Book Review!

Anne Applebaum - Gulag

Took me a while, and at the end of it, I wished I'd spent my time on something less perversely, pointlessly and counter-productively skewed/biased - like a weakipedia article.

The Sound of Music has a curious effect on me - it gets me cheering for the Nazis. It's the only thing in existence to do this, and Anne's book is the equivalent in terms of Stalinism. Didn't take long before I was cheering for little, deformed Jozef and wanting to print my own "Go Solovestsky!" t-shirts. All on account of her stupidly twisted portrayal. Any normal person would have presented the horrors of the Gulag and taken a step back from the horror in disgust. I know I would. But no, not Anne.

Let's spend more time trying to link the Gulag to Communism, Socialism, Marxism, Leninism, Trotskyism, even the British Fucking Labour Party than we will spend trying to point out the pointless, brutal corruption that was Stalinism. Hell, whilst we're at it, let's chuck in an obtuse defence of McCarthy. Stupid, stupid woman. All those resources at her disposal, all that horror to expose, and she spends a welter of her time on a ridiculous politicial polemic. She doesn't deserve the archival access she attained. But then, she doesn't deserve the eyes that evolution/god/reagan gave her, either.

A waste of resources, time, effort, brainpower and clever font. Anne? Fuck off.

Cheers, ta, bye.

Is he a Yankee? No I'm a Londoner.

I'm not really, I'm as Mancunian as rain. Still 100% Street Tuff, though.

So yeah, how are you all? Really? Sorry to hear it. Still, we all have our problems, yours aren't mine, so fuck off. I'll start again.

So yeah, hi and that. Two reasons for this post - the first is to use the title. I have more titles than reasons for posting, that one was too good to be forgotten. Hmmn, there's a song in there somewhere. A shit song, but a song all the same. Sorry, I've started swearing again. I'll go out and come back in and start anew.

So yeah, The Mutant Brain is changing. Well, not right now it isn't. Although it is, because I'm typing words into it that weren't there before, so it is kind of changing. But that isn't the change to which I refer. The change to which I refer is a different change, one that hasn't happened yet, namely a rationalisation, overhaul and general lick of heavy duty lead-based paint. Some bits will go (not the sPazAmps, there'd be nothing left for me to read back to myself and chuckle knowingly) - probably Superbean, he deserves a place of his own, somewhere where his full, incredible, largely made-up story can be told in full. Things will generally be trimmed down, and other bits will be tarted up. There will also be a new contributor, notionally to balance out my random, spiky bile-fuelled literary effluent. He's far more whimsical than I, and generally of a far sunnier disposition by nature than I can manage to pretend to be. Don't worry though, I shall carefully vet any contributions to ensure that the tone isn't lightened too far and, if necessary, stick some random swearing in. I'm a tyrant! A despot! A liar!

So be nice, and read them with dutiful care.

GET OUT.

IT DOESN'T MATTER if you just bought a fresh Bentley.

A pocket full of cheese to the first to guess the song. Note: no actual cheese will be gifted or in anyway transferred.

So, hello! Oof, that was a bit cheery, sorry. So, yeah. Hi. That's better, much better. Few things I want to get through, but I'll probably do one and then get distracted by something shiny - I'm incredibly shallow like that. In fact, Shallow could be my middle name, if it wasn't already Tiberius. It's not that, either, to be honest. Either way, it's not Shallow. But it could be. Christ what a load of old waffle. I, David Tito L. apologise.

So, just in case I don't bother finishing before being distracted, here are the top topics tickling my titanium cranium this Friday evening. Twitter, Dr. Hook, Inadvertantly Threatening Songs, Something Else That I've Already Forgotten.

So, here goes. I promise I won't be starting every paragraph with "so". It isn't a theme or anything.

Twitter
Shitter, more like. Haha. Not really, I just couldn't resist typing it. I had a sudden urge to sound like a right twat, the sort most commonly encountered down the pub expounding on Football. "Arshavin? ARSEshaving more like! Huurrrrr hurrrr huuurrr ARSEshaving hurrr yeah? Hurrr hurrr ARSE yeah? Yeah? Hurrr hurrr hurrr" [unnecessarily forceful elbow nudge] "hurrr hurrr yeah? ARSE hurrr hurrrr". They will be drinking Stella.

Anyway. Twitter. I use it, obviously. It's a means of directing my tedious waffle at an uncaring internets, so of course I use it. But it's so utterly irritating and infuriating too. How am I meant to limit myself to 140 characters? I yawn longer than that (usually when other people talk to me). But that's not the real irritant though, oh no (obviously I manage to find a use for it at times), not by a long chalk. It's the "celebrities" - and more particularly, the clods who reply to their tweets, like they're really good friends and that. BIGFATCHRISMOYLES "I ated nineteen pies today" RANDOM INTERNET SPOD "Oh LOL Chris! I luv piez 2! We cud b twinz!" Fuckers. And that's the other thing - txt spk n shit in tweets. The only really vaguely intriguing element is trying to fit something other than an update on your feeding habits into the character limit "Had breakfast. Was nice. Yum". Usin da txt spk n shit just makes a mockery of the whole challenge "Had brek 2day cocopops is gr8 they make da milk ded brwn n shit LOL RIP in piece brekfust I 8ed u so gud HAHAHA xx tb xx". I have no idea if that example is of sufficient length or not, nor do I have any inclination to check with my counting finger. Still, fuckers, the lot of them. Also, I've accumulated a random follower who already follows nearly a thousand others. Haven't a clue who she is, daft bint.


Dr. Hook
Short one, this. Hopefully. I revealed to the world, via the medium of Twitter, that I listened to two separate Dr. Hook songs today. I've listened to lots more since I got home, but that's not the point. One of the songs that the spazPod injected into my earspace on the tram home today was "You Ain't Got the Right". Meant to be sad, with wry humour. The wry humour is there, but unfortunately the sad is negated entirely by the inadvertant humour (they'll reappear in the Inadvertantly Threatening Songs section, but more on that later). See, Denis Locorriere - he's the main singer, the one without the eyepatch but with the bobbly head and stupid hair on the video for the really shit famous song of theirs that isn't Sylvia's mother, you know the one, it's always on TOTP2 and VH1 - he tries to inject some real, genuine, gritty emotion in his sings. Sometimes, he overdoes it. Give it a listen, go on. Starts well enough, proper singing, little bit wistful, little bit country, little bit good. Then Denis starts on the verse. By the time he gets to "all her pretty clothes were gone" around 50s in, the catch sneaks into his quavering voice, and the seeds of musical destruction are sown (might be exaggerating a little there, but you know what I mean. At least you do if you've been listening along), and by the time it hits Denis croaking "oh no no" melodramatically behind the following chorus, the giggles have started. He interrupts each and every chorus thereafter in a similar, and increasingly desperate fashion. It's awesome. Awesomely amusing. And just generally awesome. Oh no, no NO NOOOO NOOO *sob*

I'm listening to it right now.

What was the other thing? *scrolls up* Oh yeah, Inadvertantly Threatening Songs.

Inadvertantly Threatening Songs
This is prompted today by Dr. Hook, but is something that I've touched upon before (ooer). It all began with Tom Jones. Doesn't everything? Truly, he is the creosoted creator of all greatness. Incidentally, if you haven't already done so, I reckon you should acquaint yourselves with the Tom Jones Redemption Memorial sPazAmp (Hnngh!), which can be found here. Yes, yes, I know. You all have it bookmarked and read it daily, understanding that it constitutes the very pinnacle of my whimsically amusing output (just edging out my Colossal Cave Adventure sPazAmp of Doom. Quite depressing reading them back, I was so much funnier back then.) Where was I? I wandered re-reading my own awesomeness and listening to The Tom (looks like you got LOVE-ITIS!). Oh yes, that.

See, it began with "She's a Lady" and "I (Who Have Nothing)". Go listen to them thoroughly, then come back and carry on reading. Back? You did good, your ears will thank you (if they actually do thank you, seek specialist help, that isn't normal). First, She's a Lady. In Tom's world, to qualify to be a "lady" is to not ask for much, don't get in the way, say some nice things, and - if you're really lucky - he might not punch you. Oh, and be good at doing sex at him. But he'll likely as not punch you anyway, so you better have a strong chin (she can take what I dish out, and that's not easy. Cock-based boast, or thumping-based observation? You decide). It all means well, but those are some hugely sinister and orange undertones. Like Fergal Sharkey wearing a cape in a tanning salon. Still a might fine song. As is "I (Who Have Nothing)", which widdles all over the leathery lunged Shirley Bassey version (no, I'm not gay, it just sounds that way sometimes). It's all covered in the other post, but it bears repeating.

All very dramatic and heartfelt, enough to stir the most unstirrable of cold, slimy, walnutty hearts (like mine). But then - "he can take you anyplace he wants, to fancy clubs and rest-o-ronts, and I can only watch you with my nose pressed up against the window pane". So there you are, having dinner, possibly with a swoonsome, foxy tycoon type. He treats you right, buys things (like diamonds, bright sparkling diamonds), and feeds you food in rest-o-ronts. You couldn't be happier. You're being swept off your feet, seduced by talk of the Riviera and Venice. You're very likely moistening. And then, oh, and then. You look up. There's a pair of starey eyes, a mop of unruly hair and an oversized circle of condensation with an orange leathery Welshness splodged against the window pane behind it. It'd put you off your nosh at the very least, and possibly lead to a restraining order.

And then there's Dr. Hook. Short and snappy, it's all in the song "A Little Bit More". When your body's had enough of me, and I'm laying flat out on the floor. When you think I've loved you all I can, I'm going to love a little bit more. In fact, I'm going to wait until you're asleep with aching thighs, then I'm going to slip it in when you least expect it. I'm a sex pest! I sleep on the floor! Surprise sex! My friend Ray has an eyepatch! Sordid.

No, I can't remember the other thing. Still, I reckon that's enough - if nothing else, it contains links to the twin peaks of musical witterings, with pictures.

BEGONE.

Weh mir, oh weh

That's German, that. You can have that nugget of linguistic marvel for FREE, motherfucker. A little bit of polyglot self-pity, just for you, and you, and yooooo-hoooo-ooooo. Sorry, turned into Jim'll Fix It, there. Hopefully your head is as full of jewelry-bedecked old duffers in tracksuits bouncing nippers on their knees and leering at them as mine is. It would only be fair.

See, that's why I could never call this blogging. It's also why I could never write anything of any actual note. A cheap quip waves cheekily at me from across the textual way, I go steaming right in. I can't resist. Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native would have been a HELL of a lot funnier if I've written it. It would also have never have been published.

Anyway, I realised I hadn't stained the internet with any of my brain juice this year (well, I have, just not here), so I thought I should rectify it. And now I have.

Weh mir, oh weh indeed.

What a Debaucherous Bunch of Ruddy Loons!

Yeah, lyrics again, no special pertinence. And yeah, I preferred it when it was Judge Dredd swears, too.

You know what I noticed today? Well, not just today, I've noticed lots over a large period of time. I'll start again. Next paragraph please.

You know what I clearly noticed enough to be moved to come home and type at the internets about? Well, I'll tell you. There aren't half a lot of steamingly ugly people around. I have it on good authority that it is acceptable practice to peep about the place when you're sat on the tram/bus (or whatever) with your headphones on (or not, as the case may be) clocking people and briefly, idly evaluating them. Y'know "would, wouldn't, probably would, ugh no that's a man, eight pints would", that sort of thing. Well the only words that seem to pop into my head are things like "waxen-headed harpy", "plastic-faced troll", "sow-visaged mutant", "good christ, what the FUCK is that all about", "balding, orange, ham-armed midget". Most unpleasant.

Yes, I know. It is a good job that I'm perfect.

Another box of Mr. Kipling's Mince Pies appeared in my kitchen yesterday (I think they must be on offer at the Spar or something. Well, it's actually a Nisa now, not a Spar, but whatever). Leaving aside the fact that they are criminally horrible (quite pleased that Christmas has now fucked off, to be quite astonishingly frank), the competition and prize plastered all over the offending box quite intrigued me. See, the prize for the competition (can't remember what the competition was, probably a quest to see if you eat three of them without pulling a disgusted face or something) took the form of family tickets to see your all-time favourite pantomime. Well, what if my all-time favourite pantomime happened to be "Hot Danish Festive Lesbotic Lady and the Seven Equally Lesbicious Minge-a-holic Dwarfs"? Firstly, I think it is outrageously, nay, criminally irresponsible of Mr. Kipling to want to send a family to something like that - a family might reasonably be assumed to contain children, and I hardly think that ninety minutes of lusty midget ladies having a go on each others lady bits is suitable fare for children. Secondly, I think it is a quite ludicrous proposition of Mr. Kipling to offer me tickets to something that patently doesn't exist.

And that concludes my report on Christmas 2008. I'd like to thank a bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive it with minimal long-term damage. Thanks, Bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive Christmas 2008 with minimal long-term damage. There, I did it.

Now all we need is for New Year's Eve to fuck off, and I'll be a happier man. Well, marginally less rancorous, at any rate. I mean, really. What is the point? What is the strange passion that grips people and sends them out in their droves, grimly determined to enjoy themselves no matter how unlikely a proposal it is? I know, let's go to a pub/bar/club/brothel that we like, one we often go to and actually do have fun. Only for this one night, let's queue up for three hours and pay £30 for the privilege of entry even though it's free the rest of the year (if you chose brothel, then that bit probably doesn't apply. You probably have to pay for, ahem, "entry" most of the rest of the year, too). And then struggle to get drunk enough to be able to delude ourselves we're having fun, failing in the struggle because getting served takes three hours because they've let about a hundred more people than the fire safety licence actually allows, and you're trapped, pressed up against hordes of grey-faced sweating retards, equally grimly determined to convince themselves and the world that they ARE HAVING FUN. So grimly determined that they may occasionally attempt to hug you, or put their arm around your shoulders with an inordinate amount of force, squeezing tightly to try and squeeze the reality out of their tiny, malfunctioning brains. In one last, stomach-turning hurrah, one final assault on the Fortress of Fun, they'll sing. But they won't just sing, they'll be possessed an urge to hold your hand with their wrong hand and pump it violently whilst bellowing out the first line of Auld Lang Syne over and over because they are too feebly mongoloidy to know the rest of it. And heaven help if you don't want to sing. They'll probably shove a chair in your face for being a SPOILSPORT, a SCROOGE (even though that's Christmas and cock all to do with New Year), and RUINING THEIR LOVELY FUN. Grim-faced twats. Then, to top it all off, you have to wait nineteen hours in a freezing cold taxi rank with the retards, get bottled and/or stabbed, and pay the driver £80 for the privilege even though the same journey only costs about £12.

Reckon I'll stay in tomorrow.

See you next year! Hahaha, haha, ha. Ha. Ohhh, I'm so FUNNY.

Black is the Colour (of my Cat's Fur)...

...is just one of the songs on this album, apparently. It's a real, actual, purchasable album. And really, you have to ask the question.

FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK WHY?

Also, neither of your cats appear to be black. Racist.

I am an Admiral of the Sea!

I am, you know. No, no of course I'm not really. I'm just regurgitating bits of Grant Hart. Well, his lyrics, at any rate (from when he decided it would be a good idea to have a band, call it Nova Mob, and employ a ludicrously rudimentary drummer, instead of doing the sensible thing and playing all the instruments himself like he did on the first solo thing), I haven't cooked and eaten him. That would be horrible. Imagine that. Me cooking and eating Grant Hart. I might get addicted to the residual traces of heroin or something. Outrageous.

Anyway, having shamed myself defending Kingmaker, I thought I better do something else. Couldn't decide what - a sPazTune is a significant time investment, but I haven't seen any films recently (my shit film downloading and watching volumes have fallen off a cliff this year, no fun anymore). I've done waffling and being musically semi-serious (explicitly, I mean. I know it annoyingly creeps into the sPazTunes & sPazAmps. I try to keep it out, but sometimes there is no denying the pompous outpourings their egress). So, we'll have some old film news (if I've done it before, tough. Ram it up your rusty sheriff badges and stop complaining) and then I'll do a sPazTune. Worst of every world!

The Mist
Was quite good, for a bit. On balance though, this review will fall into the "I've watched The Mist, now you don't have to" category. So if you're bothered by spoilers then a) don't read and b) stop being a dick and reading other people's accounts of watching films that you don't want to know things about. What are you, fucking retarded? What do you expect? Do you expect everyone to just express vaguely qualitative statements with no supporting evidence and hide any details in fluffy little spoiler tags? Get a grip. And watch better films, retard.

So yeah. First half hour or whatever was good. Ooh, strange mist! Ooh, soldiers! Doing odd things! Ooh, normal life, turned slightly to the side! Ooh, man panicking, shouting vague warnings, in the daylight, in a shop! Ooh, things getting slightly odder, mist closing in, strange creatures! Disbelief! Panic! Ooh, Thomas Jane can't act!

And then. Oh, and then. Shitty CGI. Issue of mine, that. Half-assed actual effects I don't mind - they allow the suspension of disbelief to continue more easily somehow, after all, we all know it's pretend. But CGI? Done badly, it jars in a really odd way. For some reason, my suspension of disbelief facilities work better with someone swiping convincingly at a badly realised actual thing than swiping utterly unconvincingly at a tremendously realised virtual thing. Why this should be, I don't know. Good CGI I like (very much enjoyed Cloverfield, against all my better instincts), bad CGI irks in a very particular way.

Worse was the ending (or more actually, the remainder of the film after the opening "normal world" bit). Not the brutality of the ending (he shoots everyone excepts himself, including his son. Don't complain that I've ruined it, we've been through this. HE SHOOTS HIS SON. PROBABLY IN THE HEAD). That's kinda cool, in a really severe, almost unexpected way. No, it's the way the troop-carriers trundle past shortly after, carrying all the god-bothering freaks to safety, with a lingering close up on one of the smug god-nuts looking at him (Thomas Jane), gazing on his despair, whilst being transported to happy non alien dimension based death. That's no death by alien dimension things, rather than death by any other means than that, terribly phrased I know. It turns the point of the film into "go on, believe in the nutty old testament god. Don't bother with caring for each other, or being helpful, oh no. Just go bonkers, sacrifice people with a giant knife, get giddy about it, do nothing else other than stab people and cheer, you'll be fine". Because that's what the film says. To me. And that's all that matters here, cementheads. Marcia Gay-Harden (hurr) even gets to die in a big Christ-like pose, even though she's a big god-nutter who advocates the ritual stabbing-up of random people. Tsk.

I case you missed it it, at the end of the film The Mist, Thomas Jane SHOOTS HIS OWN SON, POSSIBLY IN THE HEAD. BRUCE WILLIS IS A GHOST. IT'S KEVIN SPACEY, HE'S NOT REALLY A CRIPPLE. PEARL HARBOR IS SHIT.

In related other news, Cloverfield is quite good, as is No Country for Old Men (even though he only says "Friendo" once). Quite liked Hellboy 2, can't be fussed writing more than that about any of them, which is either faint praise or faint damns, I'm not sure. Probably won't do a sPazTune, that all depends on how bored I get in the next five minutes.

T'ra and that.

Defiled Goats

Well, what else would be the opposite of a Sacred Cow? I'll probably do a Sacred Cow thing, I have so much hate for the perceivedly wonderful (yes Bob Dylan, I'm looking at you, you massive Nuclear-Powered Whiny Nasal Astro-Tramp. I'm also looking at you, Ringo "Thomas the Tank Shit Drummer" Starr, too. And the rest of the cocking Beatles), but for now I have a urge to address the opposite. Hence, Defiled Goats. Everyone automatically says they're shit, but they aren't, and they only say that because the Herd's brain-gonads instruct them to via the power of shit thinking and cloth ears.

Kingmaker (yay! it wasn't safety matches after all!). I liked them at the time. That time being the time they were making records. I also liked them at other times, but the time they were making records is the time I'm referring to atm the minute. Then I carried on with my weird and possibly, occasionally wonderful life and forgot about them a bit. I went through a couple of financially driven record purges, went out with a few people, lost a parent (turns out he was hiding behind the sofa. Bit after that he died, that was a lot sadder), trimmed a hedge or none, became obsessed with The Dubliners, went off them a bit, went to University two and a half times, drank my own weight in Rum, drank Rik Waller's weight in Rum, decided the Rum deserved a capital letter, found enjoyed betrayed lost and lamented largely the luminous love of my life, ate some cheese, had umpteen cups of coffee, owned upwards of four cars, expanded my jacket collection towards three figures, had a feud with the retards living opposite, got threatened with a machete in the name of work, spoke to about fourteen elderly South Asian doctors, renewed my hatred of public transport, passed thirty, obtained an extensive knowledge of cryptids because of millie (yeah, thanks for that. I also know what Pareiodal means, but I probably can't spell it. It's not Jesus, it's a shit photo), passed 37 (quite recent that one), boycotted a shop because they were mean to a remaining parent, smoked a bazillion cigarettes, swanned around displaying my awesomeness to the world, lost weight, put it back on again, proved that children's literature doesn't exist, subjected myself to all but one of the Harry Potter Books, and developed a burning, deep, abiding hatred of Russell Howard.

In short, I forgot about them. Then I remembered them (somewhat before a number of the things above happened - I couldn't stop, I was having too much fun). Then I remembered them, and had a listen to them. And they were just as good as I recalled, the most British of all the American sounding bands ever. If Grant Lee Buffalo, Buffalo Tom, or any large bovine themed American "alt" rock plaid wearing band had been subjected to a childhood in Hull, they'd sound like Kingmaker. A vast swathe of subsequent bands owe a huge debt to Loz and his cohorts. Yes, even Radiohead. Fair enough, no one does irritating sub-sixth form poetry lyrics better than the demented arse-weasel Thom Yorke and his chums, but Loz managed slightly above sixth form poetry lyrics. Neither are particularly impressive or deep, but Kingmaker's are decent percentage closer to being as clever as they think they are than Radioshed's are. And tunes? They had tunes coming out of their ears. Which probably caused a signifiant problem of its own, can't have been easy recording mighty impressive songs with shit cascading from your ears.

Thing is, when I reacquainted myself with their own, inimitable wonder, an esteemed associate of mine saw fit to comment (on one of my many organs of internet expression. Yeah, I'm cool. And no, you still can't touch me) something along the lines of "Kingmaker? Even Kingmaker haven't listened to themselves for fifteen years". Said esteemed colleague has, to my mind, quite a reasonable taste in music, but this wasn't enough to prevent the parrotting of a perceived mis-wisdom. Ears of cloth, and typing fingers made of battenburg. Or possibly battenberg, I can't be arsed looking it up.

So Kingmaker. Not shit at all, when you think about it. They had their moment, and then they had to endure their anti-moment where they mattered less than Midway Still (on another day, I'll point out why their version of "You Made Me Realize" widdles on My Bloody Valentine's original from the point where the top of the WTC used to be. I'll also mention how their autographs also reduced the retail value of one of their records. What the lord gives with one hand, he has a bunch of angels mercilessly mug you for with another). And now, I reckon, they should have another moment. A Kingmaker moment. I'm having one of them right now. It's quite pleasant, if a bit disconcertinly middle class. I'll be moving on to Husker Du (umlauts. now. bitches) shortly, no chance of them being underrated. Mainly on account of Bob Mould being a football headed corporate bottom feeder. Yes, he feeds on bottoms. It's fuelled by his anger at the fact that Grant Hart did Bob Mould singing better than Bob, and wrote better songs (apart from Bob's manic wailing on Eight Miles High, that's awesome that is. Even if it's by a spherical money grabber).

But I digress.

Kingmaker. Clinging to the fading Kingmaker moment, here's a slice to tickle your sacculus with.



Yes, I'm too good for you and yes, I suspect my choices are determined by my ongoing lament.

GET OUT.

Conundrum

No, not the kind that Carol Whoreface Vorderman would do inbetween flogging debt and margerine-based phantom cholesterol cures to poor people in adverts. Do I do a post about the awesomeness of Grant Hart (erstwhile drummer from Husker Du [apply your own umlauts, fuckers], heroin addict and top-drawer musicker), or do I do a sPazTune?

Poor Grant has less than a thousand listeners on Last.fm. I find this utterly criminal, as I secretly passed a law making not registering your love for Grant Hart on Last.fm a crime. It also makes me sad, as he's a talent that your ears crave, cleave to and generally want to have ear sex with.

Well? Hurry up, cementdudes, it's already gone midnight. Oh, you can't suggest until I've posted, can you. By which time, I will doubtless have decided, and the whole matter will be redundant. Oh well, much as I hate to disappoint my readership (hi millie, if you're still reading. If you are, why? Go and have your head felt), I shall plough on regardless and you will doubtless see the fruits of my ploughing in the next post. I somehow doubt it will be a crop of turnips. Crock of shit, maybe, crop of turnips, less likely.

Alternatively I could do something about the persistent box-based irritant that is safety matches, or wibble on about Kingmaker.

Oh, decisions, decisions.

Johnny Brainstorm!

That would either be brilliant, or the worst cartoon ever. On the one hand, it could be a massively hazy and drug-fuelled superish hero romp through the galactiverse, on the other it could just be a half an hour of someone called John sat a table thinking really, really hard about something. Either way, it's a line from my favourite Mad Sin song, second best purveyors of fine German psychobilly.

So anyway, yeah. I'm not inventing a new cartoon superdrughero (again, that could be ace, or just someone preventing a robbery in an inferior Boots rip-off shop), I'm just burbling about things sloshing about my head. In type form. The burbling, that is, things aren't sloshing about my head in type form. Oh no, they slosh in lurid, sleazy, all-too-graphic detail. No matter what I'm thinking about. Thinking about red leicester cheese? Lurid, sleazy, all-too-graphic detail. It's both a blessing and curse. And a load of old tossy waffle, too.

To business, though. I reckon it's time for a sPazTune. Yes, you heard me right, a sPazTune. Not a sPazAmp, a sPazTune. Why? I heard you shout in an incredulous fashion (utilising my special set of internet enabled ears, ears that can even detect made-up sounds. Yes, I have used that line before. Sue me, bitch). Well, I'll tell you. See, my car, little Adolf the Audi A3 (1.8t sport, if you must know) is a little elderly. S reg elderly, to be precise. And, like all similarly elderly audis, he suffered from a very specific ailment. Namely, the stereo volume control. See, in their infinite teutonic desire to enslave europe wisdom, they decided that it should have an electronic volume control, one that would necessitate writing all changes to memory, to make sure the little car stereo knew how loud your ears liked your music. Nothing wrong with that, you might think. Except they wrote it to an eeprom chip permanently. Permanently. Giving you a finite number of volume changes - about 10,000 or so, to be inexact. At some point in the past year, Adolf reached his 10,000 and could only remember three volumes - average, TOTAL, and really tiny. Average was slightly too loud for sitting in your car outside your house, way too quit for the motorway and/or drowning out the unwelcome whining of car guests. So I replaced it, as a treat for Adolf on my birthday.

All well and good you might be saying (you probably aren't, because you aren't reading), but what on earth does that have to do with the price of sPazAmps? Well, see, I thought I'd be technoclever. I bought one that went with the old iPod (well, not that old, that was also a self-present, replacing the giantist original one with the vastly decrepit battery. I lent the interim replacement, a splendid little Sony thing, to a man going to Iraq). And I couldn't be fussed with sPazAmping with an iPod, so I bit the horrible Apple bullet and reinstalled sPazTunes.

So there you go. The reversion to sPazTunes. Except I took so long about this (I was distracted by facebook and things. I'm so cool. No, you can't touch me. Get off) that you don't get an actual sPazTune. I listened to lots of psychobilly, trawl back through previous efforts and compile your own. There's enough of them in there. Christ, do I have to spoonfeed you EVERYTHING, cementheads?

BEGONE.

Bim Jeam

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...the one word sPazAmp. Guaranteed longer titles than comments, all of the time. Fun, meet your redefinition. Tedious Irritation, put Fun's coat on and do your best impersonation.

1. Mark Lanegan - I'll Take Care of You
Whiskygruffgravelsex.

2. Roxy Music - Both Ends Burning
Pyroarse.

3. Robbie Williams - Life Thru a Lens
Cockfarmer.

4. Cliff Richard - Congratulations (in Spanielish)
Bumwipe.

5. The Move - Useless Information
Bostin!

6. Bryan Ferry - Piece of My Heart
Ventricle.

7. Air - Talisman
+4Str

8. Kingmaker - End of the Line
*sniff*

9. Daniel Johnston - Love is Like a Toy
Vibrofilth.

10. Hayden Thompson - Blues, Blues, Blues
Blues.

Okay so this is about as much fun as listening to the Stephen Nolan phone-in show for Angry Retards on Radio 5. Which is, in turn, about as much fun renovating your rectum with a pencil. In light of this, the second half will be a regular sPazAmp - no increase in fun for you, a two percent swing to fun for me.

11. Los Gatos Locos - Someone's Gonna Get Their Head Kicked in Tonight
Brazilian. And awesome. A bit like everybody's favourite retard-faced midfielder, the wonderful, and wonderfully gormless, Anderson.

12. Bobby "Boris" Pickett & the Cryptkickers - Monster Mash
Especially nice with Ghoulash. Sorry. Really, really sorry.

13. Blyan Felly - Tokyo Joe
Lacist.

14. Roxy Music - Serenade
Look, it's a genuine coincidence. Honest, it is. Stop it.

15. Pearl Jam - Who Are You
I'm David. Hi.

16. Soft Machine - Why am I so Short?
Because you've only got little legs, E.T.

17. Bill Allen - Please Give Me Something (to Remember you by)
How does herpes grab you?

18. Isaac Hayes - By the Time I get to Phoenix
They'll have moved it. You can practically guarantee it.

19. Psychic TV - Just Like Arcadia
Only without the former members of Duran Duran, I suspect.

20. Twilight Singers - Number Nine
It has Mark Lanegan's whiskygruffgravelsex voice noises, and then it has Greg Dulli's soulfulseedysex voice noises. It has all the sensibilities of a classically epic Dulli tune, with a seasoned dash of Laneganisms. It may lack the brutal confessionalism of "Be Sweet", and Greg may have mellowed (well, more sort of marinaded) from the urgency of "Miles iz Ded". If you need more from music than Greg letting rip at the three minute mark, then to be quite frank you don't deserve to have your own ears, you spack.

GOODBYE.

The Greatest Song in the History of the World #1

Today, that song is the one this post is about. Yesterday, it was something else. Tomorrow it will be something else. Hell, it might even be something else by the end of this post. That, my little cementheaded readers, is the infuriating beauty of music. If The Greatest Song in the History of the World was always the same song, it would be really, really dull. Duller than a barrel of cheese on a broken treadmill, in a dark room. At night. Duller than making a scale lego model of a piece of lego. Duller than the combined wits of Ashton Kutcher and Josh Hartnett. Duller even than the unnecessary bits of the Lord of the Ring trilogy (cinematic version) - and that is a whole heap of fucking dull.

But enough of the dull, onto the sparkly, shiny, seductive, engorging goodness. Today, at approaching ten in the evening, The Greatest Song in the History of the World is...





Yes, that's right. It's "Serenade" by Roxy Music and yes, it really is that good. A tiny aural slice of munificent magnificence, put on this earth to tickle your ears in a good way and occasionally make bits of your insides to try and swap places with other bits of your insides. A reasonable indicator of a contender for a temporary seat at the head of the Greatest Songs in the History of the World table is when a single listen just isn't enough. And at 2m59s, "Serenade" is one of the reasons why they invented digital music and a repeat button (they tried it with record players, but you could never be sure that the needle wouldn't slip the wrong way and end up trying to burrow to China through your slipmat).

It's one of the sneakily best kind of songs - the secretly sad song. Full to the brim of pop jauntiness, striding along Bryan's typically oblique lyrical path, you can happily trot along with it, enjoying Thommo's enthusiasm at being let of his drum leash and letting go with the occasional energetic fill, or ol' Phil's reliably strident strumming. And, for two minutes or so, this works - Bryan's archetypally individual vocal stylings (no, it isn't technically singing. At least, not as we know it. But hell, it works, so stop arguing cementhead) carry the lyrics along with a certain, seductive bravado - after all, it's a song about Bryan casually slinking off from one passionate encounter to another, isn't it. He's not bothered, he's just slying pondering whether she will be or not - although really, it doesn't matter whether she does or not. Life's too short, dude. Then, at about two minutes, the jauntiness eases, Bryan's piano driving the guitar into a melancholy-tinged moment - like the song had just caught sight of it's own reflection and felt unnerved for a second or two.

The bravado slips ever so slightly, turning on the lines "maybe I'm wrong for seeming ungrateful, unforgiving/oh how it hurts, now you're finally leaving/I couldn't take any more".

The jauntiness resumes almost immediately, but it's just not the same. It's punctured, coloured with a tiny glimpse of emotion. Not bravado anymore, it's almost clingy desperation. Posturing, but needy. Almost touching, especially in "now's the time, let's hide away/sacred hours, safe from yesterday" - it may well be a plea for one more shag, but the song's let its guard down, you know it means it. This is just driven home by the incongruity of the "boo hoo willows", rather than alleviated. It's certainly no accident that it's followed on side 2 of Stranded by "A Song for Europe". It all turns on the near-falsetto of the two minute mark and the word "finally". As derided as Mr. Ferry can be (not always without good and laudable cause, it has to be said), his genuine deftness with words and their evocation of emotion is criminally underrated to such a degree that they should open a special court in The Hague. Some songs spend tedious hours clumsily yanking on your heart-strings like a ham-fisted shot-putter trying to knit vermicelli, "Serenade" flits in, takes a scalpel to them, and flits out again.

Of course, you're free to disagree with me. But that would, of course, mean you were an idiot. Just rejoice in the new category and it's splendid new tag. And the song, rejoice in the song. But be careful, it won't always make you happy. Depends on how you feel, innit.

BYE.

You Gotta Categorize

'strue, y'know. Something to do with the Credit Crunch - so important that I've given it capitals. Not entirely sure what it is - either a tasty new cereal or a complete fabrication caused by people like Robert Sodding Peston (to give him his full name), fuelled by speculation, ill-informed media-type-hype and retarded middle-class Daily Mail readers obsessed with the relative price of their houses. In that sense, it's much like economics and capitalism in general (in the made up sense, rather than the crunchy cereal way - although if Weetabix have rebranded as Oatso-Discontinued-Line-of-Credit since I last looked, then I apologise). Like a simpleton running about a 747 shouting BOMB! BOMB! TERROR BOMB! SHOES! BOMB! only featuring all of your money and all of Iceland's money. You've no personal, attestable evidence of the SHOES! BOMBS! or TERRORS! but it's a fair bet you'll start acting like you do.

Quite where I'm going with this, I don't know. It could get worse - the mere mention of Robert "Self Aggrandising Menace to the Markets" Peston has got me all angried up about Nicky Campbell. And the idiots that populate Radio 5 Live in general. Bloody idiots.

Anyway, yes. There'll be a couple of new categories along soon. How soon, it's too soon to say, but soon. They'll be lovely, I guarantee it. I also guarantee you'll hate them/ignore them (delete as applicable), which is, after all, why I do this.

BYE.

Comments!

Comments, yeah! That's my enthusiastic way of informing you (yes, you. The nebulous you that I am entirely uncertain exists in any corporeal or measurable form. Sort of a person version of the concept of Russell Howard's alleged "talent") that I've actually responded to all the comments that had been left. Even the one I completely didn't understand (you know who you are, Flower Travellin' Band Fan). Leave more. Go on. Please? Look, I'm paying attention now, I wasn't before. I'll actually read them within about a week of being left, not the six months it was previously. Look, don't make me beg. Again.

Returning to Russell Howard. Do I mean Russell Howard? Russell someone at any rate, and I know I don't mean Brand, Grant or Harty (who are, incidentally one of the oldest law firms in New Zealand). Tell you what, I'll describe him, and then we'll see which Russell I mean.

The boz-eyed, gimp-faced horse-tickler of a comedian. The one who isn't a comedian at all, on account of him being a bazillion times more irritating than he is funny. The one who pops up on panel shows, the one who doesn't fit in, the one who seems like the fucking irritating younger brother of your mate - the really spoilt one who always had to be allowed follow his brother around and join in, despite being FUCKING IRRITATING, because if he wasn't allowed he'd tell his mam and ruin everything (including the glue-sniffing), the one that was constantly trying to show off and being embarrassing, the one desperate for approval and acceptance, but going about it all wrong and MASSIVELY PISSING YOU OFF in the process.

The one who looks like he'd be better suited to presenting Blue Peter. Blue Peter in HELL.

Is that Russell Howard?

I'm listening to Metallica. And enjoying it. Sorry. Still, at least it's off Ride the Lightning (it's "Creeping Death" if you're interested), so it has guaranteed ginger riffs. I mean RIFFZ. Sorry again.

Title!

So yeah, I stayed up and that. Watched the debate between Joe Budden and Michael Palin. Christ those two have changed a bit. Palin is a blithering flid, and Ol' Joe did really quite well, making almost no spectacular blunders of any kind. Palin refused to answer any questions, thinking that asserting "I may not be able to answer all the questions as you may expect" allows her to ignore the questions and blather slogans from a crib sheet for 90 seconds at a time. My favourite bit was Biden laying the Maverick Smacketh Down on her after she'd said "maverick" in connection with John "Freakishly Tiny Hands" McCain about 30 times. In summary, it's over to Ollie the Weatherdude:



1. Inspiral Carpets - Bitches Brew
Not fixed at all, I promise. She's a mother, you know. Her in depth policy outlines consist of yelping "I DONE A CHILD! I SPEAKED A HOCKEY!" over and over and over again. And making travelogue television series, of course. The Inspirals don't approve and entirely fail to cover Miles Davis in the process.

2. Muse - Exo Politics
Take the "o" out of the title, and you have the effect rendered on the US presidential election by Sarah Palin. There is no such person as Senator O'Biden, Palin. Muse make a muse-like sound. It's a fine line between having a distinctive sound, and all the songs sounding the bloody same you know, Matt.

3. The (St. Thomas) Pepper Smelter - Words of Pain
Oh the sweet, Peruvian garage irony. I will twist each and every song to meet my thematic ends. She does seem to finds words painful. Well, not so much the words, more the putting them into any semblance of a coherent, pertinent order. Joe did not "preference" his statement with the Bush Administration, Palin. He possibly prefaced it, but I doubt he has any Bushwards preferences. Apart from in the rude sense, of course. He looks a bit of a sly old fox, tbh/f.

4. Tony Christie - Avenues and Alleyways
Theme tune to The Protectors, dontcha know. Struggling a bit with this one, so I'll just content myself with warbling along, instead. She'd probably invade Spain if McCain took his tiny hands to the clumsy war veterans agency in the sky whilst president. They don't trust Spain. Damn Paellofascists.

5. The Cramps - You Got Good Taste (Live)
Here's hoping. You can't normally slip a gnat's chuff between American political candidates (if that's the sort of thing that turns you on, insectological chuffvert), but surely you American types can't actually vote for McCain with her on the ticket. He's old, tiny-handed and prone to carking it over the course of the four years. She'd then be in charge. She believes in the rapture - what the giddy christ would keep her finger off the button (not that button - I reckon her god frowns a bit of secret fapping).

6. Duran Duran - Come Undone
Glossing over the really quite odd selections being made by sPazAmp (although I'll not hear a word said about the Duran. Mainly because I have the world's oddest, and most specific, deafness), you'd think the Katie Couric interviews would have done this to her. But no, thick people can be so politically tribal that she's actually solidifying the core 35-40% or so, as they sit there blithely asserting that she was focused, concise and to the point in her "answers". Just so long as she carries on digusting the remainder of the world, that'll do for me.

7. The Lost Souls - Witch Hunt
It so isn't, Lost Souls. Although that's what you'd get if you were pregant after being raped by your own parent, if Palin had her way. What does she care? Jesus is flying down to collect her in his spaceship at some point!

8. The Temptations - My Girl
This is me raising an eyebrow. In type.

9. Sweet - Wig Wam Bam
Sex in a tent!

10. Furniture - Brilliant Mind
Even Furniture are taking the piss. In the past. With a mighty fucking fine song.

11. John Zorn - A Shot in the Dark
It's how they picked her. FACTUS MAXIMUS.

12. Cheater Slicks - Child of the Moon
Well, I doubt she's human.

13. Melvins - Spineless (feat. Skeleton Key)
No, just brainless.

14. Bir Yagmur Masili - Nasil ne Zaman
It's it Turklish. I don't know what it means. It's nice, though. Six minutes long, too, timefans.

15. Moaners - Chasing the Moon
Bit of a fruitless exercise I would have thought. Sadly, it's an instrumental, so we aren't privy to their views on the matter.

16. Redman - How to Roll a Blunt
Unfortunately it isn't about James Blunt, and it doesn't have "in a carpet and beat him senseless" in brackets after the title.

17. Gas Huffer - Mistake
Poor Tom Price :(

18. Pink Floyd - Lost for Words
Sadly, she wasn't . Lost for sense and direct answers, yes. Words, no. Doggone it.

19. Mad Sin - Ich Kann Nich' Schlafen
Neither can Ich. Ich think.

20. Del Raney's Umbrellas - Can Your Hossie do the Dog?
No, but she can govern Alaska and run for vice-president.


ARF.


BYE.

Sarah Palin: I SO read newspapers, dude

She reads all of them, you know. Everything in front of her. She's an expert on Heat magazine, and her knowledge of the Radio Times is unrivalled. It's a VP Debate commemorative sPazAmp, a desperate attempt to fill the time between now and 2am when I get to sit and wait for which of the vice-presidential-calamaties-in-waiting fucks up first (did Roosevelt really go on television straight after the Wall St. crash Joe, did he? in 1929, before television and before he was in power? DID HE?). Knowing me, I'll fanny about massively and only get to about #8 or so before it starts (I'm a little bored of typing this already tbf/h be fair/honest. If I cared, it'd be a miracle.


1. Demented are Go - Rubber Buccaneer
Something to do with dildonics, I think. But not cyber-dildonics (I didn't make that up, someone said it on telly once. I suspect it may have been Channel 5). It's very good (the song, not Channel 5. Or cyber-dildonics, although I wouldn't presume to cast myself as an expert on the matter). Growly psychobilly greatness, possibly about dildonics. What could go wrong?

2. Elton Motello - He's a Rebel
Bit shit, if I'm honest. Should probably have stuck with just owning Jet Boy, Jet Girl, rather than the album. Oh well. Standard, punk-tinged pop that would have threated nobody had it troubled the charts in the late 70s.

3. Pulp - Joyriders (Acoustic)
Better than the regular version. Popped up as a b-side to one of the two Common People CD singles (not that CD singles have a literal b-side, you know full well what I mean). Reminds me of the mid-nineties (fairly predictably), not a time I like to dwell on. Still pretty genius, mind (the song, not the mid-nineties).

4. Carlos Casal Jr. - Don't Meet Mr. Frankenstein
Okay. Must admit, had no plans to anyway. Also, can you go away and come back again at the end of the month, you jaunty fifties popfrightfest. Ta.

5. Curtis Mayfield - We the People Who are Darker Than Blue
Hello, mauve people. At this rate, I won't even make #8 before the debate.

6. Erasure - Love to Hate You
One of my three favourite Erasure songs. A non-existent prize to anyone naming the other two. Motivation? I got it seeping from every pore.

7. Roy "The Orb" Orbison - Pretty Paper
It's not even Christmas, you fool. As majestic as The Orb was, it's not a patch on the Reverend Horton Heat version, which is the version I'll be listening to when it actually IS Christmas. Also, sad song, bad sPazAmp. We're not to have sad songs anymore.

8. Jeff Buckley - Lover, You Should've Come Over
Yeah, and you shouldn't have gone swimming in your boots, you selfish tool. Also, what bit of "no sad songs" don't you understand sPazAmp?

9. Mark Ronson (ft. Daniel Merriweather) - Stop Me
Better than the original. Stick that in your cardigans and moon over it, Moz lovers.

10. Public Enemy - Mi Uzi Weighs a Ton
Does it, Chuck? Does it really? A ton you say? A gun weighing a whole actual ton? Bet you don't have a gun at all, never mind a ludicrously weighty one. Go home and just think about what you've done, mister. You've let me down, you've let the school down, you've let yourself down, you've let the gun-weighing-association down. Tsk.

11. Guana Batz - Saving Grace
Can't type. Misty eyed.

12. The Bees - These are the Ghosts
Thanks, Bees. Although if I'd wanted the guided tour, I'd have arranged it with Yvette and Derek.

13. Simple Sarah vs. Joe the Flid
Sorry, ran out time.


Like, BYE.

sPazAmp 8 Frillion; Take 2

After yesterday's boost to the sales of prozac, I thought I'd have another stab (not in the knifecriming way). It'll be much better, I promise. But only to the extent that Death Magnetic didn't suck as hard or as disgustingly as St. Anger. Look at me with my Metallica analogies. Anyone would think I particularly liked them or something. For the record, I don't and Lars Ulrich is a twunt who increasingly resembles Phil Collins in brain, body and (lack of) soul. Also, Mr. Hetfield - that is no way for a 45 year old bloke to act. Nob.

1. Wampas - Wampas
Splendid churning French Rockapsychobilly that sounds like a French, billy version of something off Bedtime for Democracy by the Dead Kennedys. Possibly Dear Abby. Or Triumph of the Swill. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

2. Iron Maiden - Iron Maiden
Second song out and already the software is swinging its balls about the place, strutting and preening for hitting on a s/t theme. This is the sort of behaviour I expected from poncey old sPazTunes (software for people who are scared by software, designed to run on computers for people who think that the colour of the computer is the most important bit. Bunch of fannies), I expected better from you, you little llama-themed piece of orange musicality. Put them away, they're disgusting. Oh, it's the Live after Death version. You'll have to imagine the majestic Dickinson Rock Pointing. Whilst you're about it, place one of Steve Harris' feet on a mental monitor and try your hardest to be wearing a Wet Spam FC football shirt. It'll enhance the experience, trust me. TRUST ME.

3. Faith No More - The Real Thing
Nice segueway, sPazAmp. I still don't want to see your balls, though. I told you to put them away. They're not big, and you're not clever. I think it would have been only fair had The Real Thing recorded a cod-soul song called Faith No More. I initially typed that as Fatih No More and completely changed the theme from slightly off-kilter and thoroughly spunksome rock to a campaign to off the former manager of the Turkish national football team. Unfortunate.

4. Mantronix - Bassline
Slight shift there, Mr. Amp (of the sPaz variety). More electro than hip hop (or even rip rap, as me mum called it the other day, bless), with tinny, squawky "rapping" from MC Tee, former sailor and the only person to ever lose to Rodney O in a rap battle (in my head). Still, if you tune out the LL Cool J-with-rickets vocals, it's still all good. Well, not ALL good. I mean poverty and stuff is still bad. Song is far longer than it has any right to be, if you ask me. Which, theoretically, you did by reading this. Goon.

5. Sin Alley - Money
Storming psycho-inflected rockabilly thunder? Check. Balls out, full on interpretation of a song that widdles all over the original? Check. Reasonably hot lady belting out the words? Check. Unfortunately, it lets itself down with the fact that she sings as if she is trying to make sounds by forcing her adenoids out of the top of her head. Stupid moo.

6. Elton Motello - Sha La La La Lee
A thoroughly unthreatening and largely faithful rendition of the Small Faces original. Punk my arse (that isn't an instruction. Especially not if you happen to be Ashton Fucking Kutcher. Incidentally, I watched him try to act once. It upset me).

7. Mansun - Six
It's a Mansun song. But not one of the good ones. So it sounds quite a lot like all the others, only not as good as the handful of good ones. In summary: not very good, with showers drifting in from the east.

8. Screaming Trees - Transfiguration
From the time in their career where they sounded like Beatles-inflected underground sixties US garage pop (the Beatles-inflected is a bit redundant there, that's what they all sounded like. Better than the Beatles, obviously, and all of them, even the retarded ones, had a better drummer. Fuck off, Ringo, you're shit). Which means it is before the time when Mark Lanegan obtained a voice like liquid, singing sex - the kind of liquid, singing sex that smokes forty a day and gargles with Bulleit bourbon. So before the drugs, basically.

9. The Cynics - I Don't Need You
Averagely fun revivalist garage dudes. Not their best, but still ten miles better than the Mansun effort (and, thankfully, about a quarter of the length. Who told Mansun they could make eight minute long songs? Certainly wasn't me).

10. Jethro Tull - Too Old To Rock'n'Roll, Too Young To Die
I'm neither. I'm thirty-six.

11. Nick Cave & The Sad Sheeps - The Moon is in the Gutter
It's not Nick. That's your arse. Pull yourself together, man. Vaguely Roxy-esque, circa For Your Pleasure, with added Tom Waits aping. Very good, mind - three gazillion times better than he's been for about a decade (Abbatoir Blues excepted). You can fuck off with your Grinderman, it was shit. FACT. END OF. SIMPLE AS. Oh yes.

12. Divine Comedy - Becoming More Like Alfie
The pinnacle of Neil's career. Splendid, mellifluous, tunesome without question. And also slapbang in the middle of my car-a-oke singing range, which is lucky for them. Why couldn't he make more songs (or even albums) like this one? The twat.

13. Sailor - Girls, Girls, Girls
It's no "Glass of Champagne", but it'll do. Thanks, Sailor. Thailor.

14. Furniture - The Sound of the Bell
One of the finest songs ever fashioned into a form acceptable to the human ear, and a clear indication of just how often Pulp listened to Furniture and just why they should probably pay them some royalties for a number of songs. Honestly, it's a musical item of grandeur from start to finish. Belle & Sebastian should probably pay them, too. But then, they're massive musical light fingered tea-leaves magpies and even stooped to stealing a Cliff Pilchard tune. Plus I shall never forgive them ripping off Billy Awesome Ocean. The twats.

15. Andy Williams - Spooky
Not as good as the Lesbotic Panda's version, but still a quality slice of lounge. Andy even manages to sound a little sleazy (and disturbingly like Georgie Fame at times). For some reason, the Lesbotic Panda version reminds me strongly of sad times spent in a draughty Crumpsall flat with someone who deserved better. Something to do with the Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels soundtrack, I think. Hmmmn.

16. Muse - Plug-in Baby
Ah, when Muse used to be good. And shamelessly steal royalty-free classical music. I wish Muse were still this good, I love a good wildly over-the-top, massively melodramatic rock beast, I do.

17. Servotron - Rocketdog
If it turns out to be Servotron by Rocketdog, I don't care. It's pleasant garagey punky stuff, with a hint of B52s. And a bit of random electro. And it's from an Estrus benefit album for when their warehouse burnt down, which makes it essential buying (well, not now - it's deleted and they get practically no benefit from you buying it on ebay. For practically read entirely).

18. The Novas - The Crusher
I knew someone who used to sing this in the shower. TBF be fair, it is a fine shower-singing song. Aw.

19. ODB - Baby C'mon
RIP in peace, ODB dirty bastard. A curious kind of possibly retarded genius, with a unique flow without equal or compare. A nutter, but one of the good ones.

20. McCain/Obama debate
I had to turn the musics off, soz. I've got a tenner on a McCain coronary. Here's hoping!


BYE!

Yeah!

Or possibly no! It all depends on your point of view, really. Gird your loins (or possibly lions, if your a bestial welderer. Come on, keep up with the self-referential navel-gazing tugfest masquerading as a running joke), splice your mainbrace, get naked and get your sPazAmp on! All new (well, the songs probably won't be), all singing (apart from the instrumentals), all dancing (mainly me. In my chair. Like a big spacker), ALRIGHT!

Ahem.

1. Pink Floyd - Fat Old Sun
A nice, gentle, fuzzy start. One of the two John Peel versions, the shorter, not as good version. In fact, the third best version I have. Update your charts, do NOT drink your weak lemon drink.

2. Marble Sheep - Fla Fla Heaven
Has this been on before? I suspect it has. Long, slightly mentally-uncertain Japanese poprockadelia. Hugely inoffensive, distinctly endearing, sort of like mid-period Flaming Lips (if they had a bit of a clue) crossed with Captain Sensible-era Damned, seasoned with a dash of Wedding Present (c. Bizarro), and sounding nothing like the description whatsoever. You'd likely as not hate it, but then, you're stupid and your ears are nowhere near as well developed as mine. Suck on that, biotch.

3. Billy Joel - Piano Man
I AM THE PIANO MAN . Joke for two people, one being me and the other being someone who won't be reading this. Damn you Richard. WE DIDN'T START THE FIRE. Oops, sorry.

4. Pulp - Common People (peel session)
TELL HER ABOUT IT. It's Common People, by Pulp. On a Peel Session. I'm reasonably sure you can work out what that sounds like. It's not like you're totally retarded.

5. Mojo Nixon & Skid Roper - Debbie Gibson is Pregnant with my Two-Headed Lovechild
The title says it all. I feel any comment from me at this point would be entirely superfluous. OCTIN TEAR .

6. Los Manganzoides - Lluvia de Fuzztones
No idea what they're on about, don't speak spanielish. I reckon, but I might be wrong, that it's something to do with The Fuzztones. What with the word Fuzztones being in the title, and with them sounding a bit like them, in an Argentina-y way. No, I know - my insight really does know no bounds.

7. The Smiths - Hand in Glove
The heartwarming tale of mitten-based fisting. With added pointless, and irritating, harmonica.

8. Morita Doji - I Become a Lonely Wind Without You
Proof, if proof be need be , that you don't need to understand the lyrics for a song to make you want to do a cry. A tough, rugged mancry, of course. But a big slice of sad, all the same. Smothered with lashings of extra thick, double strength Upsetting Custard. What a shit overstretched analogy.

9. The Who - Glittering Girl
Proof, if proof be need be , that the lyrics don't need to make any sense or carry any sense of pertinence to make you want to do a cry. Not having the best run of sPazAmp luck, really.

10. Soundgarden - Into the Void
It's, like, Soundgarden, impersonating Slack Babbath. Probably because it's a Slack Babbath song and the tiny grunge-elf Cornell is doing his darnedest to sound like Ozzy. So there you go.

11. Chris Cornell - Fell on Black Days (live in Sweden)
Didn't take long for sPazAmp to get all cocky and start theming, did it. Not great, not horrible. It's the Heinz Tomato Soup of music.

12. Offspring - Why Don't You Get a Job
Well, why don't you stop outing the stuff I really like that makes everyone laugh at me, sPazAmp. Plus, I SO have a job. It's shit and annoys me.

13. The Singing Loins - So Long, My Old China
Oh fucking thank fucking you, sPazfuckingAmp. Yes, it's a fucking splendid fucking song, but really, on fucking top of everything fucking else, it's fucking not fucking one I want to be fucking hearing at this time of fucking year. Sorry for the swears, came over all Gordon Ramsay there (not in a rude way, urgh). Fucking.

14. R.E.M - Everybody Hurts
Oh for fuck's sale sPazAmp, you're just taking the piss now. It's not even as if I've even vaguely had a hint of liking this since about 1992 (and even then the Elvis theftery was testicle-ticklingly obvious). It's like, sung by Michael Stipe, and blablabla . Still making me do a sad, mind.

15. Edgar Broughton Band - Mr. Cosby
Probably not about Bill, sadly. Still ace though, despite the presence of fucking bongo(e)s.

16. Smog - I Was a Stranger
I seem to have acquired a sPazAmp channelling the spirit of a sPazAmp normally reserved for South Wales teenagers with a passion for emo, facebook groups and suicice. Although with different songs, natch. If I didn't know better (and I rarely do), I'd swear it was trying to do me in. Dastardly technology.

17. Roxy Music - 2HB
My favourite song about pencils. Just about one of my favourite songs ever, tbh be honest. When I have space, time and inclination, I shall have to while away hours listening to the vinyl, just like I did as an angsty, moody teen - one who thought a parting and a massive Ferry-like flick was a good idea. Personally, looking back, I don't think it was. I didn't notice at the time though, so it's all good. Except it isn't, because I was an angsty moody teen. A vicious circle of the most pointless and vacuous kind. Corking song, though.

18. Magnetic Fields - Book of Love
Look, sPazAmp, keep this up and I'll be going back to sPazTunes. I'll even buy an iPod to really rub it in. Cheer me up, for the love of grud, drokk it.

19. Husker Du - Eight Miles High
Insert your own umlauts. In your anus. This is little cheerier, sPazAmp. You well know just how inexplicably sad I find this song, you massive tool of a piece of software. Still, any excuse for a massive nihilistic scream, so I guess I'll forgive you.

20. Scissor Sisters - Return to Oz
The double whammy of outing a musical joy derided by others and persisting with depressing me. You really are heading for a life in the recycle bin, sPazAmp. Still, reminds me of two of the best gigs I've been to (no kidding), both of which have a tiny sadness attached all of their own. Oh, the boundless, untrammelled joy.



That wasn't nearly as much fun as it used to be. Like the worst comeback album ever. Hint: when your sPazAmps make St. Anger look good, give up.

This, that, but not the other.

I bet you thought I was dead. Yes, you - the mythical reader of this nonsensical voyage through nonsense. Well, I in't. So relax, you're not being typed at by a zomboid. I live, just about, much to the chagrin of many.

Also, I'm back. Here and on the musicky version of my witterings. I'm going to set myself a plan, a plan to inflict myself on the interwebworld on a far more regular basis, with a mutantbrain spurt on a thursday and a mutantrock musing on a tuesday. Knowing me, this plan will last less than a week (that only leaves me a Monday to abandon myself to the pointlessness of Spore and Wednesday to pursue a PhD. It keeps running away, the little sod).

So yeah. Suck on that, bitches. It'll be great, you'll love it. My return is the reason they had to shut down the Large Hardon Collider temporarily. Electrical fault my arse (that's not an instruction), they're just diverting all their science brain energies to deciphering this blog, the only proof they'll ever need of the existence of the Higgs Moron particle.

To celebrate, here are some Youtubes. I've chosen these from whatever Firefox suggests to me from previous browsals when I start typing youtu into the address bar. Proper random.



Shit. This was suggested as "funny" somewhere on the interwebulars. It's not. Not even the cat, the Baldwin or the Vader. Shit, with a capital wank. Which sounds like something an appreciative toff might say to a prostitute.




She's a generalist. Not a specialist, a generalist. She's also an ugly, talent vacuum with the face a horse's mother wouldn't love and a skank factor to rival Amy Whorehouse's arsecrack. Holistic vocal coach is apparently special code for deranged bint with the personal appeal of a rampaging (higgs) Bison intent on goring you with the new horns it glued on especially for the job. I love the X-factor. Until it stops showing the mouth-breathing musical bacteria and starts pretending the people are talented. Then I hate it. This is why I prefer Britain's Got Talent, they don't bother with the second bit. They let slightly "special" girls with performing dogs into the final (best bit was when he parents explained how she doesn't have many "human friends"). I like to pretend that they intend the title in an ironic fashion.

I've run out of youtubes, so in lieu of another, here's a premium comment from the youtube posting of the last one. I adore youtube comments, they seem to be inhabited by people who, by rights, should be mentally incapable of operating a computer. Or breathing unaided.

i must admit shes a bit of an ego maniac and her big desplay at the beginin did discredit her quite a lot, however she is very talented and should be credited for heer vocal ability and the fact she has taught the vocalist of one of the best bands in wales how to sing just because she uses sum techniques that arent widely loved doesnt mean she should be discredited for it and catagorised with all the shit singers because of it

Thanks, serpentofmendes! Can spell technique, can't spell her, display, or some. I bet you only feel truly alive when paintballing. I bet you also think that Neighbours is a reality show and that Digimon is a documentary. Bless.

In the words of Gary Glitter, I'm off to trawl the far east for children to mither it's good to be back. Hello, hello, it's good to be back.

The pie done gone.

I etted it.

---

A quickfire (i.e. only ten. Which isn't quickfire at all. It's just shorter) Roxy Music shuffle, including the two Bry(i)an's solo output, but sadly lacking Phil Manzanera's, 801, the Explorers or Andy Mackay (they're all still on vinyl. Which is a particular shame with regards to Andy Mackay, as it denies the chance of a saxophone based instrumental version of Ride of the Valkyries).

Enjoy it, or else. The shuffle is still at risk of getting it. IN THE SHUFFLE HEAD.


1. In Every Dream Home a Heartache
A pleasing start. Perverted nonsense about blow-up dolls and posh houses with posh taps. Nice brooding start, big Manzanera freakout at the end. Five and half minutes of nonsensical, perverted perfection. With taps!

Watch Bryan Ferry sweat and pretend to play a guitar. Witness Paul Thompson's visible delight when he finally gets to hit something properly with his drumsticks. See Brian Eno grind pepper. He's dressed as a peacock!


2. Brian Eno - Here Come the Warm Jets
Oi, you. Yes, you. Blokey out of Flaming Lips. Brian wants his tune back. And David Essex wants his early eighties head back.

3. Bryan Ferry - These Foolish Things
Admirable display of impartiality by the sPazAmp. Bryan indulging himself to splendid effect. Should be rubbish, is actually great.

See Bryan flick ash at a tiny ashtray woman.



4. Roxy Music - 2HB
The song about the acting pencil from the 40s. Still sounds slightly like music from the future. And from space. And the past. Retro space future music about pencils. It's the way forward. And back. One of my favourite songs ever.

5. Roxy Music - All I Want is You
Full-on pop tastiness mode, this time. Effortlessly cool, gloriously good fun.

See Paul Thompson try and drum his way into Mao's Communist Party. Watch Bryan Ferry try and sneak into the Gestapo. Witness Andy Mackay's audition for Showaddywaddy.



6. Bryan Ferry - What Goes On
Bryan lets me down, lets himself down, and lets the school down. He does a good job, maybe even improves the song, but he can't change the fact that it's a completely arse song by complete cocksocket [/reed heresy].

See Bryan grow a (really good) beard because Antony Price told him to. Watch him hobble up and down stairs. Worry about Bryan's congenital stoop. Marvel at his entire lack of ability to dance like a human. Wonder how he still manages to be cool.



7. Brian Eno - Dead Finks Don't Talk
Two Eno, both from Here Come the Warm Jets. Good work, sPazAmp. Have a biscuit.

8. Bryan Ferry - It's My Party
Imagine your favourite version of the song. Then multiply it by a frillion, and that's how good this is (n.b. this process doesn't work if this is already your favourite version).

Apropos of whimsy, random eighties samurai and the fact that a tiny ten year old shoelace had a massive, inexplicable crush on Barbara, here's Dave Stewart and Barbara Gaskin's version.



9. Bryan Ferry - Is Your Love Strong Enough
Yes thanks, Bryan, and I'll thank you to stop testing it out. From the film Legend which, IMDB has just told me, featured Tom Cruise. Thankfully he isn't in the video and my forgetfulness is allowed given that the 14 year old shoelace had other cast members to have a massive, inexplicable crush on. Yes, it was Tim Curry. Only kidding, it was Mia Sara. Well, to be entirely honest, I think it was Princess Lily I had the crush on, I don't recall being bothered about her in other films (Ferris Bueller, for instance).

Continue to marvel at what Bryan thinks passes for dancing on Earth. Say hello to a brief appearance by Dave Gilmour (the guitar sound is obvious, even if he isn't). See Bryan walk spastically up supposedly invisible stairs that you can clearly see. Ask yourself the question "WHAT THE FUCK ARE THOSE SLEEVES ALL ABOUT?" (please note that given I was 14, I know full well what those sleeves were all about and I can only apologise).



10. Roxy Music - Would You Believe?
I would. Splendid retro future past space honky tonk thing with awesome drumming. Thanks Paul Thompson.

Here's Bryan Ferry comparing beards with Kenny Everett.


Yeah, happy new year and that. BYE.