I Hate Music
Gorky as in Gorky Park – scene of terrible crime (and a pretty terrible film though I always had a soft spot for the book which has long passages about the solace in vodka.)
Zygotic as in the Zygons – a particularly bad Doctor Who villain from the mid seventies whose foolproof method to take over the Earth was to set loose a Loch Ness monster (only just about doable if your definition of the world is pretty much bordered by Inverness).
Mynci as in the Welsh spelling on monkey – cos of course Welsh hasn’t got the letter K. So in Wales you can’t knee someone in the bollocks – you have to nudge their goolies.
When even the name is that much hard work – you know the band really are not going to be worth your time. If the Super Furry Animals (who thinks of these names) had not put you off Welsh bands forever, Gorky’s are here. Twee – we’ve got twee. Rubbish psychedelic paintings – check. A band with a flute player whose members generally wear wizards hats. Oh yes, Gorky’s are the Harry Potters of pop – without the phenomenal sales record. As easy to take in a fight though. Just nick their wands and smash their glasses.
Ver Mynci have been around for ten years, and still have barely scratched the top thirty. They have what is politely called a cult following. Though I remember what the FBI did with cults and hope they tour the US soon. It is quite clear to see how worhtless their music is though – what with their singer/songwriter/chief pointy hat wearer being called Euros. Fine if he was Belgian or Portugeuse – but he’s Welsh. And its not legal tender over there. Boyo.
People often say to me, this hating music malarkey must be a lonely profession. Well, my inbox is always open to perusal by naysayers to see how many people agree with me. Take Mark Turrell. I know nothing of him but just the other day he sent me a lovely e-mail eviscerating Booby – I mean Bobby Gillespie, Sonic Youth and other. Why how about this for insightfulness:
“number one requirement for lead singer of male brit
guitar band. ability to cock one head at an angle to
appear vulnerable and worthy to all the girlies cf thom
yorke, coldplay, travis, the coral ed infinitum)”
Now obviously he need a wee bit of schooling in the old art of the capital letter, but this kind of music hating perspicacity shows that I am not alone in this world. And perhaps it also shows the need for the personal touch. You see the contradiction faced by my seemingly endless task is that sometimes I have to listen to what I despise so much so I can render my acute opinions upon you, my disciples. Like Mary Whitehouse watching porn (but with out the gimcrackery involving a certain salad vegetable) I torture myself so that you don’t have to.
So what if you could invent a machine to listen to music for you and then tell us why it is so wretched. Yes? Well another of my mails appears to have done just that: one Mr Mike Trinder. Try out his site: http://www.chthonicionic.net/bile/ – it had me initially very excited when it said the following about Back To Life by Soul II Soul:
“Soul II Soul? Oh my God. I thought Soul II Soul’s fans died out years ago. I remember Back to Life / Keep on Movin as being particularly awful…
Back to Life (7″ Version) could be mistaken for my father singing in the shower just after someone’s turned on the hot water tap downstairs if you don’t listen very carefully, and, believe me, you don’t want to. Track 2, Keep on Movin’ isn’t that bad. Ha ha. Got you. It’s just a tiny bit worse than, say, the sound of a dawn chorus of crows slowly being ground into mince for the cheap meat market.
In fact, there’s no excuse for people buying this and taking it into their homes to torture their innocent children”
All sentiments I’m sure we can agree with. Nevertheless it pops up with such speed, such alacrity that one can only think a quantum supercomputer fuelled completely by gin had listened to the tune for me. Are my days over I thought. I am to be freed from my (admittedly occasional at best) mission. Then i noticed in the corner of the site a wee “Powered by amazon” sign and the truth became clear. As much as I would like to return to the womb and just drink gin all the time – how could I leave you in the hands of a machine which just searched Amazon for the albums details and then attributed random insults to a review. It may seem that this is what I do but I can assure you that my torture and torment is real. And how do I know that one day, Mr Trinder doesn’t take down his site or even tinker with its complex algorithmic workings to allow the odd compliment through. Maybe he has a special “liking Radiohead” clause.
As clever and loveable as Mr Trinder’s site is – I shall not retire. I have seen the Terminator films and know what happens when we let the machines take over. More importantly I have seen the cover to Kraftwerk’s The Man Machine, and know that the upshot might be a hell of The Model played over and over to infinity. So the good fight will be left to people like myself and Mark Turrell. Who has this to say about turntablists.
‘turntablists, fuck me. next they’ll be classing the
roady that tests the mics on stage as ‘microphonists’
Well, it obviously wasn’t music lessons was it.
I’m not an active person, but even a gin-swilling queen of the London social scene gets to go down to the seaside every now and then. I have little use for water in my dad to day life unless in its sparkling solid form making merry with the Sapphire and Schweppes. However on occasion when taking in the sea air I have been tempted – Esther Williams like – into the sea for a bathe, paddle and even a swim. The splash of salt water around the lips is pleasantly like the first anticipation of a Margarita – though admittedly the lack of Tequila follow up leads me out of the sea quite sharpish. Not as sharpish as doing my dainty doggy paddle and cutting my foot on some unpleasant underwater crag though.
I am naturally therefore turned against coral, even in its natural habitat. How surprised was I when I was told that this rocky underwater substance was actually alive. Surprised, but vaguely pleased as whatever lives may die – which gave my aching toes some solace. It is this appearance of being devoid of life however I must assume the Liverpool band The Coral were thinking of when they named themselves such. For its been quite some time since such a lumpen, lifeless band have popped their head up.
The Coral are the heirs of bands such as Wimple Winch – and hence hopefully inheritors of their singular lack of success. Psychedelic Rock of the late sixties may have been the missing link between mod and prog, but that does not make it in anyway good. Intricate twisty guitar lines sung over by a builder (not as vocally gifted as Bob). Their first album cover looks like the inside of a recycling bin (paper) and the analogy stretches nicely to its contents. Simon Diamond is a Jeremy Bender for the noughties. Skeleton Key is a Spencer Davis Group b-side without the historical hindsight. And as for Calendars And Clocks – the final interminable song – is Pink Floyd by way of Mansun, which we all agree is no way for a band who shouldn’t be going anywhere at all to go.
I blame all those Pebbles and Rubble compilations. Do the dead sea creatures in The Coral know the reason they can pick these comps up for two quid because none of the bands featured were ever successful. There is nothing special about the sound you amp makes when you kick it. Get over it.