into a proper Hall of Fame.
- when anyone joins it they should only be allowed to do so with a 3-letter name. Bernie could be “BUM” for instance. Songwriters who can’t think of a name get called “AAA”.
- when you get into the Hall of Fame, it’s Game Over, so you can’t write any more songs. Ever.
If we must have this awful thing, then people, let’s do it right.
BACK IN TANYA’S MAILBOX
Your article on DJ’s was verry well put. I’ve always said that
DJ a musician (which some ninnys do) is like calling a waiter a chef.
Some disgruntled jazz musician”
That may well be so, and your compliment is accepted, but you should also realise that liking jazz is like calling a waiter a cunt – you end up getting served wank.
PUT SOME ZIPS ON THE FLAMING LIPS
I have nothing against children’s stories, as long as they don’t involve some magical instrument or other. I do however have something against musicians using their decidedly non-magical instruments to make simpering gibberish like Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots. Flaming Lips records are the musical equivalent of those inept posters of big-eyed kids you find in Athena sometimes – only the terminally weak-minded or the smirkingly ironic could find even a smidgen of value in them, everyone else just feels disgust and a vague pity. You will be unsurprised then to learn that rock critics love the band to death. Most Flaming Lips songs are of course the same – a rudimentary indie-pop tune gussied up by ‘achingly beautiful’ production (i.e. someone holding a button down on the synth) and the quavering vocals of an idiot man-child. The songs this weediest of all voices sings are either bad teenage sci-fi stories or dribbly platitudes – “Do you realise that everyone you know someday will die?” YES I DO you addled wretch, what I can’t comprehend is why you are adding to the pain of our too-brief lives with this nonsense? The title track of Yoshimi… is about a heroic Japanese girl who uses karate to battle evil robots. If you think this is cute, or quirky, or god forbid ‘visionary’, then you need to be gelded. If Wayne Coyne is a visionary so is Purple Ronnie. The Flaming Lips do at least get one thing right, their name – listening to them is precisely as pleasant as cystitis. Pass the cranberry juice.
SIGUR RóS – ( )
Come on people, did we not learn our lesson with Bjork? Iceland is full of evil, evil people who think nothing of drinking a skin full of Eagle Lager and pitching themselves off of buildings. Whilst I have nothing again heavy drinking, the plummeting aspect seems like the height of stupidity. Especially when you then don’t die and spend most of the rest of the year in the studio making music which can only be described as downbeat Radiohead. Music truly has no limits.
The Rós think they have cunningly designed an album in ( ) that is Tanya proof. How? Well every track is untitled, so how exactly am I supposed to slag off a track called . Well, using the clever concept of chonology I present a unique guide to hating Sigur Rós.
Track One is slow, proggy and has a block singing the word “Ysiyrr” over and over again for about nine minutes.
Track Two : see Track One.
Track Three : see Track One.
Track Four : see Track One.
Track Five : see Track One.
Track Six : see Track One.
Track Seven: see Track One.
Track Eight : see Track One.
And then, thankfully, seventy five minutes later it ends. In their blurb the band say that they want to capture the geography and beauty of their home nation in their music. And in many ways they suceed, with the exception of the beauty part. Much like Iceland they are a bit rocky and leave me cold.
THE CHEEKY GIRLS ACCORDING TO WILFRED HODGES
If “We are the cheeky girls” then “You are the cheeky Boys” = True then you can touch my bum.
“We are the Cheeky Girls” is (unfortunately) True.
“You are the Cheeky Boys” is – at least in my case and hence generalising for the rest of mankind – False.
Therefore the whole proposition is False and we cannot touch the Cheeky Girls strange collective bum. We are therefore able to use our hands for better advantage such as shooting the transylvania idiots.
BOREDS OF CANADA (Do You See)
Look out parents. All over the world there are grubby, unkempt men hiding in bushes near playing fields, schools and outside sweet shops. No, it is not Gary Glitter or any one of his paedo gang – this is something just as serious however. It is the Boards Of Canada and they are lying in wait to tape recorder your childrens conversations. Not even for some cheap sexual thrill though, no they want to chop it up, misrepresent and loop it over repetative beats and the sounds of whales farting. And then to add considerable insult to mental injury they will call the track something like Fractals For Breakfast.
These sick evil people believe that their so called music has a right to children. They are undermining and destroying the culture where you live. Rise up in arms and get them banned. Use you constitutional rights to destroy them. Consider yourselves warned.
ANDREW WK – I Get Wet
Well put up an umbrella then, would of course be my first reaction. But careful perusal of the album in the remainder bin suggests your wetness does not come from the heavens. It does not even come from remaking Pink’s ‘Get The Party Started” twelve times on one album. No instead it appears to come from your nose. Someone must have misheard your neanderthal gruntings – unsurprising with that casiotone background to distract one – and thought that instead of Party Hard, you said Punch Me Hard. Bravo that man – if I were Queen he would have got an MBE.
SONGS ABOUT BUS DRIVERS
“The wheels on the bus go round and round” Trad.
So it says in the British Book Of Folk Songs which suggests that a song about a machine driven by an internal combustion engine pre-dates the existence of copyright laws and its origins are lost in the mists of time. Or the pea-souper fogs of the 1930′s. I have a more radical suggestion – perhaps the writer was too embaressed to admit writing a song about a bus.
So imagine how stupid you would be to write a song about a bus driver. Step forward the admittedly reknowned for their stupidity The Frank And Walters, and the no less stupid but slighter better at hiding it Bruce Springsteen. People proud enough to put their name to and even record records about bus drivers.
“Does This Bus Stop At 82nd Street” comes from very early in The Boss’s career, so early that he was at best in middle-management. Oddly middle-management was something Bruce was notoriously bad at in this period, the middle of his songs often going on for ten minutes. This being a perfect example, having a section about World War 2, and tips on how to differentiate between blood and oil, and plenty of other ridiculous lyrics:“Hey Bus driver, keep the change/Bless your children give them names”. I’d agree it starts well, being nice to a bus driver may just edge out the bad karma in later life for writing Tunnel Of Love. But he really should have stopped with the money, because his advice starts of as patronising, goes throuygh petty prejudice and ends up in drug addled nonsense. What does Bruce think the bus driver was previously using as a classification system for his children. Numbers, colours, natural phenomena (I believe that is just the Pheonix family that did that, and River is no longer flowing). Still the hint about giving them names at least makes sense even if it is blindingly obvious. The next lines are just offensive: “Don’t trust men who walk with canes/Drink less and you’ll grow wings on your feet”. People who walk with canes would be those physically disabled with a walking impairment or blind people. Good on you Bruce, kick the minorities. But I can say this from observation, and having a number of warnings in hospital myself, that of the physical benefits of sobriety growing Hermes-esque flappers on your footsies will not happen.
Still perhaps singing songs about bus drivers leads you directly into madness. “Happy Busman” by The Frank And Walters would certainly confirm this. Their driver is not the nameless transit employee of Springsteen, theirs has a name, a route of his own and a bus which is described in a voice which is so out of tune that even dogs refuse to howl at it. See Andy James drives a bus for the lonely – possible the Franks and their fans. You see Andy James’s mission is to make the whole world smile. Because, as the tortured simpleton continues, if you smile, smile all the time, smile all your life you won’t ever die. I use as my main counter-exaple the film Batman which was on TV last night. The Joker smiles all the time. He dies. As a second counter example I’ll use the career of the Frank And Walters, who equally smiled all the time, but their career no longer has a pulse. They would have been bettr off singing “Smile all your life, don’t ever have a decent haircut”. Imagine if you will being remembered as the poor man’s Sultans Of Ping FC. And therein lies the moral. If you write a song about bus drivers you could either be Bruce Springsteen or The Frank And Walters. And in so many ways Bruce Springsteen IS The Frank And Walters. Which I think you will agree I have proved.
Now try and listen to Thunder Road without hearing the lousy tones of Fashion Crisis Hits New York….