I Hate Music
NO GIRLS ALOUD
If we can thank Girls Aloud for anything, and I’m not sure we can, its for seeing off One True Voice. Them and the British public I feel have long since recognised that there is indeed only one true voice in this country, one voice brave enough to speak the truth – and that dear readers is mine. I, Tanya Headon, own the One True Voice and I suppose I should have sued the Postar spawned bastards. Instead Girls Aloud saw them off, and now – as some kind of thanks – I am here to see them off.
Do we need another Spice Girls, all of whom model themselves after Rough As Fuck Spice (the sixth member who didn’t make the cut)? Surely there are checkouts all over the country being unmanned while these five slappers ponce around pretending to have a pop career. And what a pop career, a career built solely on the worst kind of pop melange there is. Their first single, “Sound Of The Underground” had the twang of Duane Eddy, the shuffle of the Sugababes,the wail of Pink, a bit of Addicted To Bass, a bit of Buddy Rich etc etc. In short it is about 100 times worse than any bootleg ever, in that it sounds like nearly every song ever written. It was as if Dr Frankenstein, not content with creating an evil monster out of lots of body parts, then created another monster out of the body parts of 100 Frankenstein monsters. Well, a bit like that. Rest assured it is amazingly evil.
Unfortunately this is a trick ‘The Aloud’ have done again. And from reports again, and again. So much so that they have even seemingly survived being bigged up by Julie Burchill. Stop this pop madness, give us back our checkout cashiers now. The One True Voice has spoken.
JURRASIC ARSE – The T-Rex Story
What was the largest, most frightening creature ever to walk this earth. Before you answer, I’m not thinking of fictional creatures such as Emerson, Lake and Palmers Tarkus. Or even those terrible lizards, the dinosaurs of yore (or even leathery faced rock dinosaurs like Keith Richards). Instead think of a beast so scary that the mere sound from it would send people screaming into the night for fear of losing their sanity. Yes – that’s right. You are thinking of Marc Bolan’s T-Rex.
Those of you who know me well will be well aware of the shirt shrift I have for so called musical innovators. People who usher in entire musical scenes are therefore treated with more than suspicion. Especially when the innovation underpinning said scene is merely a matter of putting a bit of eyeshadow on, wearing stack heels with a big white boy ‘fro. Maybe its true that Marc Bolan was an excessively attractive androgynous man – the fact that his music was so simple to imitate did not give burly chaps think them in Slade or Mud licence to glam it up. Never has a musical movement been so ill named. There is nothing glamorous about grown men wearing little sticky stars on their face like a five year old who has gone nuts in his teachers good behaviour box. There is everything frightening about it – Bolan legitimised Gary Glitter after all.
But lest were merely eviscerate the bad memory of Marc for justifying the career of a nonce, let uis look at his real crimes. The actual music. I have seen T-Rex’s song described as foot stomp fizzy pop masterpieces. Obviously by someone who has never had a glass of Coke and survives merely on Happy Shopper Cola (the foot stomping I’d agree with but then all music makes me want to stomp my feet in anger). Take “Get It On”. There’s a nice idea there, getting it on is always fun, though if you have to worry about losing your arm in your partners hair there is more of a problem. Nevertheless I’ve got to say Bolan’s method of showing how much fun getting it on is leaves me a touch perplexed. He bangs a gong. Not very useful advise to kids trying to have a quick fumble in the chalet next to your parents at Butlins. Unless they are watching the very beginning of a Rank film. Maybe instead Bolan was refering to banging a member of the band Gong – in which case his premature demise probably saved him from a nasty dose of the clap (albeit it an arrhythmical, out of time clap).
A few other points need to be raised about Bolan too. Firstly Roland Bolan. Not only was this child cursed with a rhyming name (cf Zowie Bowie) but would have hit his teenaged years just when the most ridiculed character on children’s TV was called Roland. Cheers Dad. Not to forgot those interminably long album titles too, which possibly seemed like a laugh but made it a right pain to fit them on any star struck teenagers Christmas list. “My People Were Fair And Had Stars In Their Hair (But Now Their Content To Listen To A Shit Album On Their Dansette)”.
If only Bolan had listened to his own lyrics, he may not have hit his admittedly deserved early end. In “The Children of The Revolution” – a song about not being able to fool said children, notable for doing just that, Bolan sings that he “Drives a Rolls Royce, cos its good for his voice.” Questioning a few speech therapist friends of mine did come up with the sad conclusion that the type of car one drives rarely effects the tone of timbre of ones vocal chords., Unless of course its a Mini Cooper which you’ve just driven straight into a tree. Twentieth Century Boy no more.