Music hath charms, part 2

Hello Gentle Reader

Does music have charms? (Or should that, more properly, be "doth music have charms?". Fear not, I'm not going turn all Shakespearian. Well, no more than usual...). The reason I ask is that writing "music hath charms" is something of a sweeping statement (not that I'm not guilty of those from time to time...), and it's not entirely true. Ok, some music certainly has 'charms', but can we say the same about, say, "Anarchy In The UK"? Not exactly relaxing is it? Or how about "Smack My Bitch Up" (which seems to be the only lyric in the whole bloody 'song') by The Prodigy? Very edifying, I don't think. And as for the rave 'music' of the early 90s... (If you're going to write songs about drugs is it so hard to make them interesting? The Beatles gave us ""Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds", Rush gave us "A Passage To Bangkok" and the rave-mongers gave us "Aceeeeed!" Wow, that must've taken many hours of concentrated thought...)

Anyway the the point of my rambling - and there is a point - is that not all music is of equal quality. Much of the 'pop' music (which I'm sure is so named not because it's popular, but because 'pop' is the sound of its fans' brains imploding) of today is meaningless crap. And that's me being charitable. Some of the most egregious offenders in this regard are the cohort of pop princesses that the music industry inflicts upon us. Let's look at an example, that virtue-signalling hypocrite who promised to leave the US if Trump won, but who's yet to make good on that (and I'm not holding my breath): Miley Cyrus. An artist so shallow that the depth of her material can't even be measured in fractions of nano-metres. I mean, consider this from her song "Younger Now":

What goes up must come down
What goes up must come down
What goes up must come down
What goes up must come down (yeah)

No one stays the same (oh oh)
You know what goes comes back around (oh oh)
Change is a thing you can count on (oh oh)
I feel so much younger now (oh oh)

And you know what? I suspect Cyrus didn't even write this herself, it was likely the creation of a team (yes, a frigging team) of songwriters. Either way it demonstrates that Cyrus' critical faculties are, shall we say, limited. I mean, would you, Gentle Reader, want your name associated with such utter cack?

The thing is, it wasn't always thus with pop music. There used to be quality and depth in pop; not everywhere, but was easier to find than it is now. Consider: yes, The Beatles gave us fluff like "Love Me Do", but they also wrote "Eleanor Rigby" and "Yesterday". Simon & Garfunkel gave us "The Sound Of Silence",  "The Boxer" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water", to name but a few. Heck, even fairly recently you could find pop songs that actually meant something, for example "Stop The Cavalry" by Jonah Louie, or "Hey Matthew" by Karel Fialka (now there's a forgotten gem). These days if you want depth you have to look elsewhere than pop. I'd recommend prog (but I would say that wouldn't I?) or folk, or singer-songwriters (Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, PJ Harvey, Beth Orton et al). And so I'll leave you with a couple of songs that have real depth. These are meant to listened to, they're not intended to be aural wallpaper while you get yourself tarted up for a night out swilling Lambrini or WKD with your mates.

Bashee-playing magician sitting lotus on the floor
A belly-dancing beauty with a power-driven saw
Had my share of nightmares, didn't think there could be much more
Then in walked Roderick Usher with the Lady Eleanor

She tied my eyes with a ribbon of a silken ghostly thread
I gazed with troubled vision on an old four-poster bed
Where Eleanor had risen to kiss the neck below my head
And bid me come along with her to the land of the dancing dead

"Lady Eleanor" - Lindisfarne



And now for something a little more recent.

She knows what it means to be Evergreen
She's seen more than some eyes would ever see
Clad with green, gracefully, she reaches for the winter sun
The lucky one

Spring leaves learning look to the Evergreen
Carried on the breeze her tales of snow storms and icicles
With proud yarn she will spin her golden memories into stories

She looks to the sky
Holding on to yesterday's goodbyes

She know what it means to be Evergreen
She knows how it feels to have loved and lost
She's seen faces change all around her, and move on

She'll miss hearing wind through now fallen leaves
She'll stand scraping snow-filled skies alone
Questions, if could be asked, would left unanswered

She looks to the sky
Holding on to yesterday's goodbyes

Embrace the past
With a forward motion
No fear of looking back

"Evergreen" - Mostly Autumn



If you're not familiar with Mostly Autumn I'd recommend you check them out - plenty on YouTube. They've been described by 'Whispering' Bob Harris (or was it Steve Hackett?) as "the best band you've never heard of".

Well, that's about it. Just a word or warning: stay away from that Miley Cyrus / Taylor Swift / Ariana Grande / et al. After all, you're not a nine year old. And if you are what in the name of all that's unholy are you doing reading a blog written by an angry old bugger? Shouldn't you be spending your time on Instagram with the other children?

Chin chin. 

Music hath charms, part 1

Hello Gentle Reader

A few weeks ago I mentioned that in forthcoming posts there'd be reviews and recommendations of music and movies. Well, the time has come to make good on that promise (though you may have felt it was more of a threat...). And today I'm going to be recommending a little ditty that popped up on my phone the other day while I was driving. I should point out that I have the music on my phone permanently on random shuffle, that's just the way I like it. (And are you really surprised? I mean, consider the title of this blog). Ok, that's not entirely true - when I've just uploaded a new album I do listen to the tracks in the 'correct' order. Also randomness doesn't tend to work so well with concept albums, where the tracks are in a particular order to tell a story. But hey, I'm a lazy bugger and I really can't be bothered toggling the shuffle function on and off, so I'm happy to get my music in whatever order the iOS music app deems fit.

Anyway, this particular track hadn't put in a guest appearance for a while and it brought a smile to my face. So, in the interests of spreading the joy, or whatever, I thought I'd share it with you. (When Art-Girl reads this she'll doubtless think of it less as 'sharing' and more as me inflicting my weird tastes on you Gentle Reader. Well, if the cap fits and all that...). Now, before revealing today's recommendation let me remind you of what I wrote a few weeks ago:

"...given that my tastes in sound and vision tend toward the esoteric (dyslexics please note I'm not referring to smut), you won't find anything on Coldplay or any of the Hunger Games movies. Rest assured, this blog will not be turning into the culture section of the Daily Express (or the Guardian for that matter, I have no interest in the Matabele Nose Flute Ensemble)."

So don't be expecting any glowing reviews of anything by Adele or Ed Sheeran - I don't do bland.  In fact, if you want 'easy listening' may i suggest you avoid whatever passes for that musical genre these days and just enjoy the real thing. Something like this, for example:



Or this:



No, I'm not taking the piss (Heaven forfend!), I really do like Matt Monro and The Seekers. Now there's a shocker, seriously. (That thump you just heard was Art-Girl hitting the floor. Don't worry, she'll be fine).

 Anyway, today's recommendation will not be easy listening, your humble blogger would like to challenge you with something a bit different. If you've been keeping up with this blog Gentle Reader you'll know that I have a bit of fondness for prog. And why not, it's way more interesting and intelligent than the likes of Nicki Minaj (who's most renowned for having a large backside, which, I believe, is known as a 'booty'; guess our cousins on yon side of The Pond couldn't spell 'botty'; US spelling always has been a bit suspect). Now prog has many sub-genres: folk-prog (e.g. Jethro Tull), pop-prog (ELO, post-Gabriel Genesis, etc) and so on. But today we're looking at prog-metal with something from the Devin Townsend Project: March of the Poozers (now there's a song you won't find being performed on X Factor).

Not only has this song an insane title, it's quite mad in itself. Gloriously, transcendently mad - a work of genius. If there was a curious three way mating of heavy metal, Wagnerian opera and a Lionel Bart musical this song would be, indeed is, the offspring. It's completely nuts, but so much more. So without further ado I give you March of the Poozers (by the way, it's about an alien invasion, but can probably figure that out for yourself). I've provided two versions: the video with the lyrics, and the live version from the Royal Albert Hall. Enjoy...and chin chin.



 

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Good morning Gentle Reader

A Bowie lyric for the title of today's ramblings. And hey, why not? It seems appropriate. Today I thought I'd just give you a brief update on some things that have changed in the last seven years while I've been wandering the wilderness of Writer's Block. Let's kick off with the trivial:

I no longer have the Rabbit (my beloved Alfa Romeo Brera for those who've missed earlier posts in this neighbourhood). Hmm? On reflection is this really trivial? It's my baby we're talking about here. Well, I suppose I'll let you make up your own minds up on that score.  So, you're asking, why has she gone? I hadn't tired of her, she was still as lovely as the day I collected her from the dealer. No, I wasn't feeling pangs of environmental guilt about the millions of carbon dioxides she poured out of her exhausts. (For the benefit of the mis-educated who may have been told otherwise CO2 is plant food - the vegetation on this good Earth can't exist without it. So, in driving the Rabbit I was actually helping to feed the lentils so beloved of the Guardian reading classes. You know the types I mean: they continually denigrate the internal combustion engine as one of Lucifer's most heinous creations, while seeing nothing wrong in jetting off to some foreign clime for a wee bit of eco-tourism. Can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?)

No, the loss of the Rabbit was down to simple economics. I was spending £2500 a year on fuel alone (and I was only covering 8000 miles a year - ouch!). A set of tyres for her lovely wheels cost a thousand quid (and would only last two years - more ouch!). And, contrary to popular belief, I'm not as rich as Croesus. Put simply, it just wasn't sustainable (now there's a word you won't find in this blog too often). So, a more realistic set of wheels was required. I tried a hybrid (don't panic, it wasn't a Prius, there's no need to have me committed to the rubber room) but it too carried unexpected running costs (a service every 5000 miles, what in the name of all that's unholy is that about?). So it too had to go. Next came a diesel (shock horror!); but again no need to have me committed, it was a Scirocco diesel. Nice.

That sufficed for a few years, but in the end I realised something was missing: fun. The Scirocco was just too sensible, too grown up. So it too had to go. And probably just in time, as the political winds seem to be swinging against diesel. The city clowncil (no, that's not misspelt) is proposing to charge diesel cars 20 quid - a day! - for the 'privilege' of driving into town. Of course, buses and taxis (both of which spew out far more NO2 and particulates than the private car which actually spends most of its day parked somewhere) will be exempt from this penalty. Once again, can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?

[At this point I was going to embark on a lengthy discourse about Edinburgh clowncil's ludicrous transport policies, but that's a post for another day. I would've explained how the solution would require lampposts and piano wire; hey, it worked on Mussolini. But any more wrongthink on my part today and the local Stasi will be knocking on my door (remember this is the country where a man can be - indeed has been - arrested for teaching his girlfriend's pug to seig heil; yea fucking gods)].

Anyway, the upshot is that I now drive a Mini Cooper and very nice it is too. Seems to tick all the relevant boxes. Ok, it doesn't quite have the drama of the Rabbit, but it is fun. And if I want to turn heads when I'm out on the road there's always my lovely (and loud) Harley.

Right, enough for now. I was going write more but I feel the need for a bacon sarnie (ethical bacon of course, Art-Girl insists). And I'd better enjoy it before bacon gets banned in the interests of 'tolerance', 'inclusion' and 'community cohesion'. Yes, there will be a future post on NewSpeak.

Ok, where's the bacon.

Chin chin

Welcome back my friends...

...to the show that never ends
We're so glad you could attend
Come inside, come inside

Hello Gentle Reader

I hope you'll forgive me kicking off with some lyrics from Emerson, Lake and Palmer, a band much diminished in recent years following the sad demise of Emerson (self-inflicted gunshot wound) and Lake (cancer). ELP no longer, now just 'P'. Actually that sounds like he could be a character in a James Bond movie. After all in the Bond-verse we have M (presumably for 'man at the top', or, more prosaically, 'manager'), we have Q (quartermaster, obviously) so why not P? And just what role would P play? Pianist? (Surely Bond musical have a musical accompaniment for all those dry martinis). Painter and decorator? (Gotta keep the MI6 HQ looking spruce). Pissoir attendant, perhaps? (I suspect that after all those martinis Bond's aim is a bit less than steady, resulting in, shall we say, a wee bit of over-spray... And someone's got to clean up the mess). But hey, I'm rambling. Not entirely a surprise as it's before 10:00 of a Sunday morn and I've not even had a cup of tea yet. That, at least, is something I can rectify. Bear with me while I make myself a refreshing cup of hotbrown...

[5 minutes later]

That's better. Right, onwards. You're probably wondering where I've been these past seven years. No? Not even maybe wondering?  Not even the most fleeting curiosity as to why there were no new blog posts? Ah, how soon they forget...

Well, for the record, I wasn't in chokey serving a 10 - 15 stretch for not using someone's preferred gender pronoun (commit vehicle thievery with violence and you might get a fine and community service, but fail to refer to some fruitcake as 'ze' and you'll be hauled off for re-education - North Korean stylee no doubt - pronto; identity politics will be addressed in a future blog post, bet you can't wait). I've not been away winning the Great British Bake Off (my name is not Nadiya Hussein and there's nothing soggy about my bottom).

No, the truth is rather more mundane: I lost the will to blog. I started feeling depressed (fear not, this isn't going to turn into some Diana-esque confessional) and the will to write just evaporated. Rather than entertaining you, Dear Reader, with the cockwaffle I'd previously been wont to churn out I found I'd rather be out walking along the coast, or disturbing the peace of the countryside with my Harley-Davidson. But the depression is now a thing of the past. No, I'm not on the happy pills, I found the cause (accidentally) and removed it, and in the process realised what a tit I can be. Read on.

One day, after brekkie, Art-Girl and I were discussing medicines and their side effects. Now, I wouldn't say I was rattling like Lance Armstrong but I was taking a number of meds for a gastric condition. Anyway, in the course of our chat, I pulled out the boxes of my various nostrums and started reading the list of ghastly conditions with which I might be afflicted. And there it was: common side effect - depression. All that time I'd been taking stuff that, whilst it was stopping me from feeling Pat 'n' Mick, was giving me a serious dose of the mopes. Buggeration! So I stopped taking it. And sure enough the depression vanished. Okay, my stomach feels a bit dodgy from time to time, but that's manageable with a vegan diet high in tofu and whole grains. Hey, I'm kidding. You really think I'd be eating that shite? I have a preference for eating actual food. Y'know meat, fish, pasta, kebabs (I always have the salad), beer. As Inspector Morse always said: beer is food. And given that beer's made from barley I'm sure it counts as one of the five-a-day that Nanny State is always exhorting us to consume.

Anyway, I'm back now and (ab)normal service will be resumed. So, what can you expect over the coming weeks and months? I guess I'd say more of what I served up previously (surely you weren't expecting any shocking originality), but perhaps with a bit more profanity (worry not, I'm not turning into Chubby Brown) and vitriol (there's much in the world that's making me angry). But always I'll try to give you a side order of humour (US readers will, I'm sure, not be too disconcerted by the UK spelling). A certain Dangerous Faggot (no, I'm not being homophobic, that's the appellation he's adopted for himself) says that you should always try to wrap the truth in a good joke. And that's my aim.

There will also be reviews and recommendations of movies and music, but, given that my tastes in sound and vision tend toward the esoteric (dyslexics please note I'm not referring to smut), you won't find anything on Coldplay or any of the Hunger Games movies. Rest assured, this blog will not be turning into the culture section of the Daily Express (or the Guardian for that matter, I have no interest in the Matabele Nose Flute Ensemble).

Right, I think that's enough for now. The sun is shining (well, trying to) and my Harley awaits. I'll see you again soon.

Chin chin

Thought for the day

Now now, calm down. I'm not about to go all 'Radio 4' on you and start writing the kind of wet-tissue tosh you hear on the Toady...oops! Freudian slip – the Today Programme. This will probably disappoint Art-Girl as she actually likes Thought For The Day, and actually has around half a dozen of 'em on her iPod. In my not so humble opinion this is a waste of good solid state memory (Art-Girl no doubt holds the same opinion about the many hours of prog rock that fill my iPod), but each to his or her own, right? So, you can relax Gentle Reader – I'm not about to start spouting platitudes like some Anglican lady vicar who doesn't actually believe in God, but does believe that if we all hold hands, sing 'Kumbaya', and ban the private car all will be well with the world. No, what you're about to get is TFTD Barguest-stylee.

Like the Lord my mind works in mysterious ways, and odd (sometimes very odd) thoughts or questions will arise unbidden. Anyway, here's today's: vegetarian bunny boilers – how does that work then? I mean seriously, is it even possible to have a veggie bunny boiler? Think about it: even though she's not gonna actually eat the bunny it must surely be against her veggie principles to stick it – alive - in a pot and boil it into a nice threatening message. So, what's the veggie bunny boiler to do to get back at the besuited Michael Douglas-a-like lothario that's used and spurned her? Well, she could always give up her vegetarian ways but, given that such people tend to be very earnest about their cause (I'm generalising, but that doesn't, necessarily, make it untrue), that's unlikely. She could always use a soft toy bunny, but given the way many kids abuse their toys boiling's gonna be something of a mercy for the rabbit.

Nope, I think there's only one answer: replace the bunny with something that's...acceptable to a vegetarian. So, if you've been having it away with a veggie, you've dumped her and she hasn't taken it too well, don't be surprised if your missus comes home to find a roasted parsnip or some lightly steamed broccoli in your pressure cooker. And, as I don't find cooked vegetables in a pot on the cooker particularly frightening or threatening, I think we've arrived at a tip: chaps if you are gonna play away from home (and your humble blogger neither recommends nor endorses such behaviour) pick a veggie in which to dip your wick. After all, what's the worst that's gonna happen? Your wife's gonna come home and think you've started cooking the dinner. Bonus!

Chin chin

Afterthought: writing this got me musing on the film 'Fatal Attraction' and the implausibility of it's plot. I mean, really, would you wanna bone Glenn Close? Me neither. She's got a face like a bloke and she looks scarier than Idi Amin having a tizzy. No, do the sensible thing: stick with the rather tasty missus back home and give the bunny a long and happy life.

This blog is rated 'O'...for 'old'

Recently Art-Girl was opining that some of the cultural references I use in this blog would be unlikely to be understood by anyone who was...oh, under a certain age shall we say. This, I think, was her way of telling me I'm an old fart (and the 'grumpy' prefix may be taken as read). Well, this left me thinking: should I change how I write so I is like all down wif da kids innit? Should I start referring to...well just what the Hell does interest the yoof of today? Apart from (c)rap music, bad hair styles, endlessly texting each other in what appears to sanskrit with all the vowels removed, and aspiring to appear in the pages of 'Heat' magazine and its ilk.

I freely confess I have no understanding of the yoof of today...oh, bugger that - I, at least, am capable of writing proper English: the youth of today. (Yea gods, I think I'm turning into my parents). But do I feel diminished for my lack of understanding? Err, no. I sit here, secure in my middle-aged grumpiness, knowing that one day - some years hence admittedly, but the day will come nevertheless - the youth of today will be exactly where I am now. And I, assuming I haven't shuffled off my mortal coil, will be a very grumpy old pensioner. Though hopefully not the sort who thinks buying trousers with elasticated waists from Greenwoods is a good idea. (Art-Girl will doubtless be pushing one of those tartan shopping bags on wheels up and down the cat food aisle at Tesco's and adopting 'ramming speed' for any young mothers who happen to get in her way).

So that's it settled - I'll continue to blog in my own, imitable, fashion. And if any references to 'Norman Tebbit' and why his name's funny with regard to cycling, or to 'The Tomorrow People' make no sense then you have a choice: you can either look it up (the internet's not just for porn you know), you can ask an old person (that's anyone over the age of 25, 30 or 40 depending on how old you are Dear Reader) or you could sod off and read something about who Russell Brand is, or is not, shagging this week.

Chin chin!

Biodiversity - good or bad? Discuss

 Hello Gentle Reader

The subject of today's post is biodiversity, a subject which has very recently been elevated on my agenda. Have you noticed how certain people...well, sandal-wearing, lentil-munching, Grauniad-reading ecomentalist people to be specific. Y'know, the sort who lie awake at night worrying that somewhere someone might just be enjoying themselves (probably with - Heaven forfend! - petrol or meat or both). Anyway, the subject of this post is not them as such, rather something very dear to their recycled little hearts, one of their sacred cows: biodiversity. They're always banging on about how it's a 'good thing', without ever explaining in what way exactly this is so. Well, I'm sorry...actually no I'm not. Being of a naturally sceptical turn of mind (reinforced by years of observation) I see no reason why I should apologise for questioning anything.

Ok, back on topic - biodiversity. We're constantly told it's a 'good thing' and we must preserve it at all costs, but rarely, if ever, why. Well, I have my own observations on this issue. What's that you say? They're not observations merely opinions. I say po-TAY-to you say po-TAH-to. Whatever. Except I'm right - you want to be right, go start your own blog!)

Bloody hell, I'm having trouble staying on topic today, it must be the drugs (don't panic - they really are for 'medicinal purposes'). Right, biodiversity - in the (not so humble) view of your humble blogger I think it's not as good a thing as the sandalistas make out and a little less of it might be appropriate. Now, before you reach for the keyboard to accuse me of being a meat-eating (let's just say the spit-roast I attended at the weekend in no way involved Premiership fottballers and a slapper name Tracy), petrol-using, heterosexual, man let me just say mea cupla to all of the above. But, consider this: ebola - is that a 'good thing'? (I suspect, if you asked them, most Africans would rather not expire by hemorrhaging copiously from every orifice). Or how about the smallpox virus? Surely the world wouldn't be that bad a place for its loss? How about lice, ticks, fleas (those good friends of that little bacillus yersinia pestis AKA bubonic plague) or tapeworms. I think we'd get along just fine if these little buggers went the way of the dinosaur. Or what about this particular critter:

Utter utter utter utter utter bastard (Culicoides impunctatus)

Art-Girl and I were away camping at the weekend, at a particularly idyllic spot on the shore of Loch Rannoch. Well, it was idyllic until myriad swarms of c. impunctatus descended upon us...well, mostly upon me. Bastards! I'm currently suffering from in excess of 100 very inflamed and itchy midge bites. Bites so bad that I'm taking antihistamine tablets and liberally coating myself in antihistamine cream, but for little relief. And before any of my loyal readers suggest "Oh, but you should've used Avon Skin So Soft" let me say I did use Avon Skin So Soft - it had no effect other than to give the little buggers a nice sticky surface to land on so they could bite me all the easier.

Apparently midges are attracted to the CO2 on their victim's breath. Well, now there's a potential midge avoidance approach: I'll simply stop exhaling. Hell, I'll stop respiring altogether - that ought to do the trick. Actually, that gives me an idea for an effective (probably) anti-midge strategy (no, not auto-asphyxiation) - what if I was to provide a diversionary source of CO2? What if I were to park the rabbit (that's my beloved Alfa Romeo for those readers new to this blog) nearby with her engine running? Well, she produces millions of carbon dioxides that are, according to the gummint who use it as a pretext for taxing me to buggery for the 'sin' of owning a nice car, killing the planet. That being the case I can put those carbon dioxides to good use: killing a very specific bit of the planet by enticing it up the exhaust pipe and flash-frying it in the catalytic converter.

So, in conclusion I think we can say that biodiversity is not universally a 'good thing' and that it can happily stand to lose at least this one species. So, if God or Gaia or an even more powerful entity (I have in mind some third world-exploiting multinational chemical corp) can arrange it for the Highland Midge to run up the curtain and join the Choir Invisible I'll be deeply grateful. Next week: I tell you what I really think of the polar bear and how I won't be the least bit sorry if it fucks off and dies too. Ok, that may make your little Julian and Jemima (for whom you adopted a WWF polar bear* last Crimbo) cry, but if that is the case you've gotta ask yourself just what the fuck are your kids doing reading a blog written by an angry bastard who makes liberal use of 'post-watershed' language?

Right, my bites are itching like a Turkish tart's chuff. I need relief (no, not that kind you dirty-minded individual) and I won't get it from poncey antihistamine cream. I know: a large G&T (or six) should do the trick.

Chin chin!

*I was totally unaware that the World Wrestling Federation did polar bears. I'd always assumed their stock in trade was big oiled up men with the oratory skills of a baboon and the mullets of a 1980s German heavy metal band. Just goes to show: you learn something new everyday.