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