Posts from 22nd June 2000

Jun 00

JOHN LENNON – “Imagine”

I Hate Music1 comment • 1,027 views

JOHN LENNON – “Imagine”

There is one very obvious way to attack “Imagine”: you can accuse John Lennon of hypocrisy. He had, like, loads of money, and yet he was singing “Imagine no possessions” Isn’t that ironic, man? This argument was pursued by Elvis Costello, which is a fair indication of its arsewittedness: its great problem is that it seems to imply that had “Imagine” been written by a penniless tramp, it would somehow not be shit. As a quick listen will tell you, this is not so.

“Imagine” is a ‘standard’ – in other words it is MOR drek that your gran likes. Rockboys who would sneer at you for liking sappily tuneful stuff by Andrews Williams and Gold will defend “Imagine” to the death, not because of what it is (pawky shite) but because of who it’s by. This is the inevitable end result of paying more than cursory attention to the name on the label: such forbidden knowledge is fatal to your taste.

“Imagine”, with its dolorous piano and sleepwalked lyrics, is classic songwriting in precisely the same way that Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus is classic literature. Only in bloody pop music could this kind of mush get mistaken for meaning. “Imagine all the people, living their life in peace”. Yeah, I can imagine, John, I really can – now tell me! Tell me what to do to make it happen! Oh? Really? Well, fuck you, then.


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AAARGGGH! Would someone please tell the Top Of The Pops producers to make sure the kids only clap on the 2nd and 4th beats of each bar? Yeah, I know it’s petty but surely I can’t be the only one annoyed by it? Some of those studio audiences would manage to take the funk out of Funkadelic themselves.

Inspired by

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Inspired by this (via Katie and Josh)….



Oval: Ovalprocess: Pitchfork Review

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Oval: Ovalprocess: Pitchfork Review “Try listening to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports in choppy RealAudio. Hear that? Digital clicks, random bursts of static, and underwater compression swim over icy electronic drones, numbing your mind into a state of paralysis. Now imagine spending $12 for it.”. Ho ho – fine review of the ‘new’ Oval record from Pitchfork, with agreeable opinions and good gags, mostly blogged so I can ask: what is it with this “squirm genre” they seem hell-bent on inventing? Has there been an editorial decision to run with the name? It’s a feeble genre name because squirming is an instinctive, gut reaction, whereas the music being described is all about process, it’s the least instinctive music ever made. (Don’t play any to Joe Carducci, for goodness sake!).

Fans of I Hate Music

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Fans of I Hate Music might be interested to know that Tanya’s been persuaded to put a picture online.


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You want to know an overrated record? I’ll show you an overrated record – John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band, an embarrassing forty-minute therapy session paid for first of all by the mugs at his record company and secondly by punters forever after. Little John has a good old whinge about his Mam, his old band, his background, his fans, religion, you bloody name it, all over self-consciously ‘raw’ and ‘stark’ (i.e. ‘boring’) guitar ditties – it really makes me laugh when baby boomer scum rant on about how today’s rock stars are a load of whining pussies who can’t take their fame. Sorry dudes, you can’t blame the younger generation for being a bit fretful when they’ve seen the kind of acclaim Saint John got for his lump of soul-baring.

Lennon knew his audience, alright – like a Star Trek writer who drops a couple of mentions of Mr. Spock into some crappy spin-off to keep the fans drooling and guessing, John peppers his solo stuff with coy Beatles references, Easter Eggs for the ‘real fans’, ego-tripping for anyone else. So you get “God”, a sixth-form rant about all the things he doesn’t believe in any more which culminates in “I don’t believe in Beatles”. So. The. Fuck. What. If you care about this kind of thing, go and read OK magazine.

Buy hey, wait, aren’t I dismissing some really profound stuff here? Um, no. At the end of Lennon’s spiritual search comes “Love”. Okay, that’s good, a bit of hard-won closure – what does John have to tell us. “Love is real. Real is love.”. Like, whoa, that’s deep.

Yeah, Plastic Ono Band is honest in its pain, so what? It’s still a mid-price holiday in someone else’s misery, a drab, ugly record which no fucker would like if John Lennon hadn’t been in the most famous band in the world. POB is the rock equivalent of Princess Diana’s big interview, and thirty years on we’re all still gawping at how damn brave he was to sing this stuff. That’s not art, it’s voyeurism.


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Uberzone’s sound – dry-tinder breaks and acid sizzle – is hot weather music. More accurately, it’s music for places where nothing but heat matters, great open desert places where you don’t even need to shimmy, ’cause the bass and the temperature make the air do it instead. It’s too hot to strike a pose, and so “The Botz” is appealingly artless, wearing its grooves and samples like a pair of bright baggy shorts; practical, not trendy. The bubble and splatch of the 303 is like eggs frying on metal in this dry, clean heat: nothing to do but dance, and maybe hope for rain.