EXHIBIT A: ‘Cause you never were, and you never will be mine
No, you never were, and you never will be mine

How sure can she be that said object of her affection NEVER will be hers? Remember, she is an international pop star now and to some people this fact, and any handy financial change which comes out of it, may counter their dislike for a lady who looks like her face is made of latex. Clearly Robyn has either the ability to see into the future, or has put out a contract on said beau. Unless there can be another reason. To whit, M’Lud I bring you Exhibit B.

EXHIBIT B: I saw you at the station,
You had your arm around what’s-her-name
She had on that scarf I gave you
And you got down to tie her laces

HOLD ON. There is nothing romantic about tying someones laces up for them. Brushing away hair in a devil may care fashion = Romantic. Laying down coat in Sir Walter Raleigh fashion = Romantic (albeit stupid, as even Elizabeth I would not be drowned by a small puddle). Doing up someones shoelaces for them = other person either suffers from dementia OR IS A TINY FAT-FINGERED CHILD.

And suddenly Robyn’s certainty in EXHIBIT A is clear. Her man has tastes in relationships which are outside of the societal norms (though admittedly ones which are routinely ignored in pop music EH Mr Glitter, Mr Wyman & Mr J.King). Whilst this developmentally challenged child may be disguised as Robyn in her scarf, the man will clearly soon be hounded into a Swedish jail, where Pass The Soap means something quite different to what it does in an English jail**. It would almost make me feel sorry for Robyn, if she wasn’t a super-evolved Swedish frog hellbent on world chart domination and the end of civilization as we know it. Which would also explain why he never would be hers, because he, and the rest of us, would be dead.

*Why is it that only dance music made by people from Scandinavian countries are ever described as glacial. They have glaciers in New Zealand too. And Crowded House were REALLY REALLY boring.

**Swedes, for all their popstar faults, are fastidiously clean. Even in prison.

(Thanks to Emma for bringing this to my attention)

That said even I was surprised to discover that prog pop, washing machine orgasming, all-round musical loony Kate Bush had decided to collaborate with ten year old band Ash (that is the age of the members of Ash). It did not seem to fit her usual method of evil operation, collaborating with a pop-punk band. But I suppose when Charlotte Hatherley left there was a hole for a nusto lady, and Ash got the whole Snickers. Which may explain why their work as a band sounds absolutely nothing like either Kate Bush’s solo work or Ash’s yawnomatic punky workouts (how can you really be a pop punk group with a fat drummer anyway).

Case in point: Foundations. Look at this lyric and tell me what is wrong:

Then I’ll use that voice that you find annoyin’ and say something like
“yeah, intelligent input, darlin’, why don’t you just have another beer then?”

That’s right it suggests that Kate Bush has a voice that DOESN’T sound annoying. If that was the case, why doesn’t she bloody use it? No, I have heard a lot of horrible Kate Bush records, some in which she puts on hilarious accents, or even does an Elvis impression. And all of these “voices” sound as bad as each other.

Just look at Wuthering Heights – of course Heathcliffe knew it was you, no-one else would stand on the top of a moor and screech like that. Who can forget in Cloudbusting when she “just knew that something good is going to happen”. Initially I thought she was referring to the end of the song, but unfortunately that just hasten along the shower of shit that was the Utah Saints to loop this asinine untruth over and over again. So whilst Kate’n'Ash sound markedly different to both sets of solo careers, the key point is that this attempt to make some sub-Lily Allen twelve year old stream of consciousness tosh shows that no matter how terrible something is, there is always the capacity to do something worse!

Guess what. I’ve got a match…

Your single cover: Hipgnosis after a hip operation**.
Your beards: the pubic hair shavings of Emerson, Lake and Palmer stuck on Clement Freud.
Your music: Fugazi played by dyslexic bees with Busted with a sore throat.
Your lyrics: A grumpy dyslexic Pam Ayres (I wish I’d looked after my beard)
Your career: The biggest waste of time since the Pre-Cambrian era.

Is that enough matches? Any left, I’d be more than happy to toss it on a pile of your records. Which is ironic because your records are a pile of toss. Going quiet, loud, quiet is not exactly NEW.

*Thinking about emo pioneers cannot help make me smile. Just the idea of Hitler haired pantywaists being eaten by bears in the mid-west whilst their womenfolks stripey tights attract the local Native American population for revenge for the entire career of Sunny Day Real Estate…

**Its pretty bad for a modern single cover, but admittedly doesn’t quite reach some of these heights.

And even then I won’t have had a chance to get on to junkie members of Wet Wet Wet. So yes, I am one to mock the afflicted. Which makes me feel a touch better about this story, where a young American lady had the misfortune of having seizures every time she heard Sean Paul’s Temperature. So what, I initially thought, I have seizures whenever I see a busker (admittedly the seizing in question is of their poorly tuned guitars, and I tend to batter them with it, but its the same KIND OF thing). But reading on I thought I saw a glimmer of hope for my particular situation. What if my hatred of music was just something wrong with MY brain, and not infact a failing of all music ever. What if I could have a piece of my brain removed, I could then fit in with the normal people and go to Razorlight gigs**. All it would take is a removal of a three inch piece of my temporal lobe.

HOLD ON! I’m not getting three inches of my brain taken out just so I can like Sean Paul. In the first instance I don’t really want brain surgery for such a trivial thing. But mainly because I suggest I would need to take out considerably more than three inches of MY brain to make Mr Paul’s soft ragga chattering even vague palatable. Instead I would much rather consider the option of sewing my ears up. But all of this would be predicate don the idea that my view of music as the root of all evil was in some way wrong. Which it isn’t. Consider this quote from the supposedly afflicted Stacey Gayle about Sean Paul:

“I think his music is awesome,” she said.“Now I can see why everyone liked this song.”

If it takes REMOVING PART OF YOUR BRAIN to appreciate Sean Paul, it suggests to me that Sean Paul is in fact shit. Rare condition my arse. Ms Gayle had seen the truth, her body had rebelled but the MAN tried to hide her so gave her a lobotomy. And they say we live in a free society***.

*A kind of think wonky eyed singer at that who could not foresee with his wonky eye that biggerst band in world + secret gig in tiny shop = disaster.

**OK, my fantasy was probably going to far there. Even people who GO to Razorlight gigs hate Razorlight.

***NOT A FREE JAZZ SOCIETY!

No, my query is this opening self-pitying lyric from the song:
When I was 7
They said I was strange
I noticed that my eyes and hair weren’t the same

Now I looked in the mirror this morning and was happy with my general look and demeanour, and particularly happy that my hair and my eyes were quite different. I considered how odd, if not strange, I would look if our of my eye-holes there was an outgrowth of predominantly keratin based proteins. Or indeed how weird it might be if instead of my luscious locks, I had an excess of vitreous humour or hundreds of beady little goggle holes. Here, let’s compare and contrast the cover of said Ugly single.

The original.

What if their eyes were made of hair?

Now if their hair were made of eyes.

Two of these are considerably STRANGER than the others. Some may even say Ugly (though the eyes do just look a bit like a bubble perm on Mutya). Still since the track has eighteen writing credits they probably all did a word each and didn’t worry about the sense.

Anyway I bought it this morning because of the free Eden Project blueprints. I am very keen to collect blueprints of venues where bands like Radiohead play “unusual” gigs – and after all who would look askance at a truck packed with ‘fertiliser’ being driven to the Eden Project? I am amazed so much fuss is being made about Radiohead continuing their successful ‘pay what you like for it’ campaign. It’s nothing new, after all. The last time my spies looked in Music and Video Exchange, copies of Hail To The Thief were going for £3, £2.50, £2, £1.50 and all the way down to ten pence.

On returning home I quickly put the Film and Music bit to its proper use – lining the cage of my pet rat. As I carefully laid it down so John Harris’ face would be right where Chapman does his business, a paragraph suddenly jumped out at me. “York, the promoter, doesn’t see a demand for bands with “no artistic merit”; he mentions Echobelly and Sleeper.” Fantastic! Someone has seen the light! Who is this visionary? But as I read on my blood began to boil. Because according to the article the bands who DO possess artistic merit are Kula Shaker, Dodgy, and Shed Seven.

KULA SHAKER.

DODGY.

and SHED SEVEN.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting Echobelly and Sleeper weren’t anything other than awful. But when Dante descended into his inferno and saw Satan in the form of a three-headed demon encased in a pit of ice chewing on sinners for all eternity, it’s a fair bet that heads numbers one two and three were Crispian Mills, Rick Witter and the cunt in the hat from Dodgy.

Now I normally stay out of the realm of gender politics. But given that you’d need a supercollider the size of Switzerland to scientifically detect the particles’ worth of difference in “artistic merit” between Echobelly and Shed Seven, might I suggest that there is another rather more obvious difference between the bands this promoter considers worthwhile and the ones he doesn’t? I’d say something about the number of tits in the band but that’s not conclusive either. Anyway my suspicion is that what this guy is actually thinking is “Nobody’s going to pay to see Sleeper and Echobelly cos those birds are getting on a bit.” This is a disgrace – stop pandering to the Nuts-reading neanderthals, even if they are the only people stupid enough to pay money for a Dodgy reunion. EQUAL OPPORTUNITIES NOW. Or, in this case, EQUAL WITHDRAWAL OF ALL OPPORTUNITIES NOW.

On the other hand my archnememises in Radiohead have yet another wacky plan to give them column inches. Apparently singing like a strangled swan and playing miserable songs with sixth form political lyrics is not enough for them anymore. Apparently they are attempting to bring down the economy of the western world. HOW? By allowing people to pay what you want on their website for their new album “In Rainbow”*. The wags. That is bound to cause a financial crisis undermining all that is sacred and good int he record industry. I am not holding my breath though, its not the first time Radiohead have toyed with me and my project. Imagine my rejoicing when they announced “Pop Is Dead”. I thought this was a true statement rathe rthan a scratchy half-arsed knock off of “Creep”. So I certainly don’t trust them now.

I even went to the website. Look, what I pay is up to me. No, really. Its really up to me. Yeah, but you can’t put negative figures in the payment box can you? Bastards. I want them to pay for the pain of Hail To The Thief.

*Why anyone would want to buy a concept album about Zippy Bungle and Geoffrey sung in a depressing whine over the sound of an electric guitar being fed through a coffee grinder is beyond me.

SeanK35:
Sensitive young man into eating, singing like a girl and the outdoors would like to meet an ugly girl, any age, any race just NOT BEAUTIFUL.

TanyaIHM:
Hi Seany, tell me more about yrself. I am in my early thirties and like relaxing, silent movies and the countryside (as long as there is not a bloody music festival going on). What do you like?

SeanK35
Hey Tanya. You sound lovely. But can you tell me if you are attractive? I have had a bad experience with a beautiful girl you see, and frankly it made me want to kill myself so I would appreciate a photo or maybe a description.

TanyaIHM
Sorry, I don’t send photos but it is funny that beautiful girls made you feel suicidal. There is a song in the charts CALLED Beautiful Girls which makes ME feel suicidal. So i think we could easily bond over that! If you could let me know what you consider to be beautiful, I could probably see if I fit in that category and see if you would still fancy me. Let’s meet up.

SeanK35
I find cheerleaders, bobbysoxers and anyone who dresses out of the nineteen fifties to be particularly alluring, but actually I am not fussy. It is funny that you hate that song, but we can talk about it when we meet. What music do you like. Please send a photo, and then we can meet up.

TanyaIHM
Here is a photo. I would not normally do this but hey, you seem really sensitive and lovely.

We should meet up. How about Ed’s Easy Diner, because it is unlikely that you will see any bobbysoxers there. We can talk about my musical tatses there, they are quite niche. Look forward to seeing you Seany.

SeanK35
You really are ugly. Hooray. I will meet you in this Ed’s place. Its a date. I’ll be the slightly chubby one who sounds like Boy George.

—-
From: TanyaIHM [itstanyabitch@hotmail.com]
To: Britney Spears [itsbritneybitch@hotmail.com]Hey Britney. You know I said I would destroy your career and you didn’t believe me. Well, now what do you think?

Anyway – Bitch (where did you get THAT idea from), I am willing to give you one final chance. I would like you to meet this bloke Sean for a date for me. If you could wear any of your outfits from the Baby One More Time video. Oh and brush up a but as you have been looking a bit rough recently. Leave the kids at how, one caterwauling baby voiced loser will be enough. Also if you could take along this bag. It contains cyanide tablets, a gun, a all access pass to the Canary Wharf tower and a free tube pass. Cheers.

But yes yes, you say. Everyone knows this. Her tedious tale of how she was dropped by her label due to musical differences (they wanted her music to sound different* One assumes better). But very few people know of her even earlier career in pop. Yes “Show Me Love” was not her first time in the UK charts. Indeed so horrific was her first chart success that most sane people have obliterated it from their memories. But it was indeed her, with a radical make-over, who sang “Halfway Down The Stairs” in 1977. This weedy sounding Top Ten hit was an attempt to gain sympathy for the fact that she was born green and tiny, and was lucky to be allowed to live at all (what with the Swedish authorities backdoor eugenics programme). This sappy song hit the top ten and pretty much scarred everyone who ever heard it. And so now, whenever I hear Robyn in her Konichiwa Britches, I cannot help but think of this rubbish A A Milne poem put to evil music. With Every Heartbeat? Not until that heartbeat stops.

*As do I. I’d prefer it to not sound like music. Or be music.

Dear Tanya, this is a bit of a cheap shot, even for you. Not to mention the fact that whilst that is a terrible cover, I cannot believe you did not notice the covers to MIA’s albums whilst in the MI section of Virgin Megastore. Surely they are much, much worse.

And she always wears dark sunglasses like she is blind.

Whilst I stick by my assessment of the MIKA album cover, TamilTyger does have a point. Of course I did not notice it in the MI section of the Virgin Megastore, because to enter such a place would be putting myself, and everyone at mortal danger of me going on a killing spree. And as we know, presence of dark glasses does not mean that you are actually blind (cf the actually just colour blind Stevie Wonder).

Nevertheless, TamilTyger does have a point. As such I present you with a dangerous competition. I suggest you don dark glasses (or borrow MIA’s or indeed Stevie Wonder’s) before clicking through.

One of these album covers is not actually by MIA. Which one. a) b) or c)?

a) b) c)

Answers in the comments box. Winners will get to pick an artist for me to critically consider.

*Another obvious point I missed comes courtesy of the lyrics to Grace Kelly:

“Why can’t I be like Grace Kelly”

Er, you’re a curly haired Lebanese bloke, rather than a porcelain skinned Hollywood blonde beauty-cum-European Princess. That’s why it is unlikely that you will ever be cast in the female lead role of a remake of “To Catch A Thief” Mika.

But his sexuality is not what the cover of Life In Cartoon Motion is trying to tell us. Look at its poorly scrawled jumble of second hand Sesame Street link sections. Possibly you can hear the chimes of the “One Two Three Four Five…” song. (I rather imagine the digital countdown of a classic movie style bomb but each to their own).

But despite being poorly drawn there is an awful lot going on. Perhaps the man on the sofa is trying to tell us to sit down before we unleash this awful weapon on our ears. The little girl in the party dress may be hinting on Mika’s inner self, screaming and screaming until we are sick. The cogs poking out from behind the rainbow stripes may be suggesting that underneath this colourful package is a machinelike marketing campaign allowing him “to try a little Freddie” for the rest of his life. And even slipping in a little self effacing picture of himself on the side looking for all the world like the offspring of Brian May and Anita Dobson (and maybe a little Freddie).

But for once we are looking too closely. We need to take this album cover as a whole, and its secret message soon becomes more than clear. The cover of Life In Cartoon Motion can only have one meaning, and it is one which is glaringly obvious.

Mika is blind.

However, the object of his affections in this song is perhaps even more stupid than him. The lyrics – while couched in the visionary allegory one might expect from a man who has “heard the big music” and so “will never be the same” – paint a pretty shocking picture.

“I wandered out in the world for years – you just stayed in your room.”

OK, Mike’s crush is a bit idle, but am I really being fair in calling them an idiot? Maybe they have good reason for staying indoors.

“I saw the rain-dirty valley. You saw Brigadoon!”

Ah, there, you see? It’s wet out and there’s an old film on BBC2. It seems that it’s Mike who’s the foolish one! BUT WAIT.

What happens if – because of the rain – the TV goes on the blink?

“With a torch in your pocket
And the wind at your heels
You climbed up the ladder”

FOR GODS SAKE – have we learned nothing from Rod Hull?

“And you know how it feels
To reach too high
Too soon”

NO! Reader I can hardly watch.

“I spoke about Wings
You just flew”

Ouch. So there you have it. While Mike Scott was trapping on about Paul McCartney his beloved was involved in a tragic aerial-repair accident on a windy night. No wonder he quit town and became a fisherman.

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

Said Biblical scholars have now noticed that the grammatical structure of the original is actually reversed, and was clearly misinterpreted by the King James scholars as it seemingly made no sense to them. However when considered that The Bible is supposedly the word of God, and God is omniscient, then it is clear that this was a prophetic cry out to any and all of us forced to witness the comeback tour of the Police*. Tired of being told that he would take Giant Steps on The Moon, and De-Do-Do-Do and De-Dah-Dah-Dah, God – seeing through time – felt fit to single out this most loathsome of singers and his four hour sexual practices. The correct translation, as I am sure even the least scholarly amongst you will have worked out is as follows:

“O Sting, where is thy death? Your grave, would be my victory?”

*Clearly a member of Tanya’s Army there.

Well, who could resist burning the leaping loons playing Dance Dance Revolution. I heard the thumping base of “You Can’t Touch This”, two synchronised robo-teens and all I could think of, whilst lighting my Molotov Cocktail was Die Die Revolution. Anyway, this deceptive album cover in full:

Remind you of anything?

Well yes, it does look a little like a tabletop video game from the early eighties, some sort of freeform Asteridis knock off, or a late level in Caterpillar. Perhaps one of the more trippy final levels of Missile Command might have been looke dlike that. The early ones were mere trackball minimalism.

But you are only thinking that because they are called Arcade Fire. Instead of “Sappy Anthemic Wettoes” as they should be monikered. Look closer. Squint a bit. Think monster…

That’s right. It is a neon artistic impression of an old school Cyberman from Doctor Who (here shown in somewhat less menacing cookie jar form). So what Arcade Fire are trying to tell us is that they are
a) Emotionless
b) Murderers
c) Have no heart
d) Are allergic to gold*
e) Are not as good as the Daleks.

Concentrate on b) and stay well away.

*Not, unfortunately to Gold Records.

SIMPLE: TO KEEP THIS SICK FILTH AWAY FROM OUR CHILDREN.

I also used to think this was why they kept ABBA records on the top shelf of a record store, until I realised that it was just a happy coincidence of alphabetisation. Nevertheless the western social contract appears to suggest that there are certain things that children should be protected from while they are at an impressionable age. So while I disagree that the legal drinking age should be eighteen (nothing binge like in my teenage gin experiments), it has had the happy upshot of saving our children from many live music venues. If you have to be eighteen to got to G-A-Y then maybe you will be spared the tawdry site of seeing Danii Minogue launch her thirteenth comeback.

Which is why the horror that is THE UNDERAGE FESTIVAL must be banned. Subjecting the impressionable childlike minds to a music festival is the worst thing that could happen to them. Except perhaps a music festival featuring Mumm-ra and The Pigeon Detectives. Woudl you allow you 14-19 year olds to go to Scientology Camp? Well!

What kind of idiots call it the Underage Festival in the first place? Surely the only plus point of drawing attention to the jailbait on offer is that it would be a be a sure fire way to get Gary Glitter and Jonathan King, not to mention the Bill Wyman All-Stars on the bill. Now I am not saying that the Tiny Dancers, Vincent Vincent and the Villains or the Mystery Jets are kiddie fiddlers (well maybe one of the Villains), but its not going to look good when they try and get a CRB check for their next career as a primary school teacher. And lets be fair, the members of I Was A Cub Scout aren’t going to be in a band for long.

Anyway, its not as if there aren’t hundred of kids at proper festivals like Glastonbury. Which I approve of. First of all it takes little Indigo and Space Pod away from our playground where their parents alternative lifestyle harms our own kids robust development. And secondly the idea of mud, rain, their parents weeping on space-cakes and amoebic dysentery becomes associated with music: putting them off for life. Indeed just seeing a scary leatherfaced band like the Who should do the job. Come to think of it, why isn’t Pete Townshend playing the Underage Festival? For research purposes obviously.

Do I have to write any words at all?

Surely John Peel’s love for Don Van Vliet says it all. Surely the sunken hearts of every teenager who bought Trout Mask Replica in the belief it was the best album ever, only to realise it was a collection of sixth form poetry and farm noises says it all. Surely the fact that John Harris recently decided it was alright said it was alright for the rest of the universe to pull back and reveal it was all just ONE BIG JOKE ON PUDDING BOWL HAIRCUTTED WORZEL GUMMIDGE.

There really isn’t anything I need to say to persuade anyone, surely, that Beefy is a pile of old toss. OK if you want to get a selection of poor third hand blues numbers mixed with sea shanties which would get your arsed kicked from here to Portsmouth Docks if you actually sung them to a sailor. Actually they would probably make Beefheart walk the plank too, the sound of which would probably be track thirteen off of one of his other interminable albums. It may not be his fault that he knew Zappa as a kid, but that is certainly no reason to let him produce your album. Did the Monkees let Charles Manson produce THEIR albums*? Did the Beatles let an absolutely loony and potential murderer produce one of their albums? Well, yes, but it was Let It Be, which stinks up their already stinky back catalogue. POINT IS, if you are shit to begin with, being produced by the Frank Zappa is certainly not going to help. Though in Beefheart’s case, only surgery and being locked in a padded, soundproof room would really help.

In a lot of ways I like Beefheart. Not the music. Heaven forfend. But there is a certainly glazed look you get from music fans, the morning after they have bought Trout Mask Replica. It is the glance of befuddlement, the disillusionment with this wondrous thing they thought the history of music was. They walked in to buy something that would give weight to their collection of Sum 41 albums, to suggest that they were now to be counted amongst the tasteful, respectful musicphiles. Instead they were left with a record they never wanted to play again. And the sense of being sold a pup. Or in this case a pup with diarrhea. Proof? Just look up the album on Ebay. See a copy ever go for more than a quid and you might also see Scooch have another hit single. Its that rare, because its that rubbish.

*Actually, perhaps they should have. Then their theme tune could have been

“Here they come, shambling down the street
There appear to be no legs attached to their feet”

“I have never been convinced by the excuse that a track is merely a novelty single. Mouldy Old Dough is a perfect example. It may well be a flashback of music hall styles, it may have an old lady bashing out ragtime jazz on a detuned piano. But what underpins the genius of Mouldy Old Dough is the glittering pop cynicism of the British music audience. They had taken Marc Bolan to their hearts, were in the process of assimilating David Bowie’s Antony Newley impression and therefore were ready and willing to grab anything that sounded a bit different. And some giffers shouting Mouldy Old Dough over sloppy ragtime was as different (and eventually less harmful) than The Glitter Band. Let it in your head, and it will never leave. And your life will be better for it.10 “

HA! Take that Ewing. I have seen your novelty sympathies and know where they lie. This is what I would say if let loose on the amusingly titles Popular.

“I have never been convinced by the excuse that a track is merely a novelty single. Mouldy Old Dough is a perfect example. It may well be a flashback of music hall styles, it may have an old lady bashing out ragtime jazz on a detuned piano. But it is still shit. Indeed it is shit because of this. What underpins the idiocy of Mouldy Old Dough is the glittering pop cynicism of the British music audience, who will buy any old tat if it makes them smile for a second. After all these fools had taken Marc Bolan to their hearts and were in the process of assimilating David Bowie’s piss-poor secondhand Antony Newley impression as the nest best thing. These micro-brained pop fans were ready and willing to grab anything that sounded a bit different. And some giffers shouting Mouldy Old Dough over sloppy ragtime was as different as The Glitter Band, and just as rubbish. IT IS PEOPLE SHOUTING MOULDY OLD DOUGH! Let it in your head, and it will never leave. And your life will be worse for it.”

On top of which how many bands can you think of which have the lead singers Mum as a full member? Especially a Mum who plays piano so badly. LOOK AT THEM! Mouldy Old Shite more like.

Some days the articles write themselves. Look at these attractive young men. Imagine what the Drill Sergeant in Full Metal Jacket would have to say to them. One imagines he would not have been overly pleased to see this five rock (literally) up in his platoon to be knocked into some sort of shape. One would assume the shape would no longer have such big hair after a bit – and looking at Warrant after the clippers have been at them would be quite entertaining. As longs as I had ear-plugs in.

Cherry Pie is a song with clever double entendre lyrics which was a big hit in the US. In an uncharacteristic pique of good taste, the British public rejected this single. Perhaps because we found the casual sexism to be unpalatable, but more likely because it is absolute shite. Rocking out in a way which would only convince if you had only ever seen Bon Jovi in your life, Warrant used so much hairspray that they were a walking Hindenberg disaster waiting to happen. All it would take is a feminist – or indeed me – to attack them with a single match and they would go up in smoke, taking with them the brains which invented such lyrics as: She “She wanted me to feed her
So I mixed up the batter
And she licked the beater”
Before you give them the benefit of the doubt that this might be about making a pie, look at that single cover again. And then note that the Cherry Pie in question is not an actually pie, but the lady in question. A lady who, surprisingly, i have something in common with. One of the key things bout Ms Cherry Pie the boys from Warrant note is that “Taste so good she makes a grown man cry”. Now I cannot testify to how I taste, but I certainly know how to make a grown man cry. With a knuckle duster.

*If you want to you can perm between any of these words:
Rubbish, Terrible, Stinky, Embarrassing, Misogynistic, Sexist, Shocking-like-a-4V-battery, hairy, greasy, pompous, over-inflated.

But I digress.

Sgt.Rock is a song about the wussy boys from XTC being a bit rubbish with girls. But rather than get a haircut, stop playing parochial post punk limerick pop and hang out in trendy bars, XTC decide to enlist. Believing that a buzz cut and access to automatic weaponry would be the secret to their problem with girls was foolish in itself, but not as foolish as enlisting to work with a completely fictional comic-book army instead of the real one. Sgt. Frank Rock, of Easy Company, was never shown to be a dab hand with the ladies in his US comics G.I.Combat or Our Army At War, and the very existence fo girls was pretty much shunned by adolescent boy comics. Unless they were Baronesses work for the RATZI’s.

Andy Partridge’s problem with women is very clear from the lyrics where he calls them anything but. Sgt Rock is apparently going to help him “make the girl mine”, “help with a maid“, is an “expert on mademoiselles“, can diffuse “any bombshell“. Yeah, but what is he like with women? Frankly calling in Sergeant Rock for relationship advice is like phoning Spider-Man to get your plumbing done.

Excised and anatomised, deviscerated disarray
The torso diverged with pride
Deftly amputated, evulsed limbs now defunct
The trunk imbrued, tatty stumps used as lugs
For a chondrin puzzle so quaint
Head and body decollate

Its as if HP Lovecraft has been reborn, grew his hair and went hunt sabbing. Clearly the members of Carcass have a favourite section of Readers Digest: Increase Your (Cthonic) Wordpower. I have no idea what they are on about, except the vague idea that someone, somewhere is being chopped into bits. But I for one recommend the reading of these lyrics before you listen to the squealing piglike grunts these “unusual” words are fitted into. They should be enough to warn you of how bad the music would have to be to be worse than the words. Here are some more:

Battered and diffused, with placating blows
- A human jigsaw to make whole
A sequacious pattern which once fitted so snug
- Joining together each dubious lump
Ravaged disassembly, neatly cubed and diced
- A cold mannequin reassembled
Astute brain teaser, incorporate flesh and bone
So mortifying…
An incessant game – methodically made
With each cumulative piecing – of commensated meat…

Want more? Well scurry off and buy yourself Necroticism – Descanting the Insalubrious, making sure you buy a bolt gun to put yourself out of your clear misery on the way back. Who wouldn’t want to die with this as the last image in their eyeballs.

*Covered here, here and here.
But OK. Because you demanded it. Six shit things about Corporal Clegg by Pink Floyd off of a Saucerful Of Secrets.

a) A saucerful is not many secrets. Enough room for one big secret: like Pink Floyd being crap.
b) Corporal Clegg got a medal in a zoo – BECAUSE IT RHMYES WITH BLUE
c) Dave Gilmour plays a kazoo on it. Which is like blowing a raspberry all the way through the song.
d) Nick Mason sings on it. Singing drummers: guaranteed crap.
e) It is the first Pink Floyd song about war. SADLY NOT THE LAST.
f) “Corporal Clegg umbrella in the rain”: WHAT A TRENDSETTER!

No many a quiet hour has been whittled away thinking of the Kaiser Chiefs as a group in World War I, stuck in a trench facing impending doom (from the English of course, the Kaiser Chief’s clearly being on Bismarck’s side). But I don’t have to imagine much, as many a pop star has had pretensions of life in the services. Take Tina Turner’s brief spell in khaki after all: Private Dancer.

When I first heard about Private Dancer I thought it would be an amusing fish out of water comedy like Goldie Hawn’s Private Benjamin. Instead it was an unamusing comeback album about as welcome as an appearance by Nine Inch Nails at a Royal Variety Performance. Just when the world was full of raspy voiced big haired rock stars, the (acid) queen on BIG HAIR and RASPY VOICE came back on the scene. Trialing a post-apocalyptic look years before Mad Max 3, she also trialed a post-apocalyptic dystopian sound. Well what else would you call working with Mark Knopfler.

Private Dancer is not about a soldier who likes to don a tutu and do a bit of Swan Lake. It is about a lady who dances for money in a men’s strip joint. Which conjured up the horrific thought of Tina naked. Long before the Tina Turner movie, What’s Love Got To Do With It we were well aware of Ike Turner’s abusive contribution to their relationship. Well he wasn’t in it just to have a looker on his arm. Imagine you had gone to a Spearmint Rhino**, and banged down your fifty dollars only to get a geriatric foghorn with a polyester wig out writhing around a pole. There’s a reason she was a Private Dancer. Nobody else would want to be in the room with her.

*Of course their hatred of GIN would be a mitigating factor, so much so that after The Cooper Temple Cause were mown down in a hail of automatic fire, I would happily join up. And anyone who has ever met me would agree that you don’t want to be on the wrong end of my ire. Look what happened to James Brown.

**A name which can only ever conjure the idea of a a particularly unambitious British indie band being speared by said creature. Which is a lovely image.

Of course I’d ordinarily hope that nobody applies, but anyone paying to see The View deserves the double dose of pain this scheme will no doubt deliver.

The View state that they are not looking for any particular type of band – just one who is “good”. Which of course begs the question: how the fuck would The View know?. This, as I may have commented before, are the band who have an inferiority complex when it comes to buskers, so it’s no surprise that, after receiving 3 demo tapes within 5 minutes of starting their appeal, they have found themselves with a difficult choice. “The standard so far is really high!” says a gobsmacked Viewite, “We had no idea there were so many good bands around.” Yes, this is because the View are the worst band in the universe and a group of four gibbons with coconut shells would surprise and stun them with their musical quality. It’s like asking a blade of grass to judge a tallest tree content.

Indeed Dad’s Army could have only been worse if it had been called Dadrock Army, about the battle being waged by aging rockstars in today’s youth oriented market. Indeed there is a direct crossover, what with Arthur Lowe being Nick Lowe’s dad: he would be a shoo-in for the role of Cpt Mainwaring. I could certainly see Paul Weller as a Sergeant Wilson type, sneering at Lowe whilst being even more pompously mod. Add Alex Harvey as Frazer and Bill Wyman as Private Godfrey to fill out the ranks. Private Pike would be Dadrock wannabe Noel Gallagher whilst Corporal Jones would be the hoariest of the old Dadrockers himself: Paul “Thumbs Up” McCartney. The show wouldn’t be any good, though there could be a laugh in seeing Nick Lowe call Noel Gallagher a stupid boy. But if it were made I could tinker with the pyrotechnics on set and before your could say “Travelling Wilbury’s Disaster of 1997″ we’d be seeing some nice rock funerals.

In the opening animation, the British Arrow is seen to be chomping at the bit to escape the UK. Not surprising, considering that all it would be able to listen to would be Vera Lynn (forces sweetheart) or Flanagan and Allen (forces punishment). One cannot under-estimate the power of piss-poor wartime songs in repelling the Nazi’s: they may have had no great music of their own, but knew when they were opening an even shittier bag. WDYTYAKMH was not from the war, but rather a pastiche written by show writers Croft and Perry. The quality of their comedy writing was crassness of the song, leaving Dad’s Army to be visual equivalent of listening to Cranberries album “To The Faithful Departed” (you know, the one with the Bosnia song on it). Dad’s Army was certainly the dullest half hour of the week on TV after Top Of The Pops (and even that I used to be able to get nicely wound up about). Old people, playing at soldiers: isn’t that just Status Quo singing In The Army Now on a bad day? Dadrock’s Army indeed. Indeed I fear that this has opened a terrible can of worms. There are a lot of bands and songs about the armed forces : so its time for the Tanya’s Army Of Awfulness.

It won’t surprise you to know that I think most musicians are a bit dim. But even I have to admit that they’re usually cleverer than the people working for them.

“The man responsible for the Beatles’ business affairs has quit after more than 40 years with the band. Neil Aspinall, 64, started out as the group’s road manager and used to drive them to gigs in his van.”

I think it would take most people less than 27 years to notice that the band they roadie for has split up.

Well, that would be Jim Morrison.

The fans seem under the misapprehension that the crime was that he got his penis out. Well anything to distract the audience from the awful drone Riders On The Storm. They are falling back on the old chestnut that he only “simulated” getting his cock out. Probably he did this by the time honoured method of sticking his hand down his pants and poking his pinkie out of his flies. It says something for the assumed prowess of Fat Jim that when the flies of perception were opened, the audience believed a teeny tiny finger to be the Morrison Manhood. Lizard King? We’re not talking a Komodo Dragon here, more a small and shy Gecko.

Anyway, simulation is nine tenths of the law. The Doors may have simulated making great records, but what they actually put out was sub-hippy pap suitable only for the ears after five special cigarettes. Jim Morrison may have simulated sexual allure and talent, but actually he was a slightly sweaty fat bloke with a voice suitable only for reading out the train arrivals at Wigan station.

The allusion in the story was to a NY governor pardoning Lenny Bruce for an obscenity charge. Well that’s cos Lenny wasn’t obscene. Jim Morrison was a dick.