Posts from March 2003

Mar 03

John Mayer- Why Georgia

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John Mayer- Why Georgia

I like his growl, and the soft whisper that makes me bend in to hear, i love how his cult of sensitive young girls is so emo, but how he doesn’t get the props emo does, i like how he makes certain words last 4 or 5 syllables, i love the pseudo rock break out a minute in, i like the video with its split screen and how he dances in it- a little kick, a little shimmy, some head nods, a half hearted attempt at the pogo. I like him.

it was only cool to appreciate the low key prettiness of the Carpenters when they could no longer record, and it is uncool to like John Mayer now-but he has that attractive earnestness about him, like he believes every word- even if that isn’t cool, it is engaging.

SCOOTER – “Weekend!”

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SCOOTER – “Weekend!”

To call the new Scooter single ‘new’ is to make language blush, so let’s say instead that “Weekend!” is the most recent Scooter single. Or let’s say that it’s the most recent draft of the Scooter single, another half-inch of ground gained in Sheffield Dave’s pilgrim’s progress towards Mu Mu Land. “Nessaja” seems to have been a bit of a conceptual breakthrough for Scooter, with the crucial discovery that added folky helium vox could boost the vibe bigtime – here Nikk provides the giddy-pitched warblings, about a woman’s heart, which in turn sparks philosophy from Dave: “BASS DRUM!” and then the tune is overtaken by a horde of arm-waving Cossacks. Oh, no, wait, I meant: “What is essential is invisible to the eye. It’s only with the heart that you can see rightly.”. Though “BASS DRUM!” is enlightening too. There’s a crowd to please, and the more they please it the bigger it will get: Scooter are that rare pop thing, a marriage of unabashed populism and absolute conviction, and we should treasure them.

(Bonus points for the cover’s magnificent irrelevancy – Sheffield Dave in leather armour and his fellow Scooterites in chainmail, surrounded by barbarian lovelies. And for their publishing company being called Delicate Music.)

Um, your weekly NYLPM war update.

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Um, your weekly NYLPM war update. Your pop news in brief.

Junior Senior love fun. We love them.

It is Scandalous the Mis-teeq didn’t get to number one past that rubbish novelty comic relief version of Spirit In The Sky (rubbish because it isn’t even as funny as the Doctor And The Medics version).

I take back all I ever said about Resonance FM. They have an hour long show where they play records backwards presented by a loon who talks about looking forward to Thora hird coming alive in a week.

Resonance also played an orchestral piece on Tuesday morning which was written from the point of view of the music looking at the audience.

Big Brovaz have another winner on their hands which is simultaneously annoying and irresistable.

NYLPM will be back soon with your regularly scheduled nonsense, these tidbits are compiled under Iraqi news regulations..

Mar 03

Pumpkin Publog supports responsible drinking

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Pumpkin Publog supports responsible drinking
If you are reading this, there is a very slight chance that you might be drinking too much. Find out here.

Mar 03

Cradle of Filth — Presents for the Poison-Hearted

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Death metal never used to be this exhilarating. An epic soundtrack of damnation, greed and desire, it starts of sounding like a bootleg of Morbid Angel and Vanessa Carlton’s ‘A Thousand Miles’. The kick comes from the orchestration and evil choir, always fading in and out of the song, the best bit being where only the organ, chanting and incomprehensible whispers remain. The band makes an intense racket, the tick tick bass and crunching guitars, with alternating screeched/whispered vocals. It’s a Jean Delville painting bought to life, completely over the top and opulent.


I Hate Music5 comments • 786 views


MARVIN GAYE – Sexual Healing
Baby, I’m hot just like an oven, I need some Lovin’

Why did Marvin Gaye Snr bust a cap in Marvin Gaye Jnr’s ass? All sorts of rumours abound regarding drugs, infidelity, madness or being on a mission from God (as filtered thru my good self). However what is often forgotten is that Marvin Snr was a grade school English teacher who was spitting mad that Marvin used such a piss poor metaphor in Sexual Healing. Hot just like an oven? What, someone has cranked you up to gas mark five and is about to pop a joint in you. (Actually – looking at it that way…). Oven’s are not sexual objects. They are items of kitchen furniture which would seem awful out of place in the average bedroom. Usually covered in grease, they get significantly hotter than the average lover. Indeed if he were to persist with this line the chorus ought to be:
“When I get that feelin’
I need Mr Muscle Oven Cleaning.”

Mar 03

And Then They Lez Up – Appendage

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And I’d finished this so I sent it to my girlfriend and she called me back and said, “um, err, I don’t, understand.” So after sulking for a bit, obviously upset, I explained. And she understood. I asked her if she could write a short note on why she found it difficult and how she finally came to understand: something which would stand apart from the main article, concept-the-dots. This is what she wrote, it’s brilliant:

“So, here it is, criticism. The problem for me (and I didn’t beat around the bush the first time, either) was that I couldn’t understand. Was it that I couldn’t understand, or was it really a problem with the writing, as I thought after reading it three times over? It begins; yet it doesn’t begin for the reader. ‘Pagan Poetry’ – a difficult link with Lena and Julia, you think, but you deal with that, yet the problem grows as you read on in this first section. Where is Pikefossen? And Maze, and Domremy-la-Pucelle? Your eye is caught and your heart tugged by the tenderness of it all – the blue-sky cadence – but what does this mean? The personal impenetrability of the first section is not in keeping with expectations, nor is any meaning immediately obvious. This was the problem; how did this all connect with Tatu?

And then Nabokov: a Russian link, you think, perhaps maybe, something to grab onto and hope it leads you to the connection between Pikefossen and Tatu. But it didn’t. How can this suffice as a bridge between tenderness and analysis? I guess what I’m trying to say is that this article lacks obvious pointers. They were eventually explained to me; but that brought up the obvious question – ‘is it right to have to ask the author for explanation?’ Of course not, I cried, in my frustration; but the flipside of that is, after I got the explanation, it did make sense and the tenderness and analysis didn’t jar quite so much.

We, as readers, arrive at the image of this piece first: the structure, the strange mix of the unexplained and the explained, the seemingly deliberately wilful. But sense can be made if we change our approach. Read the last bit first; this is not the agreed and measured. The upshot of this being, therefore, is neither are t.A.T.u. I was asked to write this as a sort of pointer system – something which the piece immediately lacks – but I guess there’s only one pointer that’s required: although the piece focuses on the non-image side of t.A.T.u., it is t.A.T.u. that shape the image of the piece. The skewed, difficult (yet tender and intelligent) shape of this writing seems to reflect what the writer is saying about t.A.T.u. And not just about the girls themselves, but the effect they have on him, which is surely why the analysis is interspersed with seemingly incongruous pieces of personal insight, creation, memory. It’s not important to necessarily understand the whys and wherefores of the personal sections, rather, they demand concentration on the feelings they evoke. They are a theme rather than an authentic narrative; they don’t matter to the audience in a specific sense, but that is not to say they are not important in a thematic and suggestive sense.

So there it is. I guess in a way this is an archetypal response, in that it is a mix of the personal and the objective, the analytical. Maybe the language and structure are difficult, but it’s not meant to fit together like a jigsaw; it maybe even reveals a perverse pleasure on the part of the author in constructing something that you have to dig away at and still not get all the answers. Even that reveals something fundamental about the nature of t.A.T.u. and the fundamentally different approach taken here, looking at the (however clichéd it may sound) something deeper and more interesting rather than the mostly agreed and measured.

It’s funny, for me, that in retrospect, after the hour or so of vexed chat about this (and numerous re-readings) that I’d only need to look at the title and the last section and it would have all made sense. I suppose that only makes it more perverse and fitting.”

written by Cozen, March 2003

And Then They Lez Up

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For Melissa Witkowski. It’s all your fault, of sorts.


Because when I want to explain to myself Bjork’s “Pagan Poetry”, I can’t think here, in my world, the song seems too simplistic when measured, the merest cursory glance at any emotion, never mind love. I have to step out, into Glasgow’s absence (the lack of the biggest weight in my world), alone in myself (the second biggest weight in my world); the emptiness of a house or the creases round your eyes as you end a smile, the camp at the Pikefossen, or the pink-eyed girl on the road from Máze, with her perfect broken English. How my whole life stopped on that road, imagining my future selves: newlywed; dying; or taken in by some insurmountable death or regret. Or how in turn I will, like the rest, reduce to my lowest organic ebb: memory. As the place firms where everything I ever owned and loved and thought of as dear is taken in and their names made non-negotiable. All the driftwood, inaccurate maps, caesurae, and silt.

Domrémy-la-Pucelle, August 1998, and I split from the girl I was meant to spend the rest of my life with, the widest blue sky purls out in one vigorous movement of the eye, developing an awareness of us below with nary a trace of aggressive intent. (And I’m thinking of the drowned girl, whose name was wrested from her at the Pikefossen: she’ll wake you with her screams, bloodying the quiet lap of the waters.) How when we’re struggling to understand we look to forms and shapes, the knit of the familiar or simple: there, we must strain and hear the rarer frequencies of love and loss; and revisit the place where our assumptions are still hypotheses: “I luf him, I luf him, I luf him, I luf him (she lufs him, she lufs him, she lufs him, she lufs him)”:

“small rain and that blanched light off the sand
that gives the town its name, in Norwegian,
bleik, meaning ‘ghostly’ or ‘pale’
and not what we thought.”

– ‘Bleik’, John Burnside

Her blue-sky cadence sucking him up into herself, a series of inhalations breathing successive layers of meaning into this notion, this unprovable shadow: love. This simple word with the weight of the world behind it.



October [19XX], Vladimir Nabokov orients his great anaesthetic pen over the genesis of Lolita and writes in [xXx]: “The first little throb of Lolita went through me late in 1939 or early in 1940, in Paris … somehow prompted by a newspaper story about an ape in the Jardin des Plantes, who, after months of coaxing by a scientist, produced the first drawing ever charcoaled by an animal: this sketch showed the bars of the poor creature’s cage.” An impenetrable black object (impenetrable by us, impenetrable by the beast) comes to represent the poor animal and its perception of the world. The natural search party people send out when analysing at the primary, instinctual level looks for the human, the common, the identifiable: we need some ‘controlleds’ to set off against the features alien and weird. Here we stick on the unimaginable bathos of the pure fact of that drawing: an ape who can’t see out, an audience who can’t see in.

(I can’t show Lena & Julia the Jardin des Plantes, not only because it never existed but because I’m just the audience. I’m sorry, I’ve only my ken at my disposal. So I can hope to see Lena & Julia, sitting in the garden, or maybe just their shadows, that that they show us, (when I’m sick of licking the railings of their cage)).

“On the other side is us. And they [the others] can’t understand,” Lena Katina told Bang! (and Heat) about their video to ‘All the Things She Said’. The video shows the girls railing against a great hulking fence as a baying, curious public look in disbelief and disgust and awe and wonder. On one level it’s a very simplistic metaphor of ‘difference’ (“us/them”), on another it is the most ‘do you SEE?’ moment in this year’s pop history: the audio-visual embodiment of Nabokov’s jokey little paragraph.

“Nabokov’s jokey little paragraph.” Lena Katina cries at the end of “Can You See?”, in her shuttlecocks-on-fire voice “open up your eyes and see me now”. Most reviewers latch onto their image alone and then start throwing arrows-on-fire at the girls: “the lively atoms have found the tongue, ‘interpreter of the mind’, and disconnected it,” they’ll say. Always with the Lucretius: “The raw materials of utterance are drawn from deep inside the body; impelled towards the mouth where, first, they’re cut and nimbly crafted by the tongue, then given final shape by the contours of the lips; after which, as words, they’re imparted to the air.” Now if only the cynics had Luca’s third eye, maybe then they’d see, maybe then they’d even, y’know, look. The complaint is that they are automatons, singers without hearts or eyes, mere conduits for Trevor Horn and his band of merry songwriters. What they don’t realise is that we’re all just conduits of some kind. So there are more degrees of separation at work here? That’s what makes t.A.T.u. so interesting: that everyone fails to see this question of degree: the crazy masking effect of their all-encompassing image.

(What has upset me most in all the things that I’ve read about t.A.T.u is everyone going on (and on) about the equation “t.A.T.u = Image”. I’m not saying the image is not important; but remember there are two girls hiding under it, and its when their music pierces this veil, or when you can’t dissociate the one from the other, or when the image fluoresces and blinds you that there are some really interesting effects. Wow.)




“And they went out and named all around them, left camp on a mission to settle their world in the seat of identification. But they got some of the names wrong, failed to perceive the subject properly; and us in the morning we couldn’t understand the objects so-called, primed in the names Adam & Eve had chosen (“haha, we can call it slug and the others will say ‘What is slug? That is slug?'”). Some were too simple, others inaccurate… Yes, ok, what we know is the agreed and measured but WHAT WE ARE IS SOMETHING MORE.”



A group so rapt with and worried by their own invisibility that they set up a system of oppositions to aid their definition in the world. From the go: “200 Km/H in the Wrong Lane”? I mean everyone knows in the UK its M/h, right? “They’re not gonna get us”: us/them. The frankly quite creepy phone-whispers about ‘immigration’ at the beginning of the third track. (Is it still true that Britain’s primary contact with Eastern Europeans is through the prism of immigration?) So worried they’ll be separated from all they know and love, given different names.

The first single is brilliant pop-dance flutter then Daniel Bedingfield is tagged-in: “this is NOT ENOUGH”. What do you mean, what’s not enough? All the things said, all the things incorporeal: GOD!, let us kiss, leave. us. alone!, let me be me. When they sing ‘this is not enough’, they’re answering the cynics: lee-sten (© Navi)! Danny’s famous for his weird-scary emotional overloading the most direct lyrical example of which comes when he shouts “I’m gonna make music till my/brain is fried/because you can’t see the/man inside/it AIN’T ENOUGH NOW”. So? We have to read the letters sent from behind the lines to even have a chance of telling what it’s like in there. Beyond that all we have are grainy black & white satellite approximations and our own blundering assumptions.

Some people have bemoaned the incongruity of t.A.T.u. (“t.A.T.u.! Can you believe it?”) covering the Smiths’ homily to shyness, “How Soon Is Now?”, Morrisey’s heartbreaking soul swallowing itself whole call-for-help. A gay man who feels trapped by his own inherited (bequeathed by his own past actions, agreed) ‘vulgar’ image calls to the outside world and who ultimately has to plead, HAS TO STATE, that he is human, even giving it a capital to aid his case (“Human”, if you’re wondering what that looks like). It would have been crass for t.A.T.u. to cover any song but this. The perfect nervous waveryness of Marr’s original guitar line so prosodic against Morrisey’s self-doubt (“WHEN exactly doyouMEAN?”). This is replaced in t.A.T.u.’s version: we don’t get a slow broil of self-doubt from t.A.T.u., no, we get a pounding autonomous affirmation: crunchy power-chords: the direct equivalent of t.A.T.u.’s defiance. And it’s brilliant.

“We are like Marilyn Manson, for sure [laughs]” – Julia Volkova, elfish tomboy, responds to Nitsuh Abebe’s spot-on quip about the similarities between Linkin Park and the girls. Now, this means I have to root out the only Marilyn Manson track I own and listen to it and maybe then try and twist it a bit so it will fit into the Linkin Park shaped wardrobe that’s just opened up. Except when I eventually find “Q 1998: Best” (!!!) and listen to the track, “The Dope Show” (the roots of that vein of nu-metal obsessed with androgynous futurism, or Linkin Park?), it’s clear I don’t need to twist it. The vocal similarities are easy to caste: there’s that slight glide (think Chester’s part, the chorus, on “In The End”), which is actually more noticeable when the effect’s eventually removed (the brilliant we’re-there-in-the-studio revelation of naked Chester on “En Th End”). This (the glide, not the nakedness, well) is all over the t.A.T.u. album, but I suspect theirs is the result of their natural pitching (“shuttlecocks-on-fire”) rather than ‘effect’.

Musically, there are the drums and that but in short I think the comparison comes down to dynamics. Which is a really difficult word to pin down: it’s a composite of the drums, momentums, synth lines, breaks and rushes. The play and pull of all these aspects, the structure of the songs and the interactions between its parts. There is a deep rock element to t.A.T.u.’s songs, equal to its euro-pop mores. (I suspect Julia also meant what Lena said a couple of minutes later: “The wrong lane, exactly the wrong lane… We are running away from the whole world… We just want to be together… This is exactly the meaning of our album.”)

The first thing I ever wrote about t.A.T.u. started “I fancy Nadine McBay”. And the last review I ever wrote of t.A.T.u. also contained that line. So I must think it’s important. As starting sentences go, it’s probably less impenetrable than the one up the page: “Big wow, dude’s got a boner.” So why scrap it? (Maybe I’m worried her man might see it.) I’m no longer sure. To show how I’ve based crushes on reading just one piece of a girl’s writing. That sense in which the ‘something deeper and more interesting’ overpowered any need for any image whatsoever: a ridiculous judgement from the other end of the scale.




“Though what we know is mostly the agreed
and measured, what we are is something more.”

– ‘Kith’, John Burnside



The first section of this article is up to its elbows in hock to John Burnside’s “By Kautokeino”. Also: thanks and orchids for Martin Skidmore.


written by Cozen, March 2003

Mar 03


I Hate MusicPost a comment • 411 views


In a recent piece I discussed those stupid bands which have more members than revenue – or in the case of My Life Story more members than actual fans. What completely slipped my mind was the strange case of Lambchop. You see Lambchop sound like they only have about five members – and that at a push. Yet a perusal of their sleevenotes will enlighten you to the fact that at any point in time they may well have about twenty members lurking around the stage. So why is this? Here are a selection of possible answers.

a) They are a group of remedial musicians and hence only get to play one note each on their respective instruments. This would explain why their songs are musically quite dour – they end up sticking between six or seven notes, six people on guitar, six on piano.
b) Because the music is so reliant oin its meaningful pauses, they actually employ people just to pause for them, literally playing the John Cage invented instrument the Silencio.
c) It is a new kind of prison invented by the US Department Of Correction to deal with persistent country music offenders.
d) Kurt Wagner talks so quietly, and slowly that by the time hes got round to telling someone that they cant join the band they have already picked up and instrument and started jamming along. All Kurt can do to rectify the situation is unplug them.

Mar 03

Suggestion that while British pop might be good

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Suggestion that while British pop might be good, but British popstars are rubbish. Play (a lousy name for an album = a lousy name for a band) a Swedish girl group will be attempting to crack America with covers of great British pop songs of the last few years. And Honey To The Bee. Before your hackles rise at this blatant plagarism let us examine why exactly these bands have not had hits in the US before. Is it their lack of commitment coupled with the difficulty in cracking the States? After all, if you have screaming fans back in the UK, are you really going to slog around the Mid-West to K-BEG to perform a song you are already sick of? Plus the difficulty of making Atomic Kitten work in the US – those Scouse accents may have been cute in the sixties but do people really want to work that hard.

Plus of course the fact that Billie, Atomic Kitten – even Liberty X are not necessarily up to the homogenized standard of the average US girl group in the attractiveness stakes. To be fair – Atopmic Kitten ming and would scare thr orthodontist of any Californian.