I Hate Music
And we end the Round Of Rubbish in the traditional British pub style. Of course you are all welcome back to mine if you bring a bottle and you do not mind sitting in silence as we get down to the serious business of getting sozzled. Silence? Well yes, obviously there is no music round my gaffe. But I also do not engage in conversation with drunken old fools in my place too. It would be too much like listening to an Arab Strap record.
I have nothing against Scottish people getting drunk. Anything that might increase the chance of the Proclaimers, Wet Wet Wet or Belle And Sebastian getting their head kicked in must be a good thing. What I do object to is them then turning on a drum machine, letting a guitar feedback quietly in the corner of a room and talking over it in some vain attempt to make earthy, gritty music. Arab Strap tells tales of Scottish lowlives, fine so does Irvine Welsh and he doesn’t does it nice a quietly in books. The fact that the members of the ver Strap have such over-emphasized Scottish accents also does not help: its like listening to Kerouac performed by the Krankies.
Last Orders by the way is not a song about pubs at all. Its about not having sex because your not going out. Well at least they aren’t going out. Locked at home infront of their televisions may save us from them making another awful slurred record. The only real relevence the title has to the song is that if it was in a long list of song ever written, it might well be the the last one you would ever order. It is that bad.
Ever wonder why Robert Elms and Sade split up? No, nor did I, I always thought it was self evident. But for those of you for whom doting on minor celebrities of the eighties is a must, the hint is in this song about the worst mixed alcoholic drink in creation. You see he keeps “giving me, giving me the sweetest Taboo.” Sade is not wrong here. There is no bouzy melange sweeter than this designer eighties pisswater. And if my bloke kept giving it to me, he would be out on his Spandau Ballet loving arse faster than he could say Chant No.1.
I don’t really care who the boy “belongs” to, I just want you two to stop caterwauling about him. Feel free to get out the claws and have a girl-on-girl, finger in the eyes fight, no-one ever won the right to date a guy just by singing about him. If two blokes tried a singing competition over me, there would be no winners. Except me when I had cruelly – but kindly – removed their larynx’s.
Frankly I would imagine if I was in the area, the boy would be mine. Not only do I have all the positive aspects to my personality that this website constantly displays, but I would not fanny about with a discussion like this. Monica would certainly get hurt in the ensuing battle, and Brandy, well Brandy Snaps.
Oh, I know people pronounce it bass as in bass guitar, but originally it was Bomb The Bass, to rhyme with ass which describes Tim Simenon perfectly. A man with little musical talent, he became aware in the mid-eighties that computers and samplers were at an advanced enough level to let any joker who pressed a few buttons make a novelty record. He went ahead and did just that with Beat Dis, only to be surprised when the British public thought it was serious. Fair enough, it lacked the humour of any decent novelty single, instead content in looping the same vocals and melodies endlessly. But instead the British public should have ignored it, saving us from later “epics” such as Bug Powder Dust and Neneh Cherry.
So what did Simenon have againt Bass Bitter that he wanted to bomb it so. Perhaps it was the appropriation of the red triangle as a logo for the brand that annoyed him so. You see the red triangle, being an international symbol for DANGER! would have been idea strung around teh neck of anyone who dallied with samplers and the like, and Tim wanted to destroy any such hint. Of course the British public may not have taken this hint, but they soon took the hint in general, leaving Tim to fiddle quietly at home. Bombed out, you might say.
TANYA’S ROUND OF RUBBISH
In order of preference, your B-52’s in full:
a) A super flying fortress of a bomber responsible with the ability to destroy much of the world or at least the world in the mid-fifties when it was at the height of its powers. The Stratofortress was designed with swept back wings to best ride out the after effects of a nuclear bomb – this plane increased nuclear tension in the world four fold.
b) A fucking disgusting drink made of Kahlua, Bailey’s and Grand Marnier which is as destructive as the bomber and drunk solely by idiots who generally do not know what is in it.
c) Aural torture unparalleled even by the standards of bands which came out of Athens Georgia (ie even worse that R.E.M.) Stupid people, with stupid hair and stupid clothes writing stupid songs about stupid things. Want a song about a Lobster that Rocks? No, didn’t think so. How about assembling a band who have two incredibly shrill female singers and juxtapose that with a man who voice is so deep his bollocks must have been dropped with assistance. Not funny, not good – and then they sicked Love Shack on us, so every wedding we ever go to we will be reminded of stupid beehive hairdos and funny dancing ugly men dancing.
Give me the Stratofortress any day.
INTERNATIONAL DOOMSDAY ALERT!
Another interruption, readers – I’ve just heard a terrible warning!
“Mother Earth she’s on overload
One more war and she might explode”
Explode?! That’s bad news! We’d better disarm right now and – what? What’s that you say? That’s not a prediction at all? It’s just the lyrics of “House Of Love” by East 17? And since they were written we’ve had several wars and no planetary-sized explosions? Oh. Well, I knew that. Obviously.
East 17 though seemed very convinced that the world was actually on the verge of blowing up in 1992. “We’ve gotta save the planet before she explodes…gotta let her know – boom boom – before she blows.”. They had evidence, too – “Too many bombs in the world it’s like a living mine”. Better hope nobody steps on it, then. These warnings were a little florid but much stranger was their solution – building “The House Of Love”.
For a while I was puzzled by this command. The House Of Love had taken a long time to split up but thankfully the message had finally got through to Guy Chadwick and the lads. One concertgoer too many had turned fearfully away crying, “Mummy! The monster scares me!” and the band had called it a day. During their long career though they had shown much evidence of being able to slow down Byrds songs and mope over the top of them but little proof of any world-saving ability. The original script of The Day After Tomorrow, where a particularly long Terry Bickers solo bludgeons the US Government into accepting the Kyoto agreement, had been roundly rejected.
Then it struck me – in his garbled fashion Tony Mortimer was making a plea for recycling! If you got the huge numbers of unsold copies of Never and The Beatles And The Stones and shipped them to the developing world, you could indeed build affordable housing for all and they would live in peace! What a visionary!
Of course it’s just possible that Tony Mortimer thought that world peace would be achieved by everybody going to a big shed and getting monged on pills. You could make a case for that being the message of his hit song.
Didn’t work though, did it?
TANYA’S ROUND OF RUBBISH
Tina Turner – Simply The Best
Now you may not instantly consider Tina Turner a natural bitter drinker, but if you consider a few pertinent facts you will agree that actually the Best she is refering to in this song is almost certainly that made by Courage.
a) She walks like she is pissed. Sticking her arse out to all and sundry and teeter-tottering wherever she goes.
b) She dances like she is pissed. Really no debate there.
c) Here hair. Has her hair be immaculately coiffured by a top stylist? Or has she run her fingers through it with a bit of water, and turned the nozzle on the toilets hand drier up for a bit of quick lavvie blow dry action.
d) Her peers are the old grannies supping Mackeson Stout down at the Dog And Duck, just for the iron dearie. And as an old American lady concerned about her health she needs to get her diatry supplements wherever she can.
TANYA’S ROUND OF RUBBISH
Mai-Tai – History
Obviously this piece is about Mai-Tai teh band, not just the song history. Oh, but wait, let us look at their discography.
1985 – History.
Well that’s it. I rarely stoop to eviscerating one-hit-wonders, mainly because I have never wondered why they only had one hit. Clearly in Mai-Tai’s case it was because the word was not ready for a German Three Degrees. In my opinion the world will never be ready for a German Three Degrees, and if it ever does become ready for one I will crawl off into a hole waiting for the cockroaches to take over.
The rock family tree of Mai Tai is a thing of ramshackle beauty in itself. The various members had spent ten years in different bands with American sounding names trying to break the charts. Jetty Weels had been in Rockaway Boulevard, American Gypsy, Streetlight and Braak; Carolien de Windt had starred in Fruitcake and Precious Wilson and Mildred Douglas had toiled in Hans Dulfer, Fruitcake and Rockaway Boulevard. Frankly naming yourselves after New York Subway stops is not going to convince anyone of your Yankee credentials. Mind you, the only authentically German band name on the list “Braak” would send any roecord shop owner laughing into his drug peddlars beard. History – without a doubt.
This mob don’t stop. Not happy just to blight the cocktail supping set, the tequila obsessed foursome also have to get their digs into the French Teenage bouzing market. Consider, the French youth have enough to worry about, having to listen to MC Solaar, Johnny Halliday and Depeche Mode every day. You too might be driven to the exceedingly obscene lengths of drinking a tequila flavoured beer. But for The Eagles to then write not just a song, but an album about said beer, well its like capturing Joan Of Arc and then setting her on fire just to be sure.
“Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?”
Quite clearly the youth of France cannot come to their senses because they are out of their box on a tequila flavoured beer. Henley, Frey – leave them be. And stop singing about tequila.
Now if anyone asked me to get them a cocktail as part of a standard pub round, I would be more likely to look at their arse and enquire what happened to their previous tail. Frankly the effort of mixing various alcohols together to make something demonically alcoholic and tasty seems an awful lot of time wasted when you could just be slinging back the G&T’s. But apparently some of my sex feel it makes them sophisticated: to which I retort if you need a drink to make you sophisticated, then you don’t know what sophistication is.
I digress. This is I Hate Music, not I Hate Women Who Buy Dido Albums. (Though…). The Eagles were of course an all male group so what they were doing drinking tequila Sunrises one can only guess. Especially for a band who fancy themselves as deep south cowboys some of the time. The Eagles made music which always appears on compilations called Music To Drive To, which of course should be called music to drink-drive to, get your licence taken away and let that be a lesson to you. Partially for drink driving, but mainly for listening to the Eagles. And in this prison you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
The Eagles were masters of sonamulent adult oriented rock in the early seventies. They defined AOR, for the simple reason that any child would rightly listen to their lumpy plodders and throw their records in the bin. In many ways it is apt that this adulterated tequila drink was their cocktail of choice. A Tequila Sunrise is one of the dullest cocktails ever invented after all. It is just orange juice, tequila and Grenadine, with the later really only acting as food colouring. It is a pretty drink to look at, but rubbish to drink – which is analogous to the Eagles themselves. Except in their various dressing up as cowboys, or corp rock looks the Eagles were never pretty to look at. Tequila itself is a drink most often used to reach oblivion as a shot, and if you were listening to The Eagles I would not blame you. Just don’t get in a car.