The first in an occasional series! First entry:
"...and that's why my dentist is in jail."
Friday, 3 July 2009
Thursday, 2 July 2009
...Like a shit-eating rabbit on speed! OFFICIAL!
It's entirely in keeping with WHTB's work ethic thus far that it should take this long to produce a piece on the sad passing of former NME journo Steven Wells last week. The web is currently bulging with tributes to the man (Swells to his friends, fans and indeed foes), and in any case I'm sure it would fill him with disgust to think of anyone still preoccupying themselves with his death a week after the event, so I'm not going to even attempt anything approaching an obituary or anything of the kind. Similar but better sentiments can be found on the sterling Old Rope blog, along with links to some other great pieces, all of which which you are sincerely advised to check out instead. Not to mention his final column for the Philadelphia Weekly.
What i will say is that, as a mere reader, I learned a lot from Swells. His writing style was frenetic, breathless, hugely imaginative, supremely daft, intensely clever, often provocative and always entertaining. He also enjoyed capital letters an awful lot. But as a music hack, he frequently challenged the status quo and heartily encouraged people to make up their own minds.
This is important. Because, when you think about it, (whisper it) pop music doesn't actually matter that much. But for fuck's sake, don't tell anyone that! Ideas and opinions are essential, because they define who we are - and what's more, they can be really fucking exciting. So why waste your time devoting yourself to ideas you only half-believe in? If you like pop music, scream it from the rooftops! Defend it to the hilt! Pour forth your venom onto the charlatans and nay-sayers and tedious notions of 'taste'! COMMIT!
So there you go. I know it's not an especially heartfelt tribute, but I think I'd only end up repeating things that other folk have already said far more eloquently than I could hope to. Instead, I'll sign off with a couple of great tunes that the great man would approve of.
Thanks again, Swells.
Daphne & Celeste - Ooh! Stick You!
Butthole Surfers - Sweat Loaf
What i will say is that, as a mere reader, I learned a lot from Swells. His writing style was frenetic, breathless, hugely imaginative, supremely daft, intensely clever, often provocative and always entertaining. He also enjoyed capital letters an awful lot. But as a music hack, he frequently challenged the status quo and heartily encouraged people to make up their own minds.
This is important. Because, when you think about it, (whisper it) pop music doesn't actually matter that much. But for fuck's sake, don't tell anyone that! Ideas and opinions are essential, because they define who we are - and what's more, they can be really fucking exciting. So why waste your time devoting yourself to ideas you only half-believe in? If you like pop music, scream it from the rooftops! Defend it to the hilt! Pour forth your venom onto the charlatans and nay-sayers and tedious notions of 'taste'! COMMIT!
So there you go. I know it's not an especially heartfelt tribute, but I think I'd only end up repeating things that other folk have already said far more eloquently than I could hope to. Instead, I'll sign off with a couple of great tunes that the great man would approve of.
Thanks again, Swells.
Daphne & Celeste - Ooh! Stick You!
Butthole Surfers - Sweat Loaf
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Start all over again
While i'm on the subject of comics, and by extension cartoonists, here's a great short by Lev Yilmaz. My girlfriend (the right honourable and most righteous Sazzlebox) introduced me to his work a couple of years ago. It's rather good.
I suspect I relate to this one rather too much:
I suspect I relate to this one rather too much:
I started to holler
For the record, I’m fully aware that WHTB is utter cack. Rarely updated, thin on content and wheezing under the weight of poor grammar and awkward sentences, it’s a poor excuse for a blog. Thankfully I only have a handful of readers, who are too thoughtfully decent to spray these pages with comments detailing the many faults of these rather-too-idle musings, but apologies to all of you for dithering.
Right.
Anyway.
Since a couple of years have elapsed since my last visit to Liverpool’s quarterly comic fair, I decided to rejoice in the splendour of payday and head down. After partaking in mildly embarrassing conversation in the Marriott hotel (“Hallo, I believe there is a comic fair in here today?” “No, there isn’t.”), I managed to establish that the Liner hotel was, in fact, the correct location of the event, and sheepishly trundled off in that direction.
Comic fairs are an uncomfortable business. Sparse attendance only serves to heighten the embarrassment all concerned, and unless you’re a huge fan of widely-available back issues of mainstream superhero comics, you’re likely to come away disappointed. WHTB feels especially for a certain type of vendor whose stall attracts no attention whatsoever. Perhaps inevitably, these lost souls always seem to be accompanied by their disinterested spouses. Disconsolate yet resigned, the vendor sits wth arms folded, in total silence, whilst their other half’s glance darts around the room; seething resentment building towards these uncharitable nerds who will not approach their stall. “You must have the wrong stuff. These people aren’t interested,” s/he will occasionally remark, visibly fuming that a Saturday afternoon has been wasted in the presence of middle-aged singletons and sweaty, acne-plagued 13 year-olds. The vendor nods silently, and my heart breaks every time.
It’s not superhero comics that I’m after, in any case. My interest in the market-dominating titans of Marvel and DC has wavered, slowly evaporating into the vaguest of lingering affections. This manifests itself these days in cinema trips, to nostalgically partake in the latest big-budget powers’n’spandex action-fest, and criticising American nerd-com The Big Bang Theory for getting minor details wrong (at times I can’t help but feel I identify with the show’s protagonists for the wrong reasons).
The reason for my trip, as per usual, is to locate old indie comics. There are still gaps in my collection (if I can use such a horrible word – hack! Spit!) of Peter Bagge’s phenomenal Hate and Neat Stuff comics, and frankly I’d like to fill them. Whilst his oevre is often lumped in with fellow doyens of the Fantagraphics publishing stable such as Black Hole creator Charles Burns or Daniel Clowes of Eightball (and specifically Ghost World) fame, Bagge’s artwork is quite unlike his peers’. Filled with frantic, meticulously-drawn characters, it lurches from merciless all-targetting satire to warped slapstick to utterly shameless gross-outery. It’s well worth checking out. Naturally, good fucking luck finding any of it at a comic fair.
Peter Bagge's Hate comic: Buddy Bradley gets het up
Instead I wander from table to table, ignoring the innumerate boxes of Superman, X-Men and the rest to flick through carelessly-laid-out ‘INDIES’ sections, and presumably find nothing as per usual. My queries are most often met with a forehead-slap and an exclaimed “Fack me, mate, I’ve got thaaaaaaaaahhh-sands a’them at ‘ome!” before a flyer with an email address is thrust into my hand, thereby missing the point that I’m attempting to buy things here so I don’t have to bother to do so on the internet. Otherwise it’s a quizzical look along with a “What?” Either way, I move along.
Eventually, and just as I’m about to give up hope and head back home, my search is successful: one unmarked box reveals a veritable treasure chest of mid-to-late 80s and early 90s Fantagraphics anthology comics. It’s not strictly what I’m after, but I trust Fantagraphics enough to feel assured that this stuff is going to be gold. Jeremey Eaton’s A Sleepy Head Tale, Glenn Head’s Avenue D, James Sturm’s Check-Up and a whole four issues of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy (edited by sterling comic-journalist Joe Sacco) are my glorious prize, and the vendor is so delighted to get rid of them that he only charges me £20 for the pile. Not bad at all; ebay would’ve set me back a lot more.
First issue of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy, edited by Joe Sacco
Gleefully clutching my prize, I reflect on the afternoon. Not especially dismal; it could have been worse. And at least I can view fanboy markets with a slight sense of detachment these days - comic fairs are essentially where the childish glee inherent in superheroism is utterly wiped out by the snobbishness of the collector’s market. I’ve left the world of caped crusaders behind, and this afternoon has largely served as a reminder of why I was so glad to do so.
Seriously, comic fairs fucking suck.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
I never wanna be lukewarm again
Seeing a treasured band for the first time is always an exciting prospect. A few days ago I went to see the latest incarnation of Chicago's Joan of Arc at my fair city's finest new venue The Kazimier. It's a delightful building, which rather feels like a cross between a disused Victorian theatre and the beautiful kids from The OC's sheeny shiney gigspot. Both previous shows i'd seen there were made all the more enjoyable by these pleasant surroundings, so I was pretty stoked to be there to take in an act i've been enjoying for a fair few years now. Even if it's a band with ten albums to their name, of which i only own the first two.
JoA is essentially the brainchild of one Tim Kinsella, to whose work i was initially exposed in my first year of university. A friend from Glasgow, responsible a decade ago for introducing me to a good deal of second generation emo, made me a tape which featured Kinsella's high school punk troupe Cap'n Jazz. This song, in particular:
Personally, i love Little League. It's a great little burst of hyper-energetic indie spaz, with a cute lyrical theme (when you can make it out amidst the yelping), a gloriously absurd breakdown section and a fucking good tune to boot. But i can understand why it might not be everyone's cup of tea. I can understand equally why folk might not like their late-90s reformation under the name Owls (with JoA temporarily defunct at the time). Again, i think they're ace, albeit for different reasons. No longer trying to hurtle through abstract song structures at breakneck speed, they'd managed to slow down and acquire a certain textural grace. With Tim Kinsella's deliciously surreal wordplay much more audible, and guitarist Victor Villareal creating brain-stretching sonic shimmer underneath, Owls' solitary album wanders through abstractions both melodic and rhythmic to stunning effect. Here's a snapshot from a live show:
But anyway! Joan of Arc. And more pertinently, the show. Things began well with a blast of inventively exhilarating noise from London's Shield Your Eyes, before The Love Of Everything brought their indie subtlety to proceedings. Local mainstays Hot Club de Paris showcased their post-punk wares before JoA finally hit the stage at 11.30pm.
Kinsella has admitted in recent years that music is no longer the main priority in his life, and it certainly showed as he yawned and complained his way through a two-hour set of downbeat guitar-led fumblings. And yet it was still great, for some reason. Admittedly, the quality of his backing band (and if we're honest, that's exactly what JoA has been since their inception in 1995) helped matters somewhat, as did the rather large amount of Red Stripe quaffed by yours truly at this point. Indeed, WHTB's main source of irritation was the realisation that the sound has changed drastically since those early records i picked up a long time ago. No longer split between experimental folk, electronic drone and fractured emocore, it looked and felt as though a band who attract as many accusations of pretentiousness as plaudits have taken significant steps towards a more conventional, sombre approach. And whilst it was still great, it just wasn't the Joan of Arc i wanted to see. i'm trying to temper this sense of disappointment with reassurance that i still had a great night, but somehow it wasn't what i really wanted. Perhaps if Kinsella had interspersed his lunatic poetry with a sense of enjoyment, thigns might have been different.
I'll sign off with a clip from the Joan of Arc i wish i had seen. Peace out, y'all.
JoA is essentially the brainchild of one Tim Kinsella, to whose work i was initially exposed in my first year of university. A friend from Glasgow, responsible a decade ago for introducing me to a good deal of second generation emo, made me a tape which featured Kinsella's high school punk troupe Cap'n Jazz. This song, in particular:
Personally, i love Little League. It's a great little burst of hyper-energetic indie spaz, with a cute lyrical theme (when you can make it out amidst the yelping), a gloriously absurd breakdown section and a fucking good tune to boot. But i can understand why it might not be everyone's cup of tea. I can understand equally why folk might not like their late-90s reformation under the name Owls (with JoA temporarily defunct at the time). Again, i think they're ace, albeit for different reasons. No longer trying to hurtle through abstract song structures at breakneck speed, they'd managed to slow down and acquire a certain textural grace. With Tim Kinsella's deliciously surreal wordplay much more audible, and guitarist Victor Villareal creating brain-stretching sonic shimmer underneath, Owls' solitary album wanders through abstractions both melodic and rhythmic to stunning effect. Here's a snapshot from a live show:
But anyway! Joan of Arc. And more pertinently, the show. Things began well with a blast of inventively exhilarating noise from London's Shield Your Eyes, before The Love Of Everything brought their indie subtlety to proceedings. Local mainstays Hot Club de Paris showcased their post-punk wares before JoA finally hit the stage at 11.30pm.
Kinsella has admitted in recent years that music is no longer the main priority in his life, and it certainly showed as he yawned and complained his way through a two-hour set of downbeat guitar-led fumblings. And yet it was still great, for some reason. Admittedly, the quality of his backing band (and if we're honest, that's exactly what JoA has been since their inception in 1995) helped matters somewhat, as did the rather large amount of Red Stripe quaffed by yours truly at this point. Indeed, WHTB's main source of irritation was the realisation that the sound has changed drastically since those early records i picked up a long time ago. No longer split between experimental folk, electronic drone and fractured emocore, it looked and felt as though a band who attract as many accusations of pretentiousness as plaudits have taken significant steps towards a more conventional, sombre approach. And whilst it was still great, it just wasn't the Joan of Arc i wanted to see. i'm trying to temper this sense of disappointment with reassurance that i still had a great night, but somehow it wasn't what i really wanted. Perhaps if Kinsella had interspersed his lunatic poetry with a sense of enjoyment, thigns might have been different.
I'll sign off with a clip from the Joan of Arc i wish i had seen. Peace out, y'all.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
You were right when you said "all we are is dust in the wind"
Two months since my last post! Shocking.
There are few things more upsetting for a music fan than the demise of their favourite band. So it was for me with Urusei Yatsura in 2001, although a little over a year and a half previously, I'd already experienced something similar with Pavement. (Lo-fi-ologists will doubtless scream my ignorance at the fact that the Yatsura were blatant copyists of Stephen Malkmus' Stockton anglophiles, and although i always knew who was ripping off who, I can't really explain why i fell further in love with the Glaswegian 4-piece. Timing, i guess.)
I can still remember the joy of discovering that Stephen Malkmus' debut solo album (initially to be entitled Swedish Reggae, til he realised that wasn't especially funny) was on its way. It was 2001 and i was already thoroughly bored of my first year of university. It seems like Pavement-lite now, but Malkmus' first effort was one of a series of records that saved my summer that year. Here's the bizarre choice for a first single:
Since then, Malkmus seems to have grown into his 'slacker' reputation far more naturally than he ever did with his old band, and his work has become increasingly complex. It's still great, just less immediately fun than he used to be. And fair enough - he's earned the right. It just moves me less.
So recently, i belatedly decided to check on his old bandmate Scott 'Spiral Stairs' Kannberg's new band The Preston School Of Industry. I always liked Spiral's Pavement songs, from the blatant Fall-theft of Two States and Hit The Plane Down to the scuzzy heartfelt pop of Date w/Ikea and Kennel District. In retrospect it seems odd that i didn't get round to checking out Preston School a helluva lot earlier. In any case, I'm glad i did. There's something about his mid-life country-pop guise that's rather becoming. Even if his voice isn't the most distinctive, there's something lovely about his second album Monsoon that almost seems more Malkmus than Malkmus at times. Most excitingly, he finally sounds comfortable. There's not a lot to this song below, and in a way that's the most perfect thing about it:
Anyway. I've not touched on Steve West's Marble Valley, but this'll do for post-Pavement projects for now. More up-to-date references next time, honest. I'm just getting down what i've been thinking about for now.
I was supposed to use this blog to write about football as well as records (and, er, other things), and so far this has been brushed to one side a little.
This is probably an appropriate time, then, to declare my undying love for manager David Moyes and the entire Everton side - especially the following individuals: Tim Cahill, Phil Neville, Phil Jagielka, Mikel Arteta, Stephen Pienaar, Joleon Lescott, Marouane Fellaini, Tim Howard... actually, i was right the first time. The ENTIRE side. More coherent musings to follow after this week's terrifying-on-paper semi-final with Manchester United. Come on, boys.
I'm listening to Radio 1 and once again I'm appalled to discover how little of its content I enjoy. Aside from Talking Heads and Van Halen it's been shocking. I'm not sure exactly when my tastes and that of Radio 1's 7-10pm slot diverged, but they seem to have done so quite drastically. I'm not sure how I feel about this.
Although, thinking about it, if that means I'm of a different demographic to one that might appreciate the horrible bletherings of the terminally-self-impressed Zane Lowe, then fair enough. Easy target, schmeasy target.
There are few things more upsetting for a music fan than the demise of their favourite band. So it was for me with Urusei Yatsura in 2001, although a little over a year and a half previously, I'd already experienced something similar with Pavement. (Lo-fi-ologists will doubtless scream my ignorance at the fact that the Yatsura were blatant copyists of Stephen Malkmus' Stockton anglophiles, and although i always knew who was ripping off who, I can't really explain why i fell further in love with the Glaswegian 4-piece. Timing, i guess.)
I can still remember the joy of discovering that Stephen Malkmus' debut solo album (initially to be entitled Swedish Reggae, til he realised that wasn't especially funny) was on its way. It was 2001 and i was already thoroughly bored of my first year of university. It seems like Pavement-lite now, but Malkmus' first effort was one of a series of records that saved my summer that year. Here's the bizarre choice for a first single:
Since then, Malkmus seems to have grown into his 'slacker' reputation far more naturally than he ever did with his old band, and his work has become increasingly complex. It's still great, just less immediately fun than he used to be. And fair enough - he's earned the right. It just moves me less.
So recently, i belatedly decided to check on his old bandmate Scott 'Spiral Stairs' Kannberg's new band The Preston School Of Industry. I always liked Spiral's Pavement songs, from the blatant Fall-theft of Two States and Hit The Plane Down to the scuzzy heartfelt pop of Date w/Ikea and Kennel District. In retrospect it seems odd that i didn't get round to checking out Preston School a helluva lot earlier. In any case, I'm glad i did. There's something about his mid-life country-pop guise that's rather becoming. Even if his voice isn't the most distinctive, there's something lovely about his second album Monsoon that almost seems more Malkmus than Malkmus at times. Most excitingly, he finally sounds comfortable. There's not a lot to this song below, and in a way that's the most perfect thing about it:
Anyway. I've not touched on Steve West's Marble Valley, but this'll do for post-Pavement projects for now. More up-to-date references next time, honest. I'm just getting down what i've been thinking about for now.
***
I was supposed to use this blog to write about football as well as records (and, er, other things), and so far this has been brushed to one side a little.
This is probably an appropriate time, then, to declare my undying love for manager David Moyes and the entire Everton side - especially the following individuals: Tim Cahill, Phil Neville, Phil Jagielka, Mikel Arteta, Stephen Pienaar, Joleon Lescott, Marouane Fellaini, Tim Howard... actually, i was right the first time. The ENTIRE side. More coherent musings to follow after this week's terrifying-on-paper semi-final with Manchester United. Come on, boys.
***
I'm listening to Radio 1 and once again I'm appalled to discover how little of its content I enjoy. Aside from Talking Heads and Van Halen it's been shocking. I'm not sure exactly when my tastes and that of Radio 1's 7-10pm slot diverged, but they seem to have done so quite drastically. I'm not sure how I feel about this.
Although, thinking about it, if that means I'm of a different demographic to one that might appreciate the horrible bletherings of the terminally-self-impressed Zane Lowe, then fair enough. Easy target, schmeasy target.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
The light never shone down on you
It's happened again. For the second straight 45, everyone's favourite mod-punk-indepop northern soul enthusiasts Comet Gain have released a 7" where the a-side is totally and utterly trumped by the b-side. Just as the sub-disco skronk of last year's Love Without Lies (Twee As Fuck) couldn't compete with the lesser-known loveliness of Books Of California, their latest effort Herbert Hunke Part I (Germs Of Youth) revels in lazy Velvet Underground strums and retro-hipster drawl, without even approaching the heights of its far-sweeter flip No Spotlite On Sometimes. Comet Gain have always been obsessed with the beauty of failure, but they've never looked quite so much like their failure was more by design than accident. Anyway...
I first heard of Comet Gain when they earned a place on the NME's never-ever-mentioned C96 compilation (a theoretical homage to the famed cassette of ten years previously), which i didn't quite manage to order at the time. I could never find their releases, unfortunately; the entire band had quit, save for singer David Charlie Feck, and a new line-up had been assembled before one of their 7"s finally turned up in Liverpool in 1998. That was Jack Nance Hair, which i can still vividly and excitedly remember discovering in HMV's tiny vinyl section, along with a Freeboy/Mercedes split on Stupid Cat Records which had a hand-coloured sleeve. Jack Nance Hair became an instant mix tape classic for me, and if you've ever received a compilation tape made by my own fair hand, chances are you own this song. It's perfect. Still one of my favourite record purchases of all time.
It opens with soft acoustic chords and gentle drumming, energy, beauty and restraint combining to create an instant sense of nostalgia, as Rachel Evans intones a beautiful poem about the artist's dedication to his/her work, no matter how flawed it may be. The Eraserhead star's notorious barnet (from David Lynch's absurdist feature-length debut) becomes a metaphor for the honesty and inevitable folly of Comet Gain's music, and it's all capped with Feck's gentle croon declaring, "I don't know why I do the foolish things that I do," as though the universe may unravel if he doesn't figure it out. Beautiful. And there are few more perfect lines in pop than "young, free and single - like the crack in a 45". Ah, if only they still made singles as uniquely wonderful as this. Instead, i'll have to make do with the gorgeous slices of melancholic indiepop that they whack on the other side of the vinyl.
Anyway, here's some clips of Comet Gain. One from the original soulboy line-up in 1995 (that left to form Velocette):
...and last year's drum machine-led piece of noisepop:
I first heard of Comet Gain when they earned a place on the NME's never-ever-mentioned C96 compilation (a theoretical homage to the famed cassette of ten years previously), which i didn't quite manage to order at the time. I could never find their releases, unfortunately; the entire band had quit, save for singer David Charlie Feck, and a new line-up had been assembled before one of their 7"s finally turned up in Liverpool in 1998. That was Jack Nance Hair, which i can still vividly and excitedly remember discovering in HMV's tiny vinyl section, along with a Freeboy/Mercedes split on Stupid Cat Records which had a hand-coloured sleeve. Jack Nance Hair became an instant mix tape classic for me, and if you've ever received a compilation tape made by my own fair hand, chances are you own this song. It's perfect. Still one of my favourite record purchases of all time.
It opens with soft acoustic chords and gentle drumming, energy, beauty and restraint combining to create an instant sense of nostalgia, as Rachel Evans intones a beautiful poem about the artist's dedication to his/her work, no matter how flawed it may be. The Eraserhead star's notorious barnet (from David Lynch's absurdist feature-length debut) becomes a metaphor for the honesty and inevitable folly of Comet Gain's music, and it's all capped with Feck's gentle croon declaring, "I don't know why I do the foolish things that I do," as though the universe may unravel if he doesn't figure it out. Beautiful. And there are few more perfect lines in pop than "young, free and single - like the crack in a 45". Ah, if only they still made singles as uniquely wonderful as this. Instead, i'll have to make do with the gorgeous slices of melancholic indiepop that they whack on the other side of the vinyl.
Anyway, here's some clips of Comet Gain. One from the original soulboy line-up in 1995 (that left to form Velocette):
...and last year's drum machine-led piece of noisepop:
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