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?

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.

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