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Showing posts from March, 2013

THE F.U.N.K SINGLES PAGE, APRIL 2013.

SINGLE OF THE MONTH 1 Gensu Dean & Planet Asia    Chuck Berry (Mello Music Group) Holy fucking Moly, this is fucking mad. Strung out yet rocksteady beat peppered with a smear of static, and the filthiest fuzz guitar this side of Eddie Hazell or Pete Cosey. Heard this beat before on Roc Marciano's 'Scareface' rerub but my god, when you stumble across something as fantastically unhinged as this you just want more and more of it. 'Abrasions' is the forthcoming long-player, me want me want me want - even more so having heard this monster. Go get. The Killers    Flesh & Bone  (Island)
How can we dance when the world it turning? How can we sleep when our beds are burning? Lots & lots of words here achieving the special trick of meaning sweet fanny adams, rotating the same (yawn) "anthemic" motifs the rest of schmindie-shmock seems to have their Converse mired in at the moment but desperately shoving Casiotone Dixons pissabouts, badbad prog-poesy…

Ofsted. F***ing up standards, ruining lives.

We had Ofsted inspecting us this past week at work so particularly enjoyed the weekend. Every day at work  last week felt twice as long. All that extra effort looking over your shoulder, making sure that at every point you were looking busy, making sure that at every point you were providing evidence and showing demonstratively things that you do anyway. Elemental thing that has always fucked up at every place I've ever worked is the breakdown of trust between management and staff - always means that where you work transforms from a nice place to be into an array of cubicles, drones housed within, tip-tap-tip-tapping their paperwork into shape, the paperwork the only shape work has anymore, the joy gone, the malcontentment growing with every keystroke. Ofsted bring such mutual contempt to a dizzying frenzy of panic and rage. 
And what they insist on has little to do with encouraging thought as a teacher. It's a checklist any idiot could conform to, and bad teachers are great at…

Queer Noises 1961-1978: From The Closet To The Charts - album review, Plan B Magazine, 2006

(Original Headline: "get bent" - from Plan B Magazine, 2006) Words: Neil Kulkarni
Various Artists Queer Noises 1961-1978: From The Closet To The Charts (Trikont) In this age of all-out retro gluttony, when every single tendril of pop can be teased out with a click into its prone entirety, the only way that ol’ construct that is The Compilation can surely work beyond laziness is by thematic dogmatism, by cutting a swathe through the ages and pulling together the diverse with a purpose, with a reason to be together. Queer Noises, Jon Savage’s hugely inspirational, endlessly fascinating collection of forgotten, and unforgettable, transmissions from the gay pop underground works both as musical journey, and as a launchpad for your own reconnaissance. Crucially, it works because it doesn’t try too much – it tries something clear, specific, and always political. Savage’s engrossing sleeve-notes spell out the score way more eloquently than I ever could, but what he’s collated here is a …

Various Artists - Congotronics II album review, Plan B Magazine, 2006.

(from Plan B Magazine)
Various Artists Congotronics 2: Buzz’N’Rumble From The Urban Jungle (Crammed Discs) My God, that’s a fucking atrocious title. And it plays into the hands of every smart-arse who’s gonna call this ‘African music for people who don’t like African music’. The idea being that only in the places where this music either rhythmically simulates Western exploration, or sonically strays into noise territory (which must always be a Western thing, obviously) can it interest us – like we need to start slapping down the Can references just to feel we can get close to this, feel at home. Still the myth of the dark heart; still the notion that ‘World Music’ (y’know, as opposed to Our Music) is travel from the safety of your home office. The sleeve and shtick of this, then, is little more than an über-hip, slightly gritty version of one of those page-wide ads in The Guardian for overland trips to the back of beyond that assure you that at no point will you suffer from tourists’ guil…

Eminem: Subterania, London (Melody Maker, 10 April 1999)

20 Minute Party People SERENDIPITOUS as f***. He must've been spying on my bedroom habits, the goddamn degenerate. OK, last two weeks I've been lying on my bed stroking myself and listening to nowt but Pharcyde, Quest, KMO, Nubian, 3rd Bass, Alkaholics and Beatnuts — wondering when hip hop was gonna get run again. Worrying about what new slice of style mag-feted sludgecore everyone'd pretend to like this week. Wondering why aged, disenfranchised b-boys have to insist on music as graceless and curmudgeonly and beardy as themselves. Building up a convenient theory to dismiss the stifling politeness of the nu-skool and call for a return to rap's good, old-fashioned traits of cartoon delinquency, get the f ***ing hoolies back in running things, as they have and always should. And then this mad bleat comes from the radio: "Slim Shady, Slim Shady..." and I follow it all the way to Ladbroke Grove and — f*** me! — the DJ's playing Kool G Rap & Polo and everyt…

"We're like . . . fans of 'Rumours' who can only make 'Tusk'" HOOD, 'Outside Closer' Interview 2005

(from Plan B Magazine, Issue 5)

POP WON'T LET YOU DIE - Suicidal thoughts worked out via a singles page, Plan B Magazine

I'VE A FEELING she’s not listening anymore. Every night I’d pray to my little goddess. She sits on a tiger, the cosmos spinning around her 50-odd fingers, a beguiling smile playing across her lips, knowing that hope and faith are not maintainable as permanent conditions. She knows that they should take you over like love, a last resort when the will and its inevitable futility have been exhausted.    Every night I’d throw the day at her and every morning I’d ask her to throw it back at me. And for a while things went my way. Then I forgot my little goddess. She became another religious artefact on my mantel, alongside the two Ganeshes; the Jain figurehead, proudly secular (that’s the benefit of being a Hindu – you don’t have to believe in God); the wallet-sized laminate of the Virgin and Child plucked from a Chicago sidewalk. Like every other object around me, the goddess just became another distant taker up of space within my planetsized demise. I let things slip and 2004 became p…