Just to counter the Scrit-Bit below, heres Kevin Pearce on them, from Tangents. He tears into Songs To Remember, Scritti Politti’s just-reissued 1982 album, essentially accusing it of a kind of treachery, and asserts that history has judged wha[…]

End Of An Era! “You know how the Beatles broke off, they all did their solo projects and they came back together and they were even stronger.”[…]

“The sound of Scritti Politti 1978 to 1985 is essentially the sound of Green Gartside getting better in bed.”
Evidence:
1978-1979: lived in horrible communal squat. Would probably have presented you with itemised bill (sorry delineation o[…]

THE ESSEX GREEN MING
I can SMELL it coming and it honks like a bastard. It smells a little bit like a very old pair of corduroy flares bought from what those crazy Americans call a thrift store. They’ve seen a lot of action and the bottom is ra[…]

HAIL AND FAREWELL — whaddaya know, the new boss is the old boss. Tom Ewing has got that Fire in His Soul again and will be returning to edit Freaky Trigger as of, well, right now. So hurrah and thanks to him, and I’m sure he’ll do[…]

FEAR (And Loathing) OF MUSIC
In TV or comic book parlance, “talking heads” refers to that bit where the action stops and the characters stand around explaining things: sometimes a vital part of a narrative’s structure it’s mor[…]

ISAAC HAYES – The Theme From Shaft
Wicky Wicky Wicky.
How far did Isaac Hayes’ balls drop? Was there some terrible sound of a couple of pool balls being let go from about three feet when it occurred. Because when Isaac sings, the deep bas[…]

CREED — ‘My Sacrifice’
P.O.D. — ‘Alive’
Oh, these dastardly bastards, trying to poison the airwaves with their Christian values and their holier-than-thou righteousness. Listen to that Scott Stapp, singing about a […]

It’s inescapable. Anytime some music documentary takes a look back on the 1990s, there’s bound to be THAT SEGMENT. You know, that point where some rock musician or rock journalist extols the unending virtues of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana. […]

Piano Magic’s Seasonally Affective
Memory: winter, 1986. I am eight years old. Snow has been falling since six p.m.; I wake – compelled awake, no less – sometime after midnight, peering with squinty eyes through a slatted blind. The[…]