Peter Gabriel – New Blood

Peter Gabriel - New Blood

By Stuart Anderson

Although seen recently more as a music industry innovator rather than as an artist and performer, New Blood finds Peter Gabriel following in the footsteps of fellow ’80s eccentric and collaborator Kate Bush and revisiting, recalibrating and re-releasing highlights from his considerable back catalogue.

However, rather than merely patching up production deficiencies, unearthing previously unreleased songs or reinterpreting tracks that never really satisfied, Gabriel has rerecorded a sizeable chunk of material without guitars or drums but with a full orchestra. Conceptually then, New Blood is not a record seeking to rewrite history or redress lost opportunities; rather it signifies Gabriel’s exploration of the sound palette that an exclusively orchestral arrangement affords. In his own words, Gabriel is excited to “work with the dynamics and extremes…still and stark at one point, fat, fleshy and emotional at another”. … Continue Reading

Mastodon – The Hunter

Mastodon - The Hunter

By Stuart Anderson

Given the monumental success of Mastodon‘s melancholic, unabashedly progressive and indefatigably conceptual Crack the Skye back in 2009, you’d be forgiven for expecting The Hunter (their fifth album to date) to raise their brand of musical abstraction to such dizzying heights that even Alain Robert would think twice about attempting to conquer it.

Instead, our Atlanta metal heroes draw sonic inspiration from their previous and, arguably, more accessible swampy and doom-inflected masterpieces Leviathan and Blood Mountain, (released in 2002 and 2004 respectively) and they succeed far more admirably than Iron Maiden did when they followed the majestic folklore of Seventh Son of a Seventh Son with the pedestrian anthology of turgid execrable twaddle that remains No Prayer for the Dying. … Continue Reading

eyeseesound – a fantabulous new website for the new Generation X

eyeseesound

Here at the majestic Musos Towers, we love it when people just go out and DO stuff. DIY equals FAB in our book. Therefore, we think you should visit www.eyeseesound.tv.

In the words of the authors “the website is a celebration of and promotion of independent music, film and art. Remember when you were younger and the thrill you’d get from making mix tapes for friends or telling them about something culturally wonderful you’d discovered? Well, fundamentally that’s what we’re doing on a larger, and slightly more finessed scale.”

It’s all the work of just two passionate beings too. Yowser. They’ve just released episode two of their magazine-style TV show thing as well. And it’s good. You should go watch it. No, really, you should.

So in the end, www.eyeseesound.tv is all about finding and loving great music, film and art and putting it into a nice show. This sounds ace to us.

In fact, it sounds skill – lush even. Maybe even a little bit bonzer. (Somebody switch him off now please – Ed).

The Leisure Society – The Sleeper

The Leisure Society - The Sleeper

It would seem that the history of The Leisure Society has now entered pop-folklore – or should that be folk-pop-folklore?

After primordial stints first in a band featuring film director Shane Meadows and actor Paddy Considine, and then Burton-on-Trent’s The Telescopes, Nick Hemming began contributing music to the aforementioned film-maker movies under the moniker of The Leisure Society. 2005 was the year for everything to fall into place proper when he hooked up with fellow wayward musical journeyman Christian Hardy (he of Christian Silva). After a heady period of messing about with ukuleles, glockenspiels and flutes, the managed to pull together The Sleeper, their first release. And it was worth the wait too, containing as it does a fine collection of seductive chocolate box folk-pop.

Reductively lauded by critics as “the British Fleet Foxes”, The Sleeper is perhaps this year’s first perfect spring-time record; sure it’s a little blowy, bedraggled and misty in places, but it’s buoyed by the realisation that sunnier times are just around the corner and soon to gently kiss the apple blossom dry. … Continue Reading

‘Quantum of Solace’

Quantum of Solace

CERT: 12A

UK RELEASE DATE: 31 October 2008

DIRECTOR: Marc Forster

STARRING: Daniel Craig, Mathieu Amalric, Olga Kurylenko

In Daniel Craig’s second outing as the indestructible British Agent, we’re immediately zeroed in on Bond a mere ten minutes after we left him at the conclusion of ‘Casino Royale’ – in all his Saville-Row-three-piece-suit-with-coordinated-assault-rifle splendour; and from the insanely adrenaline busting opening car chase right through to the extraordinarily explosive finale, there’s barely time to sharpen a pencil, let alone attempt to draw a breath.

‘Quantum of Solace”s principal villain is Dominic Greene, a wealthy property developer with a nice sideline in regime change. Obviously he’s an expert in micromanagement and possesses an enviable aptitude for multitasking, because when he’s not overthrowing dictators, he’s stockpiling a lot of water for “Quantum”, a mysterious, international organisation that might or might not have been behind the blackmail of Bond’s beloved Vesper Lynd, the very thing that drove her to suicide. Our man is out for blood from the get-go, and ploughs through the ranks of Greene’s similarly nefarious cohorts with all the sucrose-infused gusto of a toddler let loose in Hamleys. He finally earns a showdown with the main man himself and rounds things off nicely by blowing up half of the Bolivian desert.

And that, in essence, is pretty much it. It all sounds like standard Bond material. But ‘Quantum of Solace’ is anything but a standard Bond film. ‘Quantum of Solace’ is a cinematic quandary. Some of the things it does work brilliantly. Some of the things it does fail miserably.

Firstly: the major failure. Although it’s the shortest Bond film to date, it’s also the one with the most action: loads of it. In fact, when the OED is next updated, the phrase “Quantum of Solace” should stand as the definition of the phrase “action-packed”. Unfortunately, this means that there’s little room for a comprehensible narrative, so ‘Quantum of Solace’ also ends up being the Bond movie with the flimsiest plot to date – which is saying rather a lot given the existence of ‘A View to a Kill’. This failure can rather obviously be traced to another JB, and another franchise.

On paper, Jason Bourne’s influence seems positive enough. Action sequences have become fast, physical and hyper-realistic affairs; the stunts are executed by performers in camera and on set, rather than against a green screen which later gets a CGI makeover or a character that’s wholly computer-generated. Major villains have become predominately cerebral and believable characters that love delegation, rather than demonstrably maniacal thugs – though their aspirations remain as diabolically nefarious as ever. Heroes have become psychologically three-dimensional; s/he has foibles, strengths, idiosyncrasies and a back-story: they are now human beings and not robotic hitmen.

Unfortunately, due to the “mine-is-bigger-than-yours” arena of the action film, the filmmakers believe that with each movie, they have to raise the spectacular quotient just to keep our attention…and raise it and raise it and raise it. ‘Quantum of Solace”s sensational spectacular action bar is therefore so damn high, it’s pushed the plot into cloud cuckoo land. Apparently storytelling isn’t as important as free-running stunt work and “look-no-non-diegetic-music” hand-to-hand scraps. The film feels like a carefully orchestrated sequence of set-pieces, and while these set-pieces truly are technically astounding, the film itself is therefore as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.

Of course it just might be that Marc Forster chose to employ an insanely thrilling visual style and chose to crank up the pacing to F1 speed to stylistically reinforce and elucidate Bond’s fractured psychological state (more on that later), but if he did, it’s really backfired.

The film is SO bombastic and SO visually overwhelming and SO spectacular that it’s impossible to follow what’s going on. And about twenty minutes in, you subconsciously realise you’ve got absolutely no idea where you are, why Bond is wearing someone else’s dinner jacket, why he’s messing about with a big plane and you instinctively engage “Popcorn-Movie” mode.

And that’s a real shame because Daniel Craig continues to impress as the indefatigable super spy. His immense physicality supersedes that of even Connery, and his wonderful, psychologically-nuanced work in the film’s very few contemplative moments, represents all of the heart that is to be found in the picture. The scene in which his friend Mathis is shot and Bond cradles his head while he dies is particularly touching. Of course, Bond then dispassionately slings the body into a skip with the quip, “He wouldn’t mind”, but that glimpse still remains one of the film’s better scenes.

And this duopoly in Craig’s Bond is easy to pin down. It’s a distillation of both Connery’s and Dalton’s take on the character; he’s physically formidable, emotionally frazzled, psychologically fragile, dark, brooding, bitter but can throw out a wisecrack when he needs to. And that’s pretty much how Fleming wrote him after all. If Craig keeps the standard this high, and indeed continues to evolve the character as majestically as he does here, he’s a contender to get tagged as “Best Bond Ever” – seriously.

On the other performances, Olga Kurylenko struggles with the underwritten Camille Montes and we have to endure her frantic tussles with a second and rather dull revenge plot. Gemma Arterton‘s straight-laced Agent Fields is barely worth mentioning at all; she has zero chemistry with Craig and zero percent more acting ability than a tree, while Mathieu Amalric is actually a particularly effective Dominic Greene. Many will complain that he’s nothing but a wimpish estate agent that does nothing more sinister than put up someone’s water rates, but as the methodical philanthropist, Amalric is suitably slimy and reprehensible. And let’s face facts here: Greene’s existence and master plan (so, y’know the whole movie really) is nothing more than an elaborate MacGuffin in the ongoing saga of (one) who the members of Quantum are (two) what Quantum wants and (three) how big an arse-kicking the members of Quantum are going to get when Bond catches up with them all in the threequel.

The film does get some things completely right though. Some fans will complain that ‘Quantum of Solace’ doesn’t feel like a proper Bond film. After all, where are the franchise staples of Q, the innuendos, the gadgets, the multiple sexual conquests etc? But as the film is a direct sequel to ‘Casino Royale’, certain elements have been quite rightly omitted.

Bond is, to all intents and purposes, a rogue agent, so why would the British government allow Q to hand over a load of fancy gizmos? Character-wise, Connery, Moore et al, inherited Bond as a seasoned 00 operative, whereas this is only Craig’s second mission: his Bond is still grieving for Vesper, and although the principal consequence of her betrayal and death is his development (actually disintegration) into the bitter, twisted, hard-drinking, wise-cracking and emotionless bastard that we all know and love, he’s obviously not feeling particularly cheery right now.

And of course you do get a few essentials thrown in: silly opening titles, a maniacal villain, an Aston Martin driven very fast, Felix Leiter, vodka martinis (seven of them in a row by my reckoning), and Bond taking his shirt off. There’s also the usual smattering of product placement (Virgin, Sony etc) which raises a wry smile, even if it doesn’t quite scale the dizzying heights that ‘Casino Royale’ did: Vesper: “Nice watch, Rolex?” Bond: “No, Omega”. I mean, Jesus…

Other plus points are the excellent handling of Bond / M’s frosty relationship, (he likens her to his Mother at one point), his penchant for killing suspects rather than incarcerating them, his nonchalant utilisation of his expense account (the hotel upgrade scene is laugh-out loud funny) and the fact that we get the proper recipe for that vodka martini.

There are also minor quibbles. Forster’s attempt to authenticate location titles by using regional fonts is both baffling and irritating. The forays into the M’s private life (and beauty regime) are particularly frivolous, and quite how Daniel Craig can beat up everyone in sight throughout the entire movie but is then subjected to a real whipping by a short, weedy property developer with boggling eyes and greasy hair is anyone’s guess.

So ‘Quantum of Solace’ really is a mixed bag. There probably is a decent plot in there somewhere, but it’s all but completely obscured by the explosions, the jumps, the fights, and the car chases. That said, it is popcorn entertainment of the highest quality and there’s no way you’ll ever get bored.

‘Casino Royale’ was just what the Bond franchise needed; to paraphrase Eva Green, a majestic kick up its not so perfectly formed arse, because it managed to combine an intelligent, realistic and enthralling plot with exceptionally well-executed action scenes, and it had a fantastic ensemble cast. It’s a shame that ‘Quantum of Solace’ has literally lost the plot a little.

But one shouldn’t lose all faith. With the elements of a majestic third-part conclusion to the Vesper Lynd revenge storyline now all present and correct and with Daniel Craig continuing to electrify as 007, there’s every chance the next instalment will be bigger and better than ever. We can only hope that the plot gets as much attention as the car chases do.

Ramblings from South London

Episode 07: Back in Black

As you can tell by the new-fangled swanky logo and stuff, www.musosguide.com is reborn; reborn, rebooted, reinvigorated, re-energised and recharged. Over the coming days, weeks, months and years, a gaggle of writers old and new will strive to serve you up a heady cocktail of news, reviews, comment, opinion , analysis, fun, topicality and frolic; all wrapped up with a pink ribbon and squashed between two greasy yeasty buns. Sounds good, eh? You betcha.

Oh hang on – there is one exception – ‘ol muggins here. Although it’s been almost four years since my last column and I may well be four belt notches wider and four foreheads taller, I’m really still the same guy underneath. Darn. Yes, I am still a miserable bastard. Yes, I am still violently intent on dragging all and sundry (i.e. YOU) into my private hell. Yes, I still love pickled eggs. And yes, I still fancy Shirley Manson a little bit. You betcha.

So what’s happened in four years then – apart from the world going a bit mental? Not much really, agreed? The music scene swingometer (I am contractually obliged to state that this term is trademarked and Peter Snow gets 50p every time it’s printed) has whipped over to rock and indie, leaving poor pop starlets Britney and Ronan crying into their royalty cheques but bestowing upon metal Gods Slayer and Metallica, amongst others, a well deserved return to the limelight. (I mean the awesome Fucked Up were on the cover of NME for Christ’s sake.) But then music scenes are swings and roundabouts in any case, and as sure as the stubbled midget that hurls your waltzer about the place like Geoff Capes on smack is wearing stonewashed Pepe jeans and reeking of mince, you can rest easy in the knowledge that rave is due a triumphant return over the next couple of years and the world will once again embrace the Global Hypercolour t-shirt and wear its sweat with all the discernable pride of a Coldplay fan at an ‘I Love Cabbage’ convention. Rock and roll.

But enough with the hyperbolic preambles – let’s get right to the meat and two veg of this: What about me? What have I been up to? I mean it’s all about me after all – this is my bloody column. Let’s not get confused though; I’m in complete agreement with you if you’re one of those disillusioned musos that thinks journalistic values amongst music press hacks have been not just wholly lost, but buried in a muddy field in the middle of nowhere by a blindfolded goldfish who was then killed by The Musical Firm “just in case he squealed”.

It’s true that music criticism, nay criticism, nay journalism is in a sorry state. The current generation of writers seems to believe that their witterings should be about themselves rather than the subject they’re being paid to write about. The current generation of writers seems to believe that we all care whether they had red or brown sauce on their chips when they listened to the new Oasis album. The current generation of writers seems to believe that it’s crucial for them to impart details of the night that they spent rooting through the toolbox so they could tighten their skinny jeans to such a ridiculous degree that they now have to be wheeled around Hoxton because they can’t walk properly. This stuff is not important; it’s the subject matter that’s important, not the meaningless little fuckfests of existences that these jokers harp on about day in and day out. They need to do themselves a favour and either get some proper psychological therapy or get some really dark glasses and try playing Frogger for real on the Old Kent Road.

However, as ‘Ramblings from South London’ is a column rather than a review, I can do whatever the hell I like. So there…(puts hands in pockets, whistles a nothing tune and looks shifty hoping that he’s got away with a really stupid argument).

Actually, hang on a second. To be fair, I’ve been doing some research into this subject and it seems that most people are sick of interchangeable writers that sound off on institutional context and writing for the audience and all this kind of nonsense. And I wholeheartedly agree. Personality is what counts guys, not institution. I want to hear passion, nous, intellectualised opinion and well-grounded argument. I don’t want to hear someone try to argue that Girls Aloud is a great band because they all wear Jimmy Choo boots, okay? I don’t want to hear it if it’s been written in the oh-so-trendy style of being a little bit postmodern, throwing in a joke about He-Man (or some other Eighties cultural benchmark), dropping in a line about regional accents before wrapping it up by saying that it’s really, really catchy and “it’ll get your pointy shoes a-twitchin’”.

Where was I? Ah yes, what have I been up to? I mean I literally can hear you screaming the question with a palpable orgasmic glee and then wiping yourself down with a stale sock. It seems only fair that I should therefore endeavour to give satisfaction. Well…er…nowt. I’m still working for a living, still spending vast amounts of money on long deleted metal albums, still living in rooms in shared houses with people I don’t know, still ignoring my doctor’s advice and drinking far too much booze, still mastering the art of trying to stop myself from punching every shop keeper that says “You can take your card now” BECAUSE I CAN READ THE TEENY-TINY SCREEN MYSELF and still trying to come to terms with the fact that some people in this world actually like U2 and The Beatles: BUSINESS AS USUAL. Oh yeah, and ‘Quantum of Solace’ is a bit rubbish: FACT.

But let’s knock that shit on the head ’cause it’s depressing. Shit, the world is depressing – CREDIT CRUNCH – sounds like a cereal bar, stings like a bee, no? What the hell is wrong with the world? I mean look around – it’s all finally happening; the Devil is winning and he’s grinding the spiritual shamrock into the pavement as violently as Mickey Rourke kills a Marlboro with a Cuban-heeled boot. It’s all kicking off and it’s got me spooked. Oil prices are up, banks are busting, renewable energy is going nowhere (dimmable energy saving light bulbs aside), coal and gas are almost out, bread costs more than cocaine, kids are stabbing each other over the demise of Fruit Salads and Blackjacks, Justin Lee Collins can’t shut his bearded yokel mouth, Lance Armstrong can’t give up cheating for a living, London’s got Barmy Phungy Phipps for a Mayor, Paul Newman has died and Lewis Hamilton is a cheat: Life sucks huh? Yes, life fucking sucks – for all of us.

But don’t fear the reaper: I am here, here to soothe your furrowed brow. Think of me as a serene, calming, relaxing presence. Believe me, I can help you. I should be prescribed on the NHS. I can do good work. Why? Because my life is so awful that you can’t help but be invigorated by your own miserable existence, that’s why. You’ll believe your life to be akin to that of a king by the time I’m through with you. So sit down, take a deep breath, have a cup of tea and relax. Ready? Sure? Then let’s hit the road Jack…

Music-memory is what I’m here to talk about today. Or maybe I mean auditory-ocular emotional remembrance. Or maybe I mean self-reflexive synaptic imbibition. I mean I could go on all night, but I’m afraid I’d bore you to crocodile tears and you’d think that necking a bottle of gin and setting light to the toilet pan would be a good way to avoid my convoluted meandering. So in the end I guess I’ll just have to come clean and admit that all I’m really spouting about is how the digestion of aural and visual stimuli is affected by involuntary idiosyncratic emotive recall. Y’all follow? No?! Let me explain…

Every time, and I mean EVERY GODDAMN TIME I hear ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ by Toploader blast out of the radio, my “brain” will process the following thoughts, in the following order, WITHOUT FAIL:

1. Oh man, this song is so shit and the lead singer has got some crazy-ass mop of bloody hair an’ all. In that video when he’s sat down thrashing the ivories, he looks like David Gray dressed up in a Sideshow Bob costume suffering multiple epileptic fits because he mixed ketamine with speed and poppers and then shoved a flesh-eating hamster up his arse.
2. It’s a shame this song is called ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ though, ’cause that’s the title of a wicked Thin Lizzy record and that tune has got an absolutely sublime mid-section guitar solo in it as well. You wouldn’t get Jamie Oliver putting THAT on some poxy cooking music album would you?
3. And why in the name of God would I want to go into a supermarket and get a loaf of bread cut lengthways anyway? Just to make poncy breakfast sandwiches for friends I’ve paid to come round to a flat I don’t own to make me look popular, cool and trendy even though I’m doing a girl’s job? That’d make me look like a right idiot.
4. And what’s wrong with eating chips? Generations of Englishmen lived and died on chips. Wars were fought on chips. Wars were fought over chips. Didn’t Napoleon like chips or was that only in ‘Bill and Ted’? Chips are great. I love chips. And I rate fish fingers an’ all. Jamie-bloody-Oliver…
5. Yup, he’s a right dick.
6. Toploader are right bunch of dicks.
7. The DJ responsible for putting on this bloody record is the biggest dick of all.
8. (PAUSE)
9. I wish Nigella Lawson was sucking my dick right now.

I am not kidding.

So what am I saying – apart from that one of my greatest desires is to receive fellatio from a plump middle-aged cook with a man’s name? Well, I’m saying that the way we respond to particular songs, films, books, drinks, foods, sights, and smells is affected by private emotional recollections. Believe me, I KNOW this ain’t rocket science; it happens to us all. But it is a really interesting phenomenon, no? (It better be or this column is doomed…)

Sometimes it is undeniably great. My favourite movie, for example, is ‘Back to the Future’ (don’t quibble with me, you know it’s a frickin’ belter) and whenever I watch it (far too many times for the populace to ever believe me to be have a firm grasp on the kite trails of sanity), I’m always involuntarily transported, ‘Quantum Leap’-style to the first time I ever saw it.

It was Christmas Day (oh, and just in case you’re wondering I’m now sitting you on my knee and retrieving a crumpled bag of Werther’s Originals from my cocoa-stained pocket in an effort to keep you quiet…metaphorically speaking of course) and I was at my grandparent’s house, stretched out on the living room rug – the one right next to the gas fire that burns at precisely twelve thousand degrees centigrade and is used by NASA to test heat shield tiles. My arms and hands were acting as a makeshift facial tripod (and fireguard) and I was squinting at a very fuzzy wooden Hitachi television; one equipped with a cathode ray tube of such dubious quality that experiencing anything approaching accurate colour reproduction was as likely as browsing through my grandparent’s record collection and discovering a well worn copy of Slayer’s majestic ‘Reign in Blood’. Honestly, for years I thought that snooker was played by malformed giants armed with pole vaults whom ran amok on an ice hockey rink whilst speaking Esperanto incredibly fast.

And so then that little BBC globe thing slowly materialised into view and then that voice, you know the one that was so rich and so deep and so velvety that you believed that if you pushed a strawberry into the television screen it would come back half-covered in Belgian chocolate and smelling of champagne, announced that the Christmas film was about to start; probably something along the lines of “And now on BBC1, it’s the Christmas Day film. Michael J Fox stars as the modern high school kid stuck in Hill Valley 1955 and literally running out of time to make sure his parents get it together – just so he can get…back to the future”.

This. Was. Amazing.

From that moment on I just got thrill after thrill after thrill: the huge amplifier exploding, the skateboarding-whilst-hanging-onto-the-back-of-a-4X4, Huey Lewis & The News, the girlfriend (Jennifer for the uninitiated (read: stupid)), the prom band try-outs, the Delorean; I mean by the time those fire trails blazed across the screen, my ears and eyes had literally melted off…and I don’t mean because of the gas fire. It truly was a childhood-defining experience.

And so whenever I watch that movie, a little piece of me meanders (gently stroking the autumnal leaves) back to that weird old house; the ridiculous paisley carpet, the thick green rug that smells of a wet coat, the Genoa fruitcake that I couldn’t eat until I’d picked all the cherries out, the lukewarm cans of Shandy Bass, dog-eared Mills & Boon novels and the two pounds of pocket money that sat on the dresser shelf; the shelf above the biscuit tin that was stuffed with gigantic bars of Dairy Milk and Galaxy chocolate but teased me like a rapidly melting Pyramint because due to my grandfather’s predilection for stupidly tight elastic bands, it was as impregnable as Fort Knox at Bikini alert.

I’m sure you’ve got your own happy memories of movies, books and songs too. Perhaps when you bumped into your (now) long-time partner, you were shuffling down the street listening to ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ by AC/DC and now that is ‘Your Song’, (Simon Bates gets naff all every time that’s printed by the way). Perhaps you were sat in a cinema next to a stranger and half-way through the movie, you both went for the armrest at the same time, and before you knew what was happening, your eyes had locked, your mouth was doing that embarrassingly weird half-smile thing that makes you look like a nutter and your cheeks had turned the colour of China’s political system – AND as a consequence ‘Funny Games’ is now ‘Your Film’. Maybe you had an argument that raged like a hurricane for an age before finally blowing itself out, and as you gently kissed away the tears, Dale Winton’s ‘Pick of the Pops’ threw up ELO’s ‘Livin’ Thing’ and the world suddenly kicked back onto its axis and life returned to some sort of normality. Perhaps…maybe…whatever…

It’s a damn shame to have to say it, but in the words of Bobby De Niro, there’s a flipside to that coin. And guess what? It ain’t a real happy one.

One of my most favourite songs in the world was (past tense you’ll notice) ‘A Sorta Fairytale’ by Tori Amos, from the album ‘Scarlet’s Walk’. Let’s not get into a critical debate about Amos right now; suffice to say that she is generally pretty great, though she lost her edge a little when she settled down, got all happy and made babies and stuff. Why can’t exceptional singer-songwriters just stay cynical, wretched singletons for all eternity? Anyhow, let’s just focus on the fact that I cannot listen to that song ever again. I just can’t. It is forever tainted.

There are break-up songs and there are BREAK-UP SONGS. Some songs have been written with those specific ‘break-up’ emotions in mind; ‘You’re Not Drinking Enough’ by Don Henley for example; ‘Against All Odds’ by Phil Collins; ‘Life Goes On’ by Poison; ‘Last Goodbye’ by Jeff Buckley or ‘Always’ by Bon Jovi – these are songs that are about pain, emptiness, yearning, wanting, needing, loving and all that heinous stuff – even if at least one of those I’ve mentioned is absolutely frightful (it’s up to you to guess – answers on an e-postcard – or, y’know – just wait until the end of this article). But at least they have a purpose, a raison d’être.

‘A Sorta Fairytale’ however was mine own fault entire, even if lyrically it’s kinda (sorta) in the right ballpark. Here’s a tip: If you are ever going to break up with someone or if someone breaks up with you, or if you have to say a painful goodbye to someone forever – or anything remotely like this occurs – please ensure that the first song you play afterwards is (a) not romantic in any way, shape or form and (b) something that you really, really despise. My suggestion stems from the conclusion that forever more you will associate that song with that experience.

God/Fate/Kenny Loggins must’ve been feeling particularly saucy that day. After a…hmm…how shall I say…swift yet awkward settling of affairs (all of my own doing because, y’know, I’m an idiot), I decided to get the fuck out of dodge and head swiftly back to the quagmire of beer, pickles, deleted REO Speedwagon albums and Eighties TV DVD boxsets that epitomises my existence. Unfortunately I didn’t plan ahead, and when embarking on the return journey, I made the monumental mistake of not flipping the old iPod to something either mind-bendingly awful (Christopher Rea), almost spiritually heinous (U2), or just plain bloody rubbish (Arcade Fire); y’know, something that might have made me laugh in disbelief or snigger or hit walls with my bare fists or roll my eyes in despair and kick concrete bollards. It just would have better than happening upon a belter of a tune – and one that’s a bit romantic – and walking down the road almost dumbstruck in desperation.

That song now has the power to reduce me to a jibbering, jabbering wreck of a man whom permanently looks as if he’s accidentally dropped his last Munchie into a dirty puddle and then watched a traffic warden defecate on it, laugh manically, spark a Monte Cristo Number Two and blow smoke into the face of midget tramp with no legs. No, it just didn’t work out for me. I just hit the “Play” button without thinking about it, popped the headphones on and took Tori full fucking bore.

And so ‘A Sorta Fairytale’ is now criminally reduced to the same status as that of Crowded House’s ‘Distant Sun’, the song that was playing when I broke up with that chick at school over the telephone (I know, I know, I was desperately cruel – I mean Crowded House really are unspeakably awful – WHAT WAS I THINKING?!), and that is bloody unacceptable. But, I only have myself to blame.

I could have switched it off when I was halfway up the road of course (damage limitation mode), or maybe as soon as it snuck on and I realised what was going to happen (damage removal mode) but I couldn’t – I was addicted (damaged like an arse-head mode). It was an aural-emotional smack in the chops and I couldn’t help myself. I guess it was also an undeniably sadomasochistic act (I’m paging the guys in white coats as I type), but then that’s just how my mind works.

And it’s a sad, sad fact that if you play that song to me now, a thousand yard stare will creep across my baby blues, my hands will begin to gently tremble and I’ll do that thing that actors playing villains in movies do and bite down on my own teeth really hard so it looks like I’ve got an evil face. On particularly desperate occasions, you might see a tear roll down my cheek – right on that final minor lift chorus, the one that really just slays me every goddamn time. Pretty miserable, huh? You betcha.

But would I change this wretched state of affairs if I could? Not a chance. Losing that one song is gonna be worth it in the long run, because as the chord changes, cadences, bass lines, keyboard licks and Tori’s beautifully cracked vocals dribble gently through the half-blocked holes of the colander of time, so the memories of that day – and of that girl go with them. And I think that this can be only a good thing. Life is short – or, if you’re me, life IS a short, and there are many bottles of Jack Daniels left to conquer. All I’ve really lost is one song. And, y’know, it wasn’t even ‘Meals on Wheels’ by Vic Reeves.

However, even though I’ve now come to accept this situation, I have taken steps to ensure that it won’t ever happen again. I’ve only got a limited number of favourite songs after all, and there’s only so much one heart can take. So what have I done? I’ve uploaded Chris Rea’s ‘The Road to Hell’ AND Norah Jones’s ‘Come Away with Me’. I’m all set, and I advise you to go and do likewise, ladies and gentlemen. BE PREPARED.

And that’s it. I’m off to pan the record shops of Soho for gold. I thank you for your patience and hope that you enjoy your new Musos Guide.

POP QUIZ ANSWER

‘Last Goodbye’ by Jeff Buckley is quite obviously the odd one out because it’s whining melancholic twaddle. I mean that guitar solo in Poison’s ‘Life Goes On’? That there is poetry my friends…heartbreakin’ fucking poetry…

Bruce Springsteen – Darkness On The Edge Of Town

Bruce Springsteen: The Boss. Too often (and wrongly) identified with overtly Reagan-esque allegiances after the release of 1984’s patriotic ‘Born In The U.S.A.’, 2004’s Springsteen occupies the enviable position as charity benefactor, political spokesman, philosopher and damn him I’ll say it – icon.

… Continue Reading

The Clash – “The only band that matters”: a brief history

The Clash inspired countless articles within the realm of music journalism during the punk period and due to the tragic death of frontman Joe Strummer, the contemporary mainstream press deemed it necessary to pay tribute to both him and their musical legacy.

… Continue Reading