Feeling Lusty

Taken from this lavvy wall

This week Contrast Podcast ventures into the realm of mortal sin by inviting us all to wade waist-deep in a steaming, roiling pool of thick, viscous, musical... LUUUST!!!

*Pant, pant, drool, quiver*

Ahem. Er, I'd best make this very quick, lest it get messy. Download the podcast here and prepared to get all hot 'n' bothered. Just have a cold shower running on standby, and watch out for the two dirty old men right at the beginning. Oh, and I found the tracklisting written up on the wall of a public lavatory:

(00:00) Intro from Mr G. Letch & Mr A. Thrub

(01:42) Betty Boo - Close the door
Tim from The face of today

(05:06) Betty Davis - Anti love song
Chris from Phosphorus.net

(09:51) She wants revenge - Tear you apart
Linda from Speed of dark

(15:16) Scraping foetus off the wheel - Lust for death
ZB from So the wind won’t blow it all away

(18:43) Gang of Four - Damaged goods
Sid from Too Much Rock

(22:28) The Jam - Start! (live)
Crash from Pretending life is like a song

(25:10) Amy Rigby - You get to me
Marcy from Lost in your inbox

(28:14) The Long Blondes - Lust in the movies
FiL from Pogoagogo

(31:27) Art Brut - Good weekend
Rick from Are you embarassed easily?

(34:39) Leon Haywood - I wanna do something freaky to you
Dirk from Sexy Loser

(41:47) Ultra Vivid Scene - Tar, iodine, blood and lust
Conrad from White Car Records

(44:42) Julian Cope - Eve’s volcano
Mark from Cinema du Lyon

(49:31) R.E.M. - Tounge
James from Jamesisadork

(53:45) Bruce Cockburn - Bone in my ear
Natalie from Mini-obs

(57:38) Prince - Sex temptation lust
Ross from Just gimme indie rock

You know, my choice (Lust in the Movies by The Long Blondes) somehow got me musing on pop cultcha dames I'd lusted after at one point or another. So, at the risk of totally humiliating myself, here's an abbreviated, annotated, and chronological catalogue of FiL's past lusts:

1) Catwoman. Yes, I know, there have been soooo many, y'all are dying to know which one tickled my fancy. Well, it was Julie Newmar in the glorious (sorry Mentok) sixties TV version. Yep, she was my first crush at around the precocious age six. Rrrrrroooowww!!

Link Wray - Batman Theme (buy here or e-here)

2) Marie Osmond. Yes, I religiously watched the Donny & Marie Show as a bairn. My Marie - that hair! Those chipmunk cheeks! Those dresses!! Embarrassing to think of it now, but back then, I'd be her little bit of country or rock 'n' roll or whatever.

But I confess: her teeth, huge and white like marble headstones, creeped me out. So much so that one day I took a pin to my theretofore sacred Donny & Marie LP sleeve and punched cavities in her toothy Mormon grin. It was then I knew we were not meant to be.

Donny & Marie Osmond - A Little Bit Country (buy here)

3) Princess Leia. Oh man, those hair buns... But by the time she started getting all galactic with Han Solo, I was so over her.

Meco - Star Wars Theme (buy here)

4) Olivia Newton-John. Er, um, I blame circumstances beyond my control. Physical came out around the time puberty hit. My hormones were all over the place.

Olivia Newton-John - Physical (buy here)

But these days I far prefer this version:

Revolting Cocks - (Let's Get) Physical (buy here)

5) Siouxsie Sioux. I am your humble servant, O my Goth Queen...

Siouxsie & The Banshees - Dazzle (buy here)

6) Kate Bush. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. However, I wasn't as smitten as one of my Dearest Friends was. Indeed, there was a high school French teacher at our school who bore an uncanny resemblance to the lushly maned warbler, much to his delight and anguish.

Kate Bush - Sat In Your Lap (buy here)

7) L7. All of them. In a vat of baked beans, please.

L7 - Fast and Frightening (buy here )

8) PJ Harvey. This woman is simply amazing in every way. Makes my heart go thrub, thrub, thrub...

PJ Harvey - Sheela Na Gig (buy here)

9) Audrey Hepburn. I don't much fawn over movie stars, but Audrey, oh my! Such grace, such style, such dignity. And she rode a Vespa. Le sigh. Le swoon.

Audrey Hepburn - Moon River (buy here)

I think that's what Eminem would call "cleanin' out my closet." Alright Dearest Friends, now it's your turn. Which slebs of screen, stage, or sound did/do you lust after??

Low-Life Lullabies

Three glorious Tiger Lillies

The bloke in the pub was furious, shouting accusations of blasphemy in harsh, drunken Irish tones at the trio playing in the corner. The singer, a short, round man in a bowler, white shirt, and baggy black trousers held up by suspenders, leaned forward from the two-foot-high stage until he was face-to-face with the heckler. He continued to squeeze his accordion manically while spitting out the song's lyrics in falsetto:

I'm crucifying Jesus, nail him to the cross
The poor old bastard bleeds to death and I don't give a toss
I'm bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang banging in the nails
I'm bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang banging in the nails...

His bandmates, a skinny beanpole on upright bass and a rotund hulk on drums, looked at each other and smirked. The singer and heckler kept at it for some time, a few snarling inches apart, until the drunken Irishman was escorted out the pub's front door.

And that, Dearest Friends, was my introduction to the sick and twisted Tiger Lillies. And I loved it.

What this band does is quite unlike anything I have ever heard. Their music has been described as surreal-anarcho-punk-cabaret, their lyrics as blasphemous, blackly humorous, bawdy, and both Brechtian and Freudian. The world they inhabit is replete with prostitutes, lunatics, murderers, perverts, boogeymen, addicts, and misfits. But make no mistake; this is not just shock opera. Well, alright, a good bit of it is. But their raw, on-the-edge musical depictions of cartoonish grotesques reveal both a strong sense of compassion for us deeply flawed humans, and fierce outrage at the injustices of society.

Singer Martyn Jacques's apparently draws much of his material from the seven years he spent in London's Soho living above a brothel. In the late eighties he hooked up with two Adrians: percussionist Huge and bassist Stout. The compost in which they wallow has made them incredibly prolific: twenty-two albums, collaborations with the Kronos Quartet and Edward Gorey, an amazing adaptation of Heinrich Hoffmann's macabre Shockheaded Peter fairytales, and a Grammy nomination. Marilyn Manson loves them, as do Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos, David Byrne, Matt Groening, Terry Gilliam, and, of course, I. But, not surprisingly, they've always stayed out of the mainstream, swimming instead in murky tributaries.

So why have I chosen now to post about them? Well, for months I've been intending to confess to you all my love of the Lillies. But the immediate catalyst is that they're playing Vancouver tomorrow night, in, of all places, a deconsecrated church -- I simply cannot wait!! Dearest Friends, between now and year-end they're also playing these dates in Canada, on both coasts of the US, and in continental Europe. I beg you, go see them.

And so, onto the music. If you've not yet figured it out, let me paraphrase the Canadian Broadcast Standards Council: "The following songs contain scenes of violence, coarse language and nudity intended for adult audiences. Listener discretion is advised."

The Tiger Lillies - Banging in the Nails
The Tiger Lillies - Sheep
The Tiger Lillies - Whore
The Tiger Lillies - Snip Snip
The Tiger Lillies with the Symphony Orchestra of Norrlandsoperan - Masturbating Jimmy
The Tiger Lillies - Kill You
The Tiger Lillies - Heroin & Cocaine

Find out all about The Tiger Lillies over here. You can e-buy large swathes of their music here or if you'd like to get your grubby mitts on the hard stuff, have a look over here.

And here's a wee bit of the live experience for you. From a June 2007 show in Moscow.

Back Where I Belong

Ena Sharples. Maybe.

Dearest Friends, I have returned from Back East, where I had a funny old ten days or so. Funny, and absolutely knackering. Indeed, my head still feels hollow, like its very pith has been scraped out by a dull spoon.

And I'm not sure when I'll find the downtime to recover...

The businessy bits went well; lotsa "useful" meetings and a couple of dog 'n' pony presentations (yes, I remembered to make 'em larf) interspersed with drunken gluttony into the wee hours, all the name of "relationship building." But the whole exercise was a bit sterile.

The absolute highlight of the trip, however, was meeting up with hizzoner JC, a/k/a The Vinyl Villain, for a long evening of utterly enjoyable japery. What a splendid chap he is! Generous, highly amusing, and brimming with passion for that which is dear to him, most obviously music and his own dear wife. I owe a particular debt to him for sharing with me his Toronto, the one which he has come to know during his few months in-country. He led me down Queen Street and its funky wee boutiques, stopping at a cool-as-fuck bar for a few alky bevvies. We then headed up to Little Italy, where I dined on baked strangled priests at his favourite trattoria, thence to the small-but-perfectly-formed Soundscapes where we spent a good deal of time browsing the esoteric CDs, DVDs, and books on offer. And, as he so candidly and correctly recounts in his account of our meeting, we ended up on the patio of a wanky jazz bar sometime after midnight. Oh, and there was indeed nude life drawing involved, of an Ena-Sharplesish bent (see photo above). Thanks to JC, I've now somewhat modified my rather lackluster view of Toronto - it isn't all just bland downtown core and dead lake. Next time I'll know where to go.

Mouse Eat Mouse - Mair Licht (buy here or e-here)
Coz JC's Scottish, you know. And it was our mutual friend Colin who brought this gem to my attention.

Richard Cheese - People = Shit [Slipknot Cover] (buy here or e-here)
The jazz was truly yawnsome. And JC did poke fun at my metal tendencies...

On Friday it was off to Noo Yawk Ciddy for a weekend visit to Mother. The trip down was aggravating beyond belief; my flight was canceled, which meant I had to reclaim my bags and clear Canadian customs to "reenter" the country, since for flights to the US you go through American immigration just after checking in. Then back to check-in, revisit US passport control, another strip search at security, yada yada yada. But I did have some very interesting conversations with about half-a-dozen fellow travelers along the way, so it wasn't all bad...

And my visit? Well, Saturday was nice. At least the exquisite cilantro (that's coriander for you Brits) & lime martini with my lunch at The Modern was. And the rest of the weekend? Utter disaster. I shan't go into details, but both mindfulness and compassion abandoned me in the face of unrelenting emotional onslaught. Sigh.

Ned's Atomic Dustbin - Happy (buy here )

But it's good to be back, and I have the latest Contrast Podcast to look forward to! This week it's limericks all around, and I'm eager to hear all the poetry. You can download it yourself here, and check out the listings and comments here.

Flying Time

His flight, not mine. But you get the general idea.

Hello, Dearest Friends! This post is coming atcha from Taah-raah-naah, aka Toronto, where I flew on Sunday to do businessy things all week. Digs are quite comfy, if corporately bland (The Sheraton), and methinks I'll be fed and wined to excess if I'm not careful. Last night saw me at Canoe, 54 stories up above the city. I had a lovely meal (roasted cuttlefish & calamari to start, followed by Nunavut caribou), but it was one of those places where food, drizzled with fussily named fluids, rested on beds of of more food, after being lightly or delicately prepared. I always feel uncomfortable when it takes a waiter three minutes to describe what I'm about to eat...

I'm not a fan of Toronto; while not the size or pace of either London or New York, it's a concrete citadel full of fast-flowing folks too busy to say "Hello" or smile. The vast Lake Ontario on which it sits strikes me as flat and sterile, almost as if it has been boiled in some apocalyptic nuclear or chemical catastrophe. However, it is currently the home of one displaced Scot, and we're hoping to meet up and sup later this week in one of the city's ethnic neighbourhoods. Maybe that'll change my view somewhat.

So, onto time. Sigh. As of late there seems to be far too much on for the puny 24 hours that inhabit each day to accomodate. Double sigh. Dearest Wife recently started a part-time teaching gig that prep, lectures, marking, and lacksadaisical first-years have conspired to turn into virtually full time. Triple sigh. And then there's all this child-rearing and parenting stuff. Quadruple sigh.

Dearest Tim has been in a similar timeless space recently, hence this week's Contrast Podcast theme of Time. Download the current episode here

(00:00) The Smiths - These things take time
Tim from The face of today

(03:02) PJ Harvey - One time too many
Lyle from Mentok the Mind-Taker

(07:09) Wesley Willis - He’s doing time in jail
Pieter from Two tramps in mud time

(11:17) Eat - First time love song
Ross from Just gimme indie rock

(15:04) Jean Louis Murat - L’horloge (english translation)
ZB from So the wind won’t blow it all away

(19:08) Bob Dylan - Most of the time
Nuno from Undercover songs

(24:14) Rancid - Time bomb
James from Jamesisadork

(27:02) Secret Affair - Time for action
FiL from Pogoagogo

(32:15) Flight of the Conchords - Business time
Marcy from Lost in your inbox

(36:33) Joe Jackson - Got the time
Sid from Too Much Rock

(39:43) ballboy - I don’t have time to stand here with you fighting about the size of my dick
Dirk from Sexy Loser

(43:44) Clint Black - No time to kill
Rick from Are you embarassed easily?

(48:43) They Might Be Giants - 25 o’clock
Linda from Speed of dark

(52:34) Half Man Half Biscuit - Time flies when you’re the driver of a train
Crash from Pretending life is like a song

(55:42) Johnny Cash - Time of the preacher
Natalie from Mini-obs

(59:47) Weddings, Parties, Anything - For a short time
Anna from Music I-Quiz

(01:06:13) Matt McGinn - Little ticks of time
Dweller from Child without an iPod

I thought it was high time we had a spot of classic mod revivalism, hence my choice. But there were other timely tunes in the running:

Culture Club - Time (Clock of the Heart) (buy here)
Yes, I seriously considered this track, on a nostalgic tip.

GBH - Race Against Time (buy here)
Perhaps a hangover from last week's fit of noise. Leather, bristles and studs please, but hold the acne.

The Pop Group - We Are Time (buy here)
Frm punk to post-punk, even though GBH came later. Argh, timeline confusion!!

The Jam - Just Who Is the 5 o'clock Hero? (buy here)
Er, that'd be me, sort of. Without the lunchbox.

Ndidi Onukwulu - May Be The Last Time (buy e-here or here)
If you don't know Ndidi, you need to.

Right, must fly off for drinks. Maybe I'll have the narwhal for dinner tonight...

Short & Sweet

It's Tuesday, and that means it's Contrast Podcast day. But first, a confession: I've been unfaithful. Yes, I admit it, last week I omitted to draw your attention to the 'cast, whose theme was (wait for it) Infidelity. So if you're feeling guilty, atone by hopping over here for a listen.

But this week, Dearest Friends, we're celebrating the Short Song. Yes, each and every tune is under two minutes in length, but uses its allotted time wisely. And Napalm Death makes it's CP debut! Hooray for Ross!! Anyway, you can download the podcast here, then pop on over here to comment. And the twenty-five (count 'em!) bijoux on offer are:

(00:00) Jacques Dutronc - Mini mini mini
Tim from The face of today

(02:38) Catherine Feeny - Mr Blue
Marcy from Lost in your inbox

(04:41) Shellac - Boche’s dick
Chris from Phosphorus.net

(06:42) Sparks - Propaganda
Conrad from White Car Records

(07:55) thinguma*jigsaw - Who’s laughing now
ZB from So the wind won’t blow it all away

(09:28) Brakes - Comma comma comma full stop
Coxon from To die by your side

(09:44) Keller Williams - Old lady from Carlsbad
Anna from Music I-Quiz

(11:12) Shonen Knife - Tortoise brand pot cleaner theme
FiL from Pogoagogo

(12:44) Descendants - Suburban home
James from Jamesisadork

(14:53) The Lemonheads - Being around
Dirk from Sexy Loser

(17:11) U.S. Rail - Grind like a girl
Chip from Atomic Ned

(18:57) Denim - Tampax advert
Lyle from Mentok the Mind-Taker

(20:29) Janis Joplin - Mercedes Benz
Natalie from Mini-obs

(22:20) Hüsker Dü - Never talking to you again
Sid from Too Much Rock

(24:35) The theme from My So Called Life
Charles from Heartache with hard work

(26:10) Liam Lynch - United states of whatever
Greg from Broken Dial

(27:54) Smudge - Babaganoosh
Tom from Better in the Dark

(28:21) Kevn Kinney - Untitled
Linda from Speed of dark

(30:17) Mark Lanegan Band - Bombed
Matthew from Song by Toad

(32:29) Camille - Janine I
Kate from The Glorious Hum

(33:31) Loudon Wainwright III - Liza
Shaun from Cold Citrus

(35:19) Neutral Milk Hotel - King of carrot flowers
Pieter from Two tramps in mud time

(38:39) Asylum Street Spankers - Wake & bake
Cindy from Adzuki Bean Stash

(40:49) Elastica - All nighter
Crash from Pretending life is like a song

(43:01) Napalm Death - You suffer
Ross from Just gimme indie rock

I've long maintained that the Shonen Knife track I submitted is the pithiest, rockingest small song that I know, so my choice was easy. That said, I did briefly consider submitting any one of a number of hardcore/grindcore/thrashcore/noisecore tracks. You see, I have quite a twisted affinity for these genres and the fearsome nuggets of noize they produce. So here's what else was nominally in the running:

Black Flag - Wasted (buy here or e-here)
Before Henry Rollins flew the flag...

The Locust - Kill Roger Hedgecock (buy here or e-here)
I've never listened to conservative trash radio, nor do I recommend violence as a solution to problems. But this bit of blitz & scorch is amazing. You say you can't make out the lyrics? Well, it goes " Most things go unnoticed with your eyes gouged out. They can only twist your arm so much. " I bet you can hear it now...

Stormtroopers of Death - Chromatic Death (buy here)
SOD were the first to fuse hardcore with thrash, which I think is a good thing.

Rudimentary Peni - Media Person (buy here)
Anarcho-punk a go go - rage out!! Named after something the guitarist read in a school textbook about the fetal clitoris being a rudimentary penis. Or something.

OK, there was one song I considered that wasn't a sub-minute screamer. But it was about penises.

Monty Python - Penis Song (Not The Noel Coward Song) (buy here)

I'm Adaptable And I Like My New Role

Dearest Mentok's lovely comment here brought to the fore a question I often ask myself: How the heck did I end up doing what I do??

I mean this in the sense of career, of bacon-on-the-table job, of gainful employ. For you see, I am at happiest with words, with music, with people, with stories. And yet I have ended up in a field heavily planted with numbers, studded with balance sheets, and irrigated by rivers of ca$hflow. My leanings are lefty, pinko, liberal, but I have found myself most usually surrounded by conservative capitalists.

Now I must say that where I ply my trade now is much more in line with my values. Back in En-ger-lund I was for eleven years a cog in a mighty money machine whose sole purpose was to generate profit and boost share price. All else was irrelevant, resistance was futile. Nowadays I'm in the bosom of a co-operative financial system that explicitly puts people before profits. The folk are good & nice, if still capitalist. And they have heart.

However, I'm still a banker, and I don't feel like one.

I must say this disconnect doesn't bother me as much now as it did prior to my move to Vancouver over two years (yoiks!) ago. This is due in equally large parts to the aforementioned nature of my employer, a greatly recalibrated work/life balance, and the fact that I love living in Vancouver. Love it. Loveitloveitloveit. It's also due to the move itself; you see, we were wrapped in heavy cloak of inertia that kept us weighted down where we were. But there was also a comfortable lining to that inertia, one woven of familiarity and the known. Casting off that garment was scary and unsettling, but ultimately liberating. For now I know that if ever I find myself wearing it again, I can, in fact, take it off.

So, I'm still a banker, and I don't feel like one. But that's OK, something wonderful is bound to happen at some point.

Ach, enough of my navel-contemplating, and onto the tunes! Rather appropriately, this has been on the empeethree playah in the car of late. I guarantee you if you crank it up while driving, roll down the windows, and belt it out at top volume, folks will get out of your way. Possibly marvelling at your uber-cool taste, but possibly not.

Public Image Limited - This Is Not A Love Song (try eBay)

Yes, another PiL track. That's two in two days (I'm still trying to banish those wee mummies from my head, I should get there by the weekend), but you deserve it! You should likewise get yerself over to see the Spoilt Victorian Child and his recent PiL piece.

And since you're all so lovely, Dearest Friends, here are a few PiL viddies to viddy. I purposefully skipped that of "Love Song," as it's actually rather cheesy - Johnny Lydon gurning in front of skyscrapers and being chauffeured around in a vintage automobile. Yawn! These, however, are sublime:



Public Image



Careering



Bad Life

Too Much To Dream

Dream amphitheatre pinched from here

For the past several years my dreams have been few, unremarkable, and, for the most part, forgotten within minutes of waking up. Last night, however, I had one that has remained vividly with me for the entire day.

Unfortunately it was not very pleasant.

I was in a bus with a faceless, nameless friend. We were driving through the streets of a town in Sweden. After a bit of twisting and turning down narrow, shop-lined streets, we stopped at an stone amphitheatre set into a mountainside. My friend and I disembarked and entered the arena. A few people milled about, and we decided to climb up the stepped bleachers. As we ascended, the sun beat down on us and a stiff breeze ruffled our hair. We reached the topmost bleacher, but I carried on climbing the few extra meters to the top of the mountain ridge.

As I neared the crest, I notices what appeared to be a square of cloth suspended between two upright sticks in the ground. It flapped in the wind like a Tibetan prayer flag. Drawing closer, I could see that it was more like a baby's all-in-one suit. When I got up close, I realized with dread that it was, in fact, the body of a child, dessicated by the sun and breeze.

Recoiling, I noticed another mummified infant in bright clothing, lying face-down in the scrubby grass. I hoped what I was seeing was the evidence of a local burial practice. Then, turning to my left, I saw another small, grey form, not quite so dried out. I bent down and picked it up. It too was a child, perhaps one year old. Only it was still alive, albeit just. It turned its face to me, and opened its mouth to scream or cry, but all that issued forth was a white froth.

I was seized by dull horror and helplessness. And then I woke up.

Only a dream, Dearest Friends, but a troubling, vexing, and discomfiting one that I've not yet been able to shake. Perhaps this will help me to do so.

The Fall - Arid Al's Dream (only released on 1992's Volume 4 compilation; try eBay)
Public Image Limited - Bad Baby (buy here)
Nurse With Wound - Echo Poeme Sequence No. 2 (large file; buy here)

That Old Feeling

Yes, I know, I'm late. Contrast Podcast came out this past Tuesday and I'm only now getting around to posting about it. I'm a delinquent FiL...

This week saw a celebration of 78 rpm vinyl. Indeed, skool doesn't get much older than that, unless you go back to wax cylinders. And what an eclectic celebration it is! Everything from Elvis to Hawaiian hula to Ferrante & Teicher. Truly one of the more contrastic podcasts of late. So don't pull your nose just because there's no Wedding Present, Sufjan Stevens, or Arcade Fire - have a listen to it here and expand your musical horizons! And if you want the tracklisting or are minded to comment, then pop on over here.

Unfortunately I no longer have any 78 rpm records; I believe they got lost somewhere between multiple moves and one basement flood. But my choice this week, Gracie Fields' "Biggest Aspidistra In The World," though ripped from a CD, was originally released back in 1938 on a 78. I was first introduced to Gracie Fields's music some thirteen years ago, under circumstances that spawned what are probably permanent emotional resonances.

Though born Up North in Derbyshire, My Great Uncle Don lived for most of his life in Shoeburyness, close to Southend-on-Sea in Essex. That's about forty miles due East of London. He was a pharmacist and for many years he and his wife, Ida, ran a local chemists in nearby Westcliff-on-Sea. My Father was very close to his Uncle Don and Aunt Ida, and while a teenager and a young adult in the 1940s and 1950s he would frequently visit them, often taking his rugby friends along. He regarded them almost as parents and spoke very fondly both of them and of his time in Southend. Ah, the Kursaal...

For the first few years that I lived in the UK, I would go down from Cambridge to Shoeburyness every so often to visit Uncle Don. By that time he was a widower in his late eighties. Uncle Don looked like a cross between a bulldog and a stout Flemish duchess and was always dapperly dressed in Marks & Spencer best. He was an infallibly polite man, though he held very strong conservative views and did not suffer fools gladly. He also had an dryly impish sense of humour.

My visits always followed the same script. After arriving at Southend Central train station on a Sunday, I would take a taxi to his modest bungalow near the seashore and then we would make our way to Thorpe Hall Golf Club, where he was a highly respected member emeritus. We would first have a drink in the club bar --Uncle Don always had a bottle of Worthington's White Shield strong pale ale-- then decamp to the dining room for a traditional English lunch of overcooked vegetables, decent roast meat of some sort, and a sticky pudding. We would then return to his bungalow, settle into his 1949 vintage sitting room, and chat for a while.

While conversation was occasionally grueling (due largely to his Northern taciturnity), more often than not I got him talking about my Father and The Old Days, and I just lapped up his stories. After a while he would suggest I put the kettle on and we would then sup tea with the TV on until he fell asleep in his armchair. I would then wait a respectable period of time, then loudly declare, as if we had been chatting all along, that Goodness, I'd better think about catching my train back to Cambridge.

Upon getting back to my digs, I would ring my Father in New York to relay the essence of my visit. It was usually late, and I would frequently be grumpy and irritated as a result of British Rail delays. Dad would always thank me for having gone to see Uncle Don, as distance and circumstance meant that he couldn't do so himself. And I was always pleased that I had been able to do it for him, pleased enough to significantly mitigate the irritation and grump.

In late 1994, at the age of 92, Uncle Don took rather poorly. After a spell in a nursing home, he was admitted to hospital following a suspected mild stroke. At the time I had just started work in The City and was in the midst of a distasteful crash-course on Basic Accounting For The Numerically Challenged. Nevertheless, a sense of urgency settled over my debit and credit thoughts, so I told my Father that I would go visit him one evening at Rochford Hospital. When I finally arrived, some two hours after setting out (thanks again, British Rail), I wasn't even certain whether or not he knew I was there; his eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling, and a horrid, raspy breathing laboured out of his gaping mouth. I told him that my Father sent his love and jabbered about I-remember-not-what for about fifteen minutes before taking my leave. He died later that night. My father was more grateful than ever that I had made the visit.

In planning the funeral, my Father asked me to track down a copy of Gracie Field's "Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye." Apparently Uncle Don had mentioned to Dad that he'd quite like to have that jaunty song played at his funeral. I located a Gracie compilation, and on the appointed day the song duly rang forth as a conveyor belt carried Uncle Don's coffin from an achingly kitsch chapel into the flaming heart of Southend Crematorium. I remember my Father sobbing openly, oblivious to the confusion of the other attendees who had not been forewarned of the musical choice.

So that's how I met Gracie. And every time I hear her, I think of Uncle Don, overcooked vegetables, Southend-on-Sea, Worthington's White Shield, and journeys on old British Rail slam-door trains.

And of my Father. Crying.

Gracie Fields - Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye (buy here or e-here)

Talking Out His Backside

That Iranian president guy, wozzisname, Ahmadinejad. Yeah, him wot spoke at Columbia University today. Anyway, put aside the nuclear question. Ignore his crackpot views on the Holocaust. And on women. What really got me was this:

"In Iran, we don't have homosexuals, like in your country. We don't have that in our country. In Iran, we do not have this phenomenon. I don't know who's told you that we have it."

Er, maybe that's because the regime has either killed them all or beaten it out of them?

Woman + woman, woman + man, man + man. It's all the same. Or should be.

Hey, look! A video! Pay attention, kiddies.

Senseless Things - Homophobic Asshole


Oh, alright. And just to drive home the point, here's a dab of queercore for you:

Pansy Division - Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond Of Each Other (buy here)

Of Cars and Men

I know this isn't a particularly original question. Indeed, it's a rather tired, cliched one that I've often seen trotted out in weak stand-up comedy routines and small-talk circles. But I'm going to ask it anyway:

What is it about cars that turns men into drooling, acerebral, aggressive baboons?

I ask because two separate incidents over the past week each brought the query to mind. Two times that led me to ponder whether castration might actually be a useful tool for social control.

I usually drive into work fairly early each morning, when the roads are fairly empty and the sun, at least this time of the year, is just starting to poke over the horizon. Our local speed limit is 50 KPH, but I usually tool along the long, straight stretch of my journey at the constabularially-accepted 60 KPH. I was doing just that one morning when a big, fuck-off pickup truck roared up behind me, and sat on my tailgate. I maintained my speed, and I could feel the hostility drilling through the back windscreen into my skull.

I slowed to a stop at a red light, next to a brightly-clad and lit bicyclist waiting to my right. The fuck-off truck pulled over slightly to the right and stopped, right behind the cycle. Just before the light turned green, the cyclist started off (naughty, naughty) and I did the same when the light actualy turned. Fuck-Off Truck then gunned his engine, swung right into the intersection, then left in an attempt to cut in front of me. I could see there was about two car lengths between me/Fuck-Off and the cyclist, and less than a length between the cyclist and a rw of parked cars dead ahead of him. I had a flash vision of a car-crash club sandwich consisting of me, Fuck-Off, a parked car, and cyclist-as-ketchup. So I hit the breaks and let Fuck-Off craze in front of and ahead of me, and past the oblivious cyclist. As he did, I glanced and noted that he was definitely a he. Thoughts of sheep-shears and de-orchidation crossed my mind and followed him as he roared away dig at least 80 KPH, though they were somewhat tempered by smugness when, still sticking at 60 KPH, I caught up with him at the next traffc light.

The other incident occurred last weekend, when I was taking Little Man and Dearest Daughter to some regular activity or other. I was pootling aong my normal route, and approached from the south a four-lane avenue in preparation of crossing it. As I rolled to a stop I spied a lady in a flourescent jacket standing in the gap of the grassy central reservation that divided the eastbound and westbound lanes. She was holdng a stop sign and pointed to my right. I then looked past her and caught sight of flocks of cyclists whizzing past. Some sort of sportng event. Mildly miffed, I huffed and turned right, hoping to turn left at he next intersection and continue on my way. Only there were similar flourescent people at all the intersections for the next several blocks.

Miffed grew to frustrated, frustrated grew to fuming, and I launched a mini-rant about the bloody cheek of it all and the stupidity of shutting down a large stretch of a major road without warning and how we were going to be late. The bairns were uncharacteristically silent. So I dipsied, and I doodled, and found an alternate route. I noted we were only about five minutes behind schedule, then realized that even if we were late it wouldn't have been a huge deal. Fuming then turned to sheepish. So I told Little Man and Darling Daughter that Daddy had been really silly, shouldn't have made such a fuss about nothing, and had forgotten that grumping soles nothing. They agreed with me. But I silently wondered why sitting behind the wheel had caused such a rush of testosterone to the brain...

So, I repeat: What is it about cars that turns men --myself occasionally included-- into drooling, acerebral, aggressive baboons??

Catatonia - Road Rage (buy here )
Oh, my lovely Cerys, you give me road rage summat fierce...

Fu Manchu - King of the Road (buy here)
No, this isn't Roger Miller's "trailer-for-sale-or-rent" ditty. This is the heavy, heavy stoner sound of SoCal's Manchus.

The Normal - Warm Leatherette (buy here)
Bleepy, whiny, antiseptic, early Mute magnificence. All hail the Korg 700s.

Prolapse - Autocade (buy here)
Ooooh, any excuse to post summat from these Leicester-born, arty post-punks who are, alas, no longer with us. NOTE: Be very careful when Googling Prolapse as you may run into some very unpleasant stuff...

Drive Like Jehu - Atom Jack (buy here)
This band looked to the Bible for their name, specifically 2 Kings 9.20: "and the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously." But this ain't no Christian rock, boys & girls. In 1995 frontman Speedo ditched DLJ in favour of his other project, the mighty Rocket From The Crypt.

In 1977

This week the seventy-seventh episode of Contrast Podcast takes us back to 1977. Ah, what a year! You see, dearest Friends, 1977 was my Year Zero.

Twice.

I saw Star Wars for the first time in 1977 and my eight-year-old imagination was completely enraptured. Thirty years on, the film still gives me thrills and chills, which I'm hopefully imparting to my very own children. Why, just the other day Little Man and I watched Empire Strikes Back together and now we have a splendid little game where I wheeze like an asthmatic scuba diver and proclaim in a Vaderian rumble "I AM YOUR FATHER!!" Little Man squeals in delight, retracts his arm into his sleeve, and runs around gleefully shouting "AAAAH! You cut off my hand!!" Yes, the delight continues.

The second Year Zero dawned when I first heard 1977's Never Mind The Bollocks as a callow, Billy-Joel-fed teen. It was a lightning bolt; then and there I knew nothing would ever be the same.

And so, now have a listen to 1977 through the eyes and ears of the Contrast Podcast contributors:

(00:00) The Pockets - Doin’ the do
Tim from The face of today
(03:08) The Clash - 1977
FiL from Pogoagogo
(07:07) Jackson Browne - Nothing but time
Marcy from Lost in your inbox
(10:54) Elvis Costello - Watching the detectives
Lyle from Mentok the Mind-taker
(16:40) The Fall - Last orders
Chris from Phosphorous.net
(19:30) Fleetwood Mac - Never going back again
Anna from Music I-Quiz
(22:58) The Saint Orchestra - The Return of The Saint
Shaun from Cold Citrus
(26:28) T.Rex - Dandy in the underworld
Natalie from Mini-obs
(31:46) The Heartbreakers - One track mind
ZB from So the wind won’t blow it all away
(34:35) David Bowie - Heroes
The Duke of Straw from The Late Greats
(38:28) Led Zeppelin - Rock and roll
James from Jamesisadork
(42:26) Peter Gabriel - Solsbury Hill
Linda from Speed of dark
(47:53) AC/DC - Whole lotta Rosie
Dweller from Child without an iPod
(54:18) Ian Dury - Blockheads
Crash from Pretending life is like a song
(58:28) The Vibrators - You broke my heart
Mark from Cinema du Lyon

I'm thrilled to see that no-one deployed The Eagles' Hotel California, which is at the very top of FiL's least favourite songs EVAH list. I was also pleased to see a good dollop of punk - Vibrators, Heartbreakers, Fall, hooray! Given my preferences, I'd have loved to see MORE, but that's just being selfish. That said, over here it's MY blog and I want MORE PUNK!! So, herewith a few more choonz to pogo to, all of which were under consideration for this week, and all of which were born in, around, or of that magical year, 1977:

The Cortinas - Fascist Dictator (buy here or e-here or on eBay if you want the original 7")
Bristol band who wore their R&B influences on their leather sleeves. Picked their name cos it sounded cheap & nasty, just like the car.

Siouxsie & the Banshees - Mittageisen (buy here)
The lovely Siouxsie slid into punk as part of the Bromley Contingent, a group of fans who followed round after The Pistols. First Banshees gig was an impromptu filler slot at the notorious 100 Club Punk festival in December 1976, with none other than Sid Vicious on drums. They played a rambling version of The Lord's Prayer. Hallowed be their name...

The Damned - Neat Neat Neat (buy here)
Second single from these original editions, who are still going strong. They've been referred to as "The Beatles of punk" due to their longevity and influence. And if they end up like the Rolling Stones we'll never know, since gothy lead singer Dave Vanian has always brought an element of the undead to their performances (boom-boom, no, please hold your applause).

X-Ray Spex - Oh Bondage, Up Yours [Live] (buy here or e-here)
Fronted by the snotty, spotty, lippy, and formidable Polly Styrene, this lot made a righteous din and used sax to great effect. Here you have them loud & live at The Roxy, which for a brief, shining moment was one of the epicentres of London punk.

The Sex Pistols - God Save The Queen [Live] (again, try eBay if you're keen)
Surely you don't need me to explain who these lads are... Here for your consideration is a vinyl rip from a bootleg recording of a couple of 1977 Swedish concerts. The sound quality is crap, but listen for the feeling more than the sound fidelity. You'll get the point.

Richard Hell & The Voidoids - Love Comes In Spurts (buy here )
Ah, we cannot forget the Yankee cousins. Indeed, punk arguably started in the Yoo Ess ov Aaay, c.f. New York Dolls, The Ramones, et. al. Indeed, Malcom McLaren, the crafty impresario behind The Pistols, claims the Kentucky-born Hell gave him (and therefore his wife, Vivienne Westwood) the idea for all that safety-pin-and-torn-clothing gubbins. The Pistols say McLaren is full of shit.

Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers - Born to Lose (buy here or e-here)
Huzzah for ZB!!! He has most excellent taste!! Noo Yoiker Thunders started out as bassist for the incomparable New York Dolls before plowing his own punk furrow. Richard Hell was also a Heartbreaker for a while. Thunders made his guitar scream, hung out with The Ramones, and necked all sorts of illicit substances. In 1991 he was found dead under a coffee table in his New Orleans hotel room, contorted "like a pretzel." Rumours of foul play still abound.

Oh, and you MUST have a wee viddy of how it all was:

Those nice Sex Pistols:



Oh Siouxsie! Sigh...



Ms Styrene & her X-Ray Spex:




Next week, more numerical japery as Tim asks us to contribute songs that would have originally been released on 78 RPM records. We're talking real old school. How can you contribute? Well, find out over here.

Skool is Kool

Top of the class!!!

So, Dearest Friends, it's that glorious time of the year when those of us with offspring dance a merry jig of relief as wee Cressida and Tarquin return to the hallowed halls of edjikaishun. Hip! No more whines of "Daddy, I'm BORED, there's NOTHING to do!!" Hip! No more scraping young faces off of TV screens after multi-hour Babarfests. Hooray! No more negotiations over extended bedtimes because it's still light and we have no school tomorrow.

But then there's also the Yah! of no more long afternoons spent discovering beachcombing treasure. The Boo! of waiting another year until the next PNE. The Sucks! of no more leisurely barbecues that ignore prescribed lights-out time.

You can't win. Or lose.

Anyway, yes, this week it's Back to School of the bairns, and also for Contrast Podcast! The curriculum for this week looks, as usual, extremely varied and rich. So sit up, no talking, download the 'cast here, and write your essays here. Pay attention: the lesson is about to begin...

(00:00) Cocoanut Groove - End of the summer on Bookbinder Road
Tim from The face of today

(03:16) Thee More Shallows - Night at the knight school
Linda from Speed of dark

(07:45) Nirvana - School
Chris from Phosphorous.net

(10:43) Blackalicious - Chemical calisthenics
James from Jamesisadork

(14:16) Billy Bragg - The Saturday boy
Greg from Broken Dial

(17:44) Kraftwerk - Pocket calculator
Mark from Cinema du Lyon

(23:19) Suicidal Tendancies - Institutionalized
FiL from Pogoagogo

(29:41) Adam Franklin - Seize the day
Marcy from Lost in your inbox

(32:13) Yves Montand - En sortant de l’ecole
English translation of this song

ZB from So the wind won’t blow it all away

(35:29) Black Box Recorder - The school song
Matthew from Song by Toad

(40:01) Kid Harpoon - Childish dreaming days
Crash from Pretending life is like a song

(43:07) Patty Larkin - The book I’m not reading
Anna from Music I-Quiz

(47:39) Rockpile - Teacher teacher
Natalie from Mini-obs

(51:16) The Odds - Love is the subject
Tom from Better in the Dark

(56:34) The Replacements - Fuck school
Ross from Just gimme indie rock

In packing my schoolbag, I carefully considered what ditty to bring to class. Here are the ones that almost made the grade:

GWAR - School's Out (buy here)
A cover of the Alice Cooper classic, soaked in GWAR's patented blend of bodily fluids. Dismissed on the basis that the theme was back to school, not school's out. But then again the lyrics do exclaim "School's out for-EVAHHHH!!"

Ramones - Rock 'n' Roll High School (buy here)
My Forest Hillz homiez teaching us all how it really is. ONETWOFREEFOAH!!! P.S. I love you, Riff Randell...

The Adored - Chemistry (buy here)
I hated chemistry, but our high school chem teacher was a scream. An unprepossessing dwarf of a Hungarian, he would regale us with low-key stories of being arrested as a lad for dropping boxes of sodium from Budapest bridges into the Danube (sodium + water = BOOOOM!). Oh, the Adored? Hollywood power pop punx in something of a 1977 stylee, and new best friends of Buzzcocks. Rather nice fellows too, even if ex-singer Ryan put a boot in my ear when I saw them support Messrs Shelly & Diggle.

OK, I know I missed teaching you the Moustache class last week. But I, er, um, have a doctor's note. Yeah, that's it. Anyway, your homework for next week: 1977. Learn how to submit your assignment here.

Through The Wars

Rodney DeCroo, Vancouver Folk Music Festival, July 2007. Thanks to Astro Guy.

I stumbled across Rodney DeCroo purely by chance. It was the morning of a July Saturday, the second day of the Vancouver Folk Festival, and I was hanging out with Darling Daughter. I thought the Brand New Old School session looked promising, with Old Man Luedecke on that bill. So we settled down at Stage Two.

Sharing the stage was The Trucker's Memorial, an unassuming duo consisting of a bewhiskered DeCroo and the bespectacled Rae Spoon. My friends, Dearest Daughter and I were transfixed by the lovely alt-country they spun. And when Rodney's aching, gravelly voice got two-thirds through the poignant "Blue Rooms," tears welled up suddenly behind my sunglasses.

When comes the day for me to die
Well, I hope no-one I know
Sits around and cries
'Cause I've just gone back
To my place in that sky

Darling Daughter, seated in front of me intently watching the stage, didn't notice. For that I was grateful; while I think I could have tried to explain how DeCroo had managed in one simple verse to tap into a reservoir of loss I'd filled over the past year, it would have been, well, awkward.

My festival volunteering commitments meant I was only able to catch a brief additional glimpse of Trucker's Memorial onstage that weekend. But I loaded up on a couple of CDs, since what I had heard had left me eager to hear more. So what do you get, Dear Friends, when you listen to Rodney DeCroo? You get honest, raw, gritty, lucid, songs set to paced, elegantly sufficient country strumming. Stories of disappointment, hurt, regret, longing, and realization. And to misquote Johnny Rotten, he means every single word of it, maaan. You want soul? You got it here in spades. He lays it bare for you to see and hear, but without the melodrama and airbrushing of mainstream C&W.

Alright, alright, I hear you all clamouring for comparisons, for waypoints, for metaphor. Sigh, how to do this without sounding trite? Oh well, here goes: take the absolute best bits of Johnny Cash, Steve Earle, Bob Dylan (yes, I know, even I can see there are good bits of Dylan), a handful of gravel, a lungful of cigarette smoke, and a bucket of pain and foibles. Mix them all up real good in a pair of battered cowboy boots, then pour into a six-string. And enjoy.

DeCroo's background certainly gives one a good idea of the rough grit whence his music springs. He grew up in a Bible-bashingly Baptist, blue-collar Pittsburg home. His Vietnam-vet father took the family to Canada when he was five so as to avoid a second tour of duty. However, the war had already damaged his psyche and DeCroo's mother took little Rodney back to Pittsburgh for safety. The teen years were (mis)spent up to no good, and at sixteen he fled the cops to Canada, where he joined his father drinking and brawling around the seamier, gothicky bits of the BC interior. After a few years bumming around Vancouver in a similar self-destructive vein and style, DeCroo found college and music, in that order. And things began to turn around, somewhat.

I was fortunate enough to chat with Rodney a couple of times during the festival, and what struck me most about him was his kindness and generosity. Indeed, his gentleness seemed at odds with his history, and I caught myself later on thinking that maybe the press releases and articles I had read after our meeting had exaggerated his past. But I think that through the another kind of grit, the kind that's synonymous with fortitude, he has shaped the man he is today out of the man he was.

Speaking of his generosity, Rodney was kind enough to share with me a few unreleased tracks, which I can't wait to share in turn with you. All of them are simply fantastic. But first, if you're keen to get your mitts on his material (and you SHOULD be by now!), you can start with his 2004 album, Rodney DeCroo And The Killers (no, not those Killers, silly!) which you can e-buy here or purchase here. His 2006 release, War Torn Man, you can e-buy here or get in hard copy here. Then there's the magnificent Trucker's Memorial CD, which you can get from here . Finally, he is frequently on the road, so drop by his Myspace page to find out when he's next in your neck of he woods. Then go see him. Vancouverites, take note: he plays the Red Room on 27 September.

Right, onto the music - enjoy!

Rodney DeCroo - War Torn Man
Alternate version of the song from the live album of the same name. A stark, powerfully haunting track about DeCroo's scarred father. "Once I heard my daddy cry / I was six and I didn't know why / All alone in the living room dark / With a bottle and a shotgun and a bombed-out heart."

Rodney DeCroo with Sam Parton - Rain Rain
Unreleased duet with Sam Parton of local Vancouver bluesy folksters The Be Good Tanyas. The released version can also be found on War Torn Man.

Rodney DeCroo with Sam Parton - Black Earth Green Fields
The Be Good Tanya lends her talents on this track as well. Apparently a DeCroo/Parton collaborative album is due out sometime this year, which, based on these two tracks, is indeed something to look forward to!

Rodney Decroo - Mocking Bird
Another beautifully sparse and unsettling track of withered love and betrayal.

I'm mighty pleased to have made Rodney DeCroo's acquaintance. Even if he did make me cry like a wimp.

I Love The Smell Of Bagels In The Morning

One of those bagels and that coffee

The phone rang at six-thirty this morning, the first of the Labour Day long weekend.

Six. Thirty.

Dearest Wife answered it, but it was for me. A colleague in Ontario, some three hours ahead, who needed something urgently and was taking me up on my kind offer, made yesterday in a fit of sympathy, to help her out should she need it, seeing as she was working on a Saturday.

So I hauled my arse out of bed, showered, and drove to the office, all a-grumble.

But you know what, Dearest Friends? It all turned out good. In fact, MUCH better than good.

It was a sunny morning.

I had a pleasant natter with the security guard at the office, who told me a thrilling story about the time he escaped just before his truck was flattened by the payload of a Martin Mars water bomber.

It took me an easy fifteen minutes to sort out my colleague.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to swing by Granville Island, pick up a bag of fresh, hot bagels, and score a delish JJ Bean latte for myself and Dearest Wife.

The barista complemented me on my cool t-shirt.

And on the way home, I slipped some crucial dub sounds into the CD playah and had a rare connect-the-dots moment somewhere around Dunbar and 21st when it all came together, it all made sense, and was all crystal-clear, despite (because of?) the windscreen vibrating from all that bass.

It's going to be a fantastic day.

Max Romeo & The Upsetters - One Step Forward (buy here)

Epilogue:

Dearest Friends, it was a fantastic day. Little Man, Dearest Father-in-Law, and I first headed to Gastown to see a classic car concours d'elegance. My dream car is probably now a 1937 Packard sedan, though I'd have to retrofit it with a hybrid engine and airbags.

While ogling autos, we stopped at a Starbucks for refreshments. As we sipped, Billy Bragg and Wilco came on the stere-ere-ereo singing California Stars. And dammit if I didn't have another one of those moments of clarity. Two in one day, eh? I must be using up my quota.

We drove to Granville Island via East Hastings which, Dearest Friends, thronged as usual with the damaged, the afflicted, the addicted, and the destitute. But as we stopped and started past boarded up shops and abandoned buildings, I could clearly see (more clarity!!) the ragged outlines of community. People chatting. People laughing. People helping each other. And my sorrow/shame was tinged with hope.

At Granville Island, a lovely lunch, though admittedly one tinged with thoughts of East Hastings. Next, a whip round to assemble the ingredients for a belated anniversary dinner: fresh spinach, purple potatoes, and fresh Haida Gwaii halibut.

And now home.

Billy Bragg & Wilco - California Stars (buy here)