DIY

Now I have never been to an In'N'Out Burger, but the sincerity of this fellow's post makes me think I'm less of a man for not visiting them. Ahem.



I like that he has a 'Burger Lab' in the URL, which would make me think this is a regular thing for him: reproducing his favourite junk food at home. All a bit like the Birdman of Alcatraz, but for minced beef.

It's been a long time...

I shouldn't have left you/Without a strong rhyme to step to/Think of how many weak shows you slept though/Time's up/Sorry I kept you.

Thank you Rakim.


So anyway, in the time since there's been this...


Created by my father-in-law's own fair hand. Big, sturdy, not lacking in flavour, boosted by the finest of company (both brewed and human) this was a big lump of sentimental mince. Our last day in the US of A. Amazing additions (look how well that tomato fits the bun) I think I had at least two and a half.

RATING:
If this burger was a shirt it would be that blue one you've had for ages that doesn't look too flash but people always comment on favorably at get togethers.

That wasn't my entire summer. There was plenty of this.


Plus lashings of this.


I even found time for this.


Which I came across at the Villager, where some great service, great cheese, and truly unnatural dining position - eating lunch on an 18" high couch and 18" high coffee table - could not distract from the fact that this was a pretty decent lump of meat. Sadly less than the sum of its parts, the build up set the stage for something rustic and muscular, this was robust but not in the way that it could defend you from muggers. A disappointment only exacerbated by what can only be called stoatin' hard fries.

RATING:
If this burger was a member of Lynyrd Skynyrd it would be one of ones who survived the air crash.

My sister had a deep, but hip boyfriend some time about 1990...

And from my limited handle on the situation it didn't seem to last very long. Long enough however for him to cough up an original Big Black 'Tools You Can Trust' T-shirt (which was to the right people, ladies and gents, a seriously big deal) and a copy of a Sonic Youth album which remains, despite years of rampant nerdiness, the rarest record I own. 20 years, a rogue Facebook post (thanks Stuart) and a couple of links later and here we have this. This isn't actually from that famed record - something I point out to appease those hair splitters among you - but is still great.

Something I forgot about and then remembered...

I, in principle hate Spotify. No truly logical reason for this, although I try to use the fact that they don't have anything by Tool, Slint, Rapeman, Metallica, Fugazi and a whole other bunch of meaty goodness on there as a reason. Mostly its about the idea of accessibility. I don't think music should be this easy, so disposable. There shouldn't be little effort. You should be made to sweat a bit for your rewards.

This isn't the point though. This is.

I was sitting, trying not to listen to Jakob Dylan this evening and got caught up instead in the little list of connecting artists on his page. After about half a dozen clicks through lots of American country acts I came across Tindersticks. A band who were at the centre of musical universe about 15 years ago who slowly faded as I piled more and more albums on the stack. I almost couldn't find the album I wanted in the massive list on Spotify (they got the cover wrong, which of course is unforgivable). Anyway, It took about 30 seconds of the opening track to remind me just how much I loved this record and all the maudlin mooning, black, black humour, and those strings. Christ those strings. I know some music reference book toting wide-o would be able to point out where they ripped it all off from but I love it anyway.

It took me straight back to seeing them at the Old Antheneum in Glasgow with a string section for the second time ever or on the second stage at Reading one year when they were so nervous and pissed, it took three goes to start the first song. I realised it didn't matter what the music was about for them as artists, whether it was heartbreak, addiction, hysteria, romance, botulism or just vanity that fuelled the making of that record. It was all about me.

This reminded me that the compulsion to make endless list detail best and worst isn't exactly about the music but more about where you were when you connected with it.

Of course I couldn't find a decent snippet to put here but found some wobbly footage of them doing 'Tiny Tears' at Glastonbury in 2009. The bloke sporadically singing along only adds to the whole live experience I think.

Anyways, here it is...

Old is the new old.

I know this picture is old but I couldn't resist. Pleased that god listens to Slayer. I do. And not for the ticking the box ironic Vice magazine meytul-ness of it all but because it makes me happy. I looked around the Barrowland last night and saw scores of people - young and old-ish, hairy and only slightly hairy, male and even female - beaming as a bunch of fortysomething men sweated out some big raging things called 'Mandatory Suicide', 'Seasons in the Abyss' and 'Raining Blood'. Time is tight. I don't have a space on my dance card to pretend to like things more than I actually do so my status in small but influential subsets of society is inflated, I want to be excited, thrilled, indulged. That's what heavy metal does for me. It indulges without question. Some would argue so does happy hardcore but that sounds really annoying. There's a difference.

Rating

If this gig was a much underrated US sit-com from the early 2000s about a bloke not really getting on with his sister's kids it would be: The Bernie Mac Show

Not practical.

So let's just look at this shall we? Good solid burger, looks like a burger and not something perceived to be rugged or God forbid, organic, which is actually just a big broken roof tile of mince fried until its taken on the characteristics of a fossil. This looks like someone has taken the time there. There's that almost viscous melted cheese dripping over the edges, hey, there's even the dubious promise of some kind of life-sustaining nutrients with that lettuce peeking out. But this is a question of scale. Twice. Firstly there's that bun. That's the kind of bun that gives you a thirsty feeling before you even bit in. You know before you even bite into this that its gonna be really cotton woolly and dry. It was. That was forgivable (almost). The 'fries' however are a different matter. Now I'm all for innovation and I know these look groovy and impress your chef mates when your all sitting round your regular table supping obscure oversized bottled beers after hard day at the fryer but they have to taste good too. These, you may not be overly shocked to hear were still hard in the middle and no combination of twice frying, blanching or just general poncing about will change that fact. Its not the Six Million Dollar Man its a potato. Make it into a bundle of lava-hot, super crispy fries; even some kind of elaborate baked dish where you might enlist the help of a grater, ricer or even a piping bag, I'll try it. Or if you're feeling a bit Ferran Adrià, maybe devise a jaunty pub game that involves a teetering tower of potato hunks that you have to remove and throw away because they're inedible. Let's just be thankful for the onion rings, sulking at the back safe in the knowledge they're the real highlight. But we all know onion rings, like poppadoms and spring rolls are only ever the brides made, never the bride in these kind of situations. Upstaged by their starchy brethren time and time again, today was their moment in the spotlight. Messy, unhealthy, stinky, crunchy. Perfect. From the jaws of defeat comes slim victory.

Rating:

If this meal was a book you were recommended by a pretentious new age-y girl at a student house party but weren't arsed to even pick up until you got stranded in that airport after that Greek beach holiday 12 years later it would be: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.