Posts from March 2004

Mar 04

BOBBY DARIN – ‘Dream Lover’

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#87, 3rd July 1959

1959 was the first high summer of teen-pop ‘ a catwalk of heart-throbs at the top of the charts. Their songs weren’t quite interchangeable, but there was definitely a certain pop style that was selling and they worked it well. The key was to be pleasant; to sing with a kind of shy yearning, to have the drums brush and patter rather than rock or roll, to let the guitars pluck out the prettiest of melodies.

These were songs that wooed you more than they thrilled you: the topic, of course, was always love. Not love as it might be lived, and not even love the way the crooners had sung it, turning experience into theatre ‘ but love at a safe distance, in dreams or the past or the future. (Cliff Richard is actually going out with a girl ‘ oh no! ‘ so does the distance thing by metaphorising her into a marionette!).

Bobby Darin first: ‘Dream Lover’ has a slinky, sort-of-Latin beat that links with the cute pizzicatos for a sound-picture of teen coyness. Darin has a fine voice too, though he sounds a little bored on the verses and only gets properly puppy-dog on the chorus. The only problem is the backing vocals, plonked into the arrangement without much obvious thought: the girly ba-bas and the gum-chewing raow-raows sound like they belong in two different songs and neither of them do much for Darin’s come-ons.

RUSS CONWAY – ‘Roulette’

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#86, 19th June 1959

Not vastly different follow-up to ‘Side Saddle’, which passes the time in the same sweet way. This is the superior tune, in fact, because its teetering scales make for a better hook, but even so you feel he’s taking the mickey a bit. Blithe, well-mannered and a little quaint, just as before.

THE BETA BAND – Heroes To Zeros

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THE BETA BAND – Heroes To Zeros

“What on Eart will they do next?”, Tom asked, on this very site, way back in ’99. If you had told me then that the answer would be “release a straight up indie rock record” five years later, I’d have spit in your eye. Okay, so it’s not as bad as all that. This isn’t Starsailor. Or The Shins. There’s still a certain…weirdness to many of these tracks. But there’s still a feeling in listening that this the straightest thing they’ve ever done, the first thing that hearkens back to an older version of themselves, terra cognita. If I was being kind, I’d say they finally made a record which mashed up all three of their original EPs. If I was being unkind, I’d call it their Hail To The Theif. (It’s an imperfect metaphor, especially since their last album was the tightest, least pretentious thing they’ve ever done. [Certain people, including muggins here, tried to damn it with faint praise later for the same tightness. Wrong: it’s my favorite album of the 00s.])

But “weirdness” was never The Betas primary reason for existing, though glancing through their discography you’d have a hard time proving otherwise. (I certainly wouldn’t hold myself to any of these grand pronouncements in court, for instance.) After all, Kid A and Amnesiac are both “weird”, and people bought them in droves. And there’s nothing the Betas have ever done as “weird” as, say, “Kid A” or “Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors” that didn’t collapse into stoner wheezing and giggly pointlessness. (Though there’s an argument to be said that the same applies to Radiohead, minus the giggles.) This is their main charm, as much as it is a failing. The Betas’ failings are so inexorably linked with their charms, in fact, that picking them apart seems a fool’s errand at best. They’re too low-key to move Radiohead units. They have no statements, except for perhaps that the rapidly aging generation who grew up in the 80s and 90s is kind of fucked (which makes them no different from just about every other rock band around right now, including Radiohead) and that Wild Honey is superior to Pet Sounds (a slightly more minority opinion). When they’re a joke, they’re a private joke. And when they make your heart soar, you might as well be alone anyway. I can’t imagine going to a Beta Band concert, because I can barely imagine listening to them with more than one person in the room. Who the hell puts on a Beta Band record in a crowded record store, like those gimps in High Fidelity?

In a way, though, Heroes To Zeroes is just another step in the Beta’s continual “fuck you” poke-in-the-eye aesthetic journey from “Champion Versions” on. Having determined they could wallop the then-new wave of post-triphop indie plodders (if you don’t remember them, don’t worry, you’re not the only one), they released an EP so Kraut-addled it was the record Faust should have recorded in the 90s. Having proven they could go “out”, they released an EP so low-key it sounded like a slow, rainy afternoon looped for eternity. Having gone low-key, they released their debut album, a record I love more each time I dig it out, which is not often, because it’s still the stupidest, most simultaneously self-infatuated and self-hating record a band of any stature has made in the 21st century, a record I could never love with a thousand years to listen. Having gone round the bend and stared their demons (and bankers) in the eye, they released the tightest record possible, itself a poke at both the expectations that had accrued around the Band and the context of the time, namely rock being full of neo-garage throwbacks and post-Radiohead bathos and doe-eyed emo and bands for whom the future of “rhythm-in-rock” was to transform it full into hip-hop, down to the sensetive thug date rape lyrics.

And now Heroes. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want 10 more versions of Hot Shots, with it’s luscious R&B-dancehall-hip-hop-indie composite. But anyone expecting that (truly expecting, rather than just wishing) hasn’t been paying attention. It seems slight on first listen, and maybe a little dark. But then all of their records seem a bit slight on first listen. (Hot Shots great ruse was fusing that pop-rhtyhm-tightness with a patina of stoner delirium, like a golden fog, until the songs just sort of washed over you like a kitchen-sink Shek’spere Neu! remix.) And they’re all a bit dark, in their way. But there’s also something undeniably “rock”-y about it. “Assessment”, of course, which is like an indie rock version of filter-disco, looping the guitar from U2’s “I Will Follow” to mantric (if sludgy) effect. But also “Out-Side”, where the video-game-blip-and-distortion middle eight is followed by a (mercifully brief) guitar solo (!) in a recognized post-The Bends stylee. But the more I listen to it, the more I can hear how they disrupt their “songs”: John Denver guitars that sound like loops, stuttering at the end of the bar just to drive the effect home; an incongruous “funk” bassline under a trifle of a pitter-pat indie jaunt; hallucinatory 303 blips; live drums that go all technoid just to wheel back as quickly; an instrumental interlude that sounds like the music they play at rides in Disneyland. It is a pretty weird record, I guess. Face it, Jess, you got suckered too. You just wanted more sleepy eyed 2-step. You got blinded by your preconceptions. Haven’t you been listening to anything they tried to teach you?

Already, this seems like the ultimate sort of “grower”. I can see it sneaking up on me, steadily, until it makes my top 10 by the end of the year. But don’t expect a glowing reversal in six months, a flailing “I was wrong!”. They’ve all been growers. (The odd bit here or there that knocks you sideways the first time you hear it notwithstanding: “She’s The One”, or “Round The Bend” or “Sequinizer” or “Won”). But “growing” can equal “growing away from” too. Right now I’m just gently baffled by it, and that seems the right place to be with the Beta Band, as per.

Worst Prize EVER!

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Worst Prize EVER! Woolworths in Tooting (my most-visited record shop, thumbs up for teleworking) had a refit the other week and relaunched with a special Mother’s Day competition. On entering the shop you were greeted by the huge cardboard face of Dr Fox. If you won their prize draw then your mother would receive, on her special day, “a personal phone call from Neil Fox” (Neil! oh the intimacy!). What kind of monster would do such a thing to their own mother?

(I forgot to blog this last week, oh well.)

Only Fools And Horses / Best Sitcoms

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Only Fools And Horses / Best Sitcoms: my views on OFAH are pretty conventional I suspect – very good early on and then getting steadily worse as first Rodney and then Del Boy get hitched. The character of Cassandra at least had comic potential as a middle-class ‘regular’, but with the introduction of Raquel the series tilted fatally to the sentimental and has been a Christmas chore ever since. Not that audiences seem to care: I am clearly a sitcom snob. David Dickinson, the ‘advocate’ for OFOH in the BBC’s interminable Sitcom Idol votefest* put forward his ideas about why people loved it – they liked it because it was about Proper Things like death and marriage and growing old.

This idea that sitcoms should be bitter as well as sweet is one I find increasingly irksome. For my money a sitcom has one duty: it should make you laugh, as often as possible. Not a fond chuckle at the foibles of a favourite character but a GREAT BIG LAUGH at a JOKE. If the joke is dark or upsetting, fine, it doesn’t bother me as long as it is a joke. What I don’t enjoy are the sitcoms which eke out a diminishing supply of gags with more-or-less ‘serious bits’: something Only Fools And Horses in its latter days is a good example of. It’s also why I’ve never been able to tolerate Carla Lane.

*(a parade of incompetence by the way: they ran out of time and had to present the ‘award’ as the credits rolled, and then some wag followed the closing moments of this family-uniting laughter pageant with an ad for a programme about predatory paedophiles.)

KALMAN BALOGH – “Calusul Dance”

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(aka PopNose3): Also in the Fopp £3 only pile was the album I got this from – Songlines Presents World Music: The #1 Tracks From The #1 World Music Albums Of The Year”. It has a very nasty cover on which totally ordinary card has been colourized to give it that speckly pattern you get on recycled paper. I approached it with some nervousness, but as Isabel said “There’s bound to be something you like”. True, true – and this was what sprang out at me on first play so I decided to PopNose it. As for the rest? Some pretty great stuff (a lovely bit of rai from Khaled) and a few shockers, mostly involving the use of ‘loops’ or particularly wholemeal drum’n’bass. I’m no advocate for ‘world music’ staying tied to traditional forms but there’s something very self-conscious and dutiful about the kind of hybrids big WM labels seem to offer, especially when you consider there’s probably a ream of cheap localised dance music being sold on tapes in any market in any world city which never gets compiled or exported.

This Balogh track comes from his Gypsy Jazz album which I will try and track down. He’s playing the cimbalom, the traditional instrument of the Hungarian gypsies. He is also playing it very fast indeed which accounts for a lot of my childish glee when I hear the track. The fact that what he is playing very fast seems to be delightful silent-film chase scene music only goes to seal the deal.

Mar 04

June 8th. JUNE 8TH!!

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June 8th. JUNE 8TH!!

That’s the release date for the first home-video release in any format of SCTV, the classic Canadian comedy series that originally ran from 1976 to 1984. The show never got a VHS release because the producers, not anticipating the home video market, didn’t have music clearances. But somebody has finally thrown some more money at the situation, and Shout! Entertainment is the distributor (though Time-Life was briefly rumored to have it). During its heyday the cast included John Candy, Joe Flaherty, Eugene Levy, Andrea Martin, Rick Moranis, Catherine O’Hara and Dave Thomas, and Harold Ramis was one of the main people in the first 2+ seasons. Martin Short joined during the 4th season and did a little good work, though I’d be happy enough never to see his Ed Grimley character again. The DVD reissues are going to start with season 4, when NBC picked the series up in the U.S. and they switched from 30 minute shows to 90 minutes. It was a studio creation, not live like SNL — imagine your favorite band that constructs really intricate studio albums but don’t really come across in concert.

What I really loved about SCTV was the overall concept of the series, which was that there was a small TV station called SCTV somewhere in the faceless heartland of North America, in a town called Melonville — over the years the series develops the characters of the people running the station and a few folks in Melonville and the Quad-Cities area. But it’s a TV station, so a bunch of material could be presented as the shows that SCTV is broadcasting — movie parodies like “The Grapes of Mud,” “Polynesiantown,” etc., commercial parodies out the yinyang, you name it. PLUS, if you’re familiar with small-town America’s tv stations, you know that the on-air talent does, or at least used to do in the good old days, double and triple duty. So at SCTV, newscaster Floyd Robertson, who considers himself a serious journalist, has to demean himself on Saturday nights as Count Floyd, host of “Monster Chiller Horror Theatre,” presenting crap like “Doctor Tongue’s 3-D House of Stewardesses.” Metafictional layers upon layers, and all of it funny as hell. I am here to tell you, it’s worth buying a multi-region DVD player. The first collection will be nine 90-minute episodes (the 4th season was a supermarathon of 27 episodes in three cycles of nine each) plus three hours of supplemental featurettes, on five discs. List price is US$100, but *m*z*n has it available for preorder at $69. (These numbers are up from $90/$63.) GET IT!

Mar 04

And your prize is…

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And your prize is…

Many hoary old cliches (on that subject, is there much else that gets called ‘hoary’?) have some sort of basis in sense or fact, but one that I saw for about the thousandth time in XXX tonight seems to entirely lack sense.

The bad guys, who appear to be that rare breed, rich radical anarchists, have employed a team of scientists to build them what will help them destroy the world, or whatever the hell it is they think they are doing. The weapon is almost always a mcguffin, in Hitchcock’s terms, of course, but this is a distinctly weedy one – a solar-powered submarine, that “only has to surface to get sunlight.” Given the physics of this, that means it will sit motionless on the surface for every daylight hour available, then trundle around slowly for short distances at night. Anyway, once the scientists are celebrating completing the job (and before any testing, though I guess films (and comic books) understandably hardly want to bore us with that tedious stuff) the evil megalomaniac villain kills them all.

That is what I don’t get. Are scientists who are willing to work in seclusion for supervillains in such high supply that mowing down a dozen or so isn’t wasteful? Don’t these things get through to scientists? Do they not grasp that working for power-mad lunatics might be a bit risky? Dr Doom was always ‘rewarding’ faithful and valuable service with death, but it never seems to harm his recruitment of other scientists and technicians. It would put me off applying if I figured the punishment for failure would surely be death, but the rewards for success were just as likely to be death too.

(I put this on this blog after toying with Do You See?, because it’s sparked off by a movie, and The Brown Wedge, because I’ve seen it most often in comics. I don’t imagine this is a problem to which scientists in the real world have to give a great deal of thought.)

strange geometries ahoy

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strange geometries ahoy!!

if this “chicago blogmap” works how i think it works, it’s projecting a sector of the blogiverse back onto the stylised planar* real-world projection of the illinois city (move cursor to a station to see which blogger lives nearby): i can’t decide if this is a nice idea or a lame one

*(ie give or take topological fuck-around)

A few songs into my shift

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A few songs into my shift at the Birkbeck end-of-term party a guy came up to the decks. “Do you have a card?” “What?” “I’m getting married this year, I wondered if you had a card, you know, with your mobile on it.” I was flabbergasted! I reckon this is one of the most flattering things that can happen to a pop DJ: asking your mates to DJ your wedding is one thing but a complete stranger – !

Of course a lot of people do just that: the wedding DJ sector seems fairly immune to the music industry’s current travails, and has laughed off the ‘death of dance music’ – as long as human beings have legs they will want to dance to the “Grease Megamix”. I had been thinking earlier in the evening of how one becomes a wedding DJ – it’s something that genuinely appeals to me. It’s a high-responsibility thing to do, keeping a hugely diverse crowd happy and dancing – “diverse” not just in age but in attitude; for some attendees the wedding is one of the most important days of their lives, for others it’s just a booze-up or a bit of a chore. How do you juggle people’s tastes and expectations?

Of course you could just trot out the absolute standards but the difference between an OK pop night and a great pop night is the DJ playing the tunes that you had no idea you wanted to hear but that make you scream with pleasure when they do drop. That’s where the fun is. For the last 45 minutes at Birkbeck we DJed as a team, me on the decks with Steve, Tim, Steve’s Pete and Alix conferring to find the absolute hugest tunes. I also demonstrated the harshest skill in the rent-a-DJ’s armoury – the willingness to play absolute shite because you know it will get a crowd going (“There She Goes” by The La’s – the price of my soul in this case being one pint of session lager).

It was a very good night, all in all – but then any night which starts off with “I Love Horses” and ends up with “Tickle Tune” can be bad.