i have an opinion on a thing

I miss compulsively reviewing stuff. Maybe its something to do with being a bit dull, but the fascinating chronicle of my opinions has been severely neglected over the past eighteen months or so. Pop culture criticism is trés simple- it all comes down to using a basic set of simile equations; the starter ones are generally (a + b) over x, y, or z. a and b are generally artistes- best throw in obscure band/ intellectual heavyweight to show you’re a serious contender and a kitschy celebritype to demonstrate ironic sense of ‘umour. x is a locale, y a psychoactive substance and z is the outcome of a sexual coupling. For example:

(Band reviewed)’s effortless pop comes over like Swell Maps meeting Joan Rivers at an inebriated Rotary Club Meeting.

(Clever young novelist) writes like the bastard lovechild of Wittegenstein and Roland Rat on Nytol.

Don’t forget to use plenty plenty of adjectives and superlatives.

So, two weeks ago, rather predictably, I hauled my carcass down to Camden Roundhouse to take in My Bloody Valentine’s reunion gig. I wish their performance deserved an iconoclastic kicking, because they are both massively venerated and released their last album fifteen years ago: I am individual and special and I hesitate to fall in with the massed ranks of backward-looking gen-x indie toadies. Alas, they were ace.

Last time Kevin Shields and chums did anything, it failed to register, mainly because I was 10. Still, their albums are part of that treasured canon of teen nostalgia, evoking hormonal summers of heartfelt mix-taping; it lead me to wonder if the material might be a bit worn out; that the live experience would be a massive anticlimax; that it might make one wish that one had spent the 25 quid on something new and shiny and avant garde. It’s testament to how fantastic that material is and how skilled the band are that the gig sounded thrillingly, bloodily fresh and absolutely original.

The distinguishing element of the evening was volume.  It was loud. Loud like being hugged by angry noise until your senses go wonky, like being pummelled by a tornado (instead of going to Oz, you get to visit the magical land of shoegaze). Despite the twelve-high speaker stacks and the swirling fuzz of some of the songs, the mix was crispy clear; the genius lay in giving an impression of chaos whilst maintaining absolute musical precision. Even the band’s stances seemed to reflect this combination; Bilinda Butcher and Kevin Shields standing still, almost rigid on either side of the stage (once you’ve reinvented guitar pop you do not need to move for anybody) generating a woozy maelstrom punctuated with sugary hooks while Debbie Googe and Colm O Ciosoig crashed the rhythm section out with sweaty violence in the centre. Without any substantial change to the content, it was as exciting as hearing Loveless, and a few choice other bits for the first time. The most notable alteration was to the single You Made Me Realise, where the agressive noise bit was extended. To about twenty minutes. It was definitely queasy, should have been traumatic, and was one of the best things I’ve seen at a gig in ages. It turned what should have been a nostalgia trip into something giddily new. I didn’t walk straight for about a week.

I’m off to Birmingham’s Supersonic festival on Saturday, where hopefully I should get a dose of something new and shiny, plus Julian Cope.

Bruce Springsteen needs a pension

The gym is redolent of unwholesome irrations (sweat, shame), not least because the provision of MTV Dance on the monitors always leaves one feeling as full of reactionary loathing for POP. I labour under the misapprehension that popular music is good and fun, until rare excercise binges leave me baffled and embittered by the many atrocities occuring outside my sheltered sonic niche.  This perkily cold-eyed cover of  Patti Smith’s Because the Night left me retching even harder than aerobic exercise normally does.  It doesn’t even have the eurotrash integrity of TaTu’s queasy version of How Soon Is Now? 

Some cover versions that do not fill me with horror:

Sonics – Louie Louie

Joy Divison – Sister Ray

Big Black – the Model

 Tricky – Black Steel

Grace Jones – Warm Leatherette

Slits – Heard it through the Grapevine

Sonic Youth – Superstar

Ciccone Youth – Into the Groove

Nylon Neurosis

Tights are an awful burden. On one hand, summer should render them de trop. On t’other, my legs are the unwholesome shade of reconstituted ham and develop a charming mottled patina in the chill rain of June. On my extraneous third hand, I should love my legs as they are and am letting down the sisterhood through reactionary insistance on sheathing them in yummy beige nylon. But hose I will have and its awfully shame-making, especially as they ladder so fast- one always seems to be getting entangled in a bicycle or becoming too enthusiastic in scratching an insect bite.

Suffice to say they need recycling. One can make a grass head, but they are creepy and weird. I have a vague and unpleasant memory of my grandmother keeping old bits of soap in a tight leg tied to the sink as some kind of vile handwashing device. It’s not the war anymore and those two unspeakable ideas will only recycle about a third of a week’s destroyed tights. Therefore I was delighted to discover that an interweb based tights emporium will deal with the blasted objets for you, by shipping them off for use on a fistula ward in Ethiopia. It’s all a bit patriarchal Victorian charidee, but it gets rid of the bloody things and fistula is debilitating and horrid. The tops of the tights are used to hold bandages in place, and the legs are woven into rugs.

The address to which to send your shredded hosiery is:

Ethopia Tights Appeal
Tightsplease
2nd Floor Albion Court
18 – 20 Frederick Street
Hockley
Birmingham
B1 3HE

Also, the word pantyhose makes me gag.

Beginner’s guide to anarchism

Howard Zinn interview forwarded to me by the upgrade. Despite the piece being fairly apallingly edited (for crying out loud, read over yer transcriptions) and the interviewer veers towards sycophancy, as comrades tend to do with much loved radical academics, Zinn makes some nice clear points about anarchism, especially opposition to government that I am generally not eloquent enough to deal with.  Usually just resort to babbling something about without authority not meaning without order etc. Bleurgh. Anyway: voting bad but not verboten, engaged activism good.