Hacking off your inky fingers

The weekly music press lived and thrived in a world of delayed gratification where C90s were swapped by post, fan letters were written and replied to, reputations built and torn down, and appetites whetted with often incredible, sometimes ridiculous prose and breathtaking, if frequently badly reproduced photography. Not all of which seems in such significant demand today.

Contemporary critics still have  the talent, motivation and ambition to make something of quality and consistency. But it is way too easy to troll, get what seems like a reaction, and call it music journalism. The relentless desire for the easily quantifiable pushes chin-strokingly qualitative to the fringes even more than ever. 

That's not to say writers are less talented or the democratisation of culture into one big Saturday night talent show scrabble hasn't resulted in great music making to the ears of shrewed listeners. Good music still gets heard and shared. But as a punter - ticket buyer, record shopper, and t-shirt wearer - that joy of discovery feels less of a struggle, and some of the rewards not as sustained. More transient than in this ink stained past. It's easy to bemoan the passing of any great shared experience, which Thursdays and Fridays after the papers came out always was, but it genuinely mapped out the week.  Channels of information and pockets of consumption were so much more limited which made them more precious. One upmanship and true musical snobbery was an achievable aim. The new shared experience is instantly stimulating, but also sometimes somewhat faceless.

The vivid tribal etiquette that came with astute and stoic musical preferences has been replaced with kids who take it as a given that everyone is now the ultimate polymath playlist, as deeply enamoured by Kendrick as they are quick to question George Ezra. Is that just like those music press devotees who knew why That Petrol Emotion were worth caring about, but Crazyhead perhaps less so. Maybe the only real difference is ink?

Thanksgiving - slight return

Get stuffed etc.

Black Friday

I have had many happy times in Nice 'n' Sleazy. Arab Strap, Bob Logg III and Lapsus Linguae making my giant cranium vibrate with delight but I always thought of the food to be an afterthought. I had a Black Friday burger there recently. That it was eateb there on a Friday was pure coincidence. And to deliberately misquote Han Solo - it might not look like much but it's got it where it counts. My initial disappointment at seeing a relatively tiny lunch arrive (and their warning it would take 15 minutes to prepare was no idle boast - but it did give me a chance to reaquaint myself with Scotland's free local music journalism) my heart sank when I saw that most pointless of contemporary culinary accessories: the wee tin bucket for your fries (not this however).


*aside* if anyone has a proper use for these then let me know, I will happily wrestle them up from the evil clutches of unimaginative cooks everywhere, and parcel them up to be shipped to Liberia where they can use them as tiny sun hats for their pets or something.


Anyway, the Lucasian reference above was referring to a tall but not wide patty which from was shrouded from view thanks to a green leafy poncho of salad. Once I had remove the skewers which held the nametag - this Paddington bear inspired touch was not wasted on me. Cute - the total package was extremely weighty. Inside was a Tabasco infused hunk lean beef covered with molten, tangy blue cheese and doused with a sweet and dirty ketchupy barbecue sauce. The crispy greens and meaty tomatoes only added to the joy. Liquor soused the plate after one bite as the meat was that succulent. The whole thing fell apart in my hand but given that I almost bit off a finger in the process I fear that was definitely my fault, rather than anyone else's. In short, this was nothing short of tremendous. The offending pot of prefectly decent wedgie fries were now not only excusable but positively useful when it came to mopping up the juicy flotsam that littered the plate. Nice 'n' Sleazy has always felt like safe haven to me - the jukebox, the decor, the general geekery of the whole endeavour makes my heart sing. Here's another reason to add to the list. 
If this burger was a Mogwai album it would be: Come On Die Young. Unassuming, overshadowed by its more fiery brethren but cunningly devised, ingeniously exectuted and a treat for the senses.

'This the last song we're ever gonna play I might as well use a new pick, huh?'

This film was recorded on 9 August 1987. Kurt Cobain and Mark Arm were there apparently. I was in London, at Wembley Stadium, watching my first ever live NFL game. The Broncos beat the Rams in case you wondered. I was dressed in my black Los Angeles Raiders starter jacket and Adidas Ivan Lendl, which was as close as I could get to this.

 Needless to say, I had yet to discover the visceral thrills of Big Black. I got a copy of Last Live about 1992. It still gives me shivers watching the people wandering about the factory before the show. Although so does 'Walk This Way' to be fair.

Who you callin' a puta ya little punk? Oh me. Okay.

Photo: Dischord Records

Inspired by one my favourite music blogs The Power of Independent Trucking I post a link to this - 40 or so minutes of chat from the stage between Fugazi and their audiences (something I am privileged to say I was part of on several occasions). A recording that shows my unrelenting nerdiness when it comes to heavy, guitar-driven music from America's underground but also how blindingly stupid people can be when put in the concert situation. Also, it shows Fugazi up to be the funny, insightful, erudite and occasionally bad tempered chaps the are (were). I guess I would be too I suppose if I had to put up with drunk arseholes shouting abuse at me as I did my job.

Find it here.

Thank you to James Burns.

Not quite a lupe fiasco

My first attempt at properly spicing up my burger patties wasn't quite as full on expected. I blended beef with Schwartz bbq seasoning (which is basically paprika, salt and garlic powder) grated parmesan and chopped chipotle chiles in adobo sauce. Note: these sweet hot peppers are about 3 inches long and come doused in a smoky, seriously ballsy tomato sauce and help make my bastard huevos rancheros a proper weekend at Bernies. Although to be fair, you could stick these bad boys in pretty much anything and it would improve it (I know, I've tried). Anyway, I digress... My first schoolboy error with the burgers was I should removed the seeds and chopped the pepper way finer. I wanted to get that amazing deep, smoky flavour and sweet tang that chipotles have but it didn't quite come through as much or as consistently as I'd hoped. The principle was right, but the proportions and texture were totally wrong. Also, finding the right complementary fittings for something fiery like this is always tricky. The compulsion would be to top with sour cream or fruit for balance but the ice cream or bananas I had to hand weren't really gonna cut it so I improvised a little.

A first attempt at construction included a fried egg and some amazing Mrs Renfro's corn salsa (again, a genius Lupe Pintos purchase) but that was total overkill. Something of a revelation for me as 'too much'  of anything isn't something I am familiar with when it comes to food. A second take was stripped back to mayo, lettuce, tomato, fried red onions, shaved parmesan and a generous dash of frank's hot sauce. The latter was unnecessary, as the onions were really sweet and were the dominant flavour - the parmesan was a pleasant surprise a salty treat and not cloying. For my next attempt at this I'll go further down the Tex/Mex route, maybe monkey around with adding other dry spices to the patty and different cheese. More research required. Back to Lupe's methinks...

If this burger was a wedding it would be: the one someone told me about recently where someone threw the bride - dress and all - into the hotel pool during the reception.  Once you get over the initial shock you're left with something thats a bit messy and could end up in a trip to casualty.

Faith

I finally got a copy of Faith by The Cure on CD. This replaces the copy on cassette which was taped from the vinyl borrowed from Glenburn Public Library (no sorry, home taping wasn't killing music). I listened to it again in it's entirety - it's one of those records that sounds better in one sitting - as I drove on a dark, cold, quiet morning. Within seconds I was 19 again and trudging through snow on my commute to Springburn College, a time when this album was one of a Stereo One carrier bag full of records that provided a soundtrack to my first sashays into a post-high school world.

More than a few years on, not much has changed. It is still a breathtaking record that leaves me wide eyed and shivery. The music is as simple and ingenious as I remember. Lyrically, as a 19 year-old listening to what was (at time of recording) a 22 year-old's bookish, overwrought world view it sounded unflinching, brave and stark. Today, with nearly 20 years of something resembling perspective, the brutality is tempered by the sadness - and I realise it isn't quite the indulgence to revel in pop record sadness as it used to be either. That doesn't make Faith any less rewarding a listen, it just means your skin is a little thicker in some places and thinner in others. I spent a lot of my youth wrestling with The Cure's substantial musical cache but always came back to this record for a peculiar kind of comfort. I think I subconsciously avoided buying this record as I think I wanted to preserve it they way I enjoyed it back then. I needn't have worried.

I was not at this gig as I was only 11. Billy Sloan was. How nice for him. And us.