PERFECTION AS A HIPSTER

Okay, so: I've been horrendously lax in updating this (not that anyone's noticed) but I'll try and be more assiduous in future. "Try" probably being the key word. We have: pans/reviews, tunes, books and films to discuss. So much to talk about, so few keyboardwords.

MUSIC.
First, a selection of recent reviews (there's a full feature on Sarah Records and an interview w/Elizabeth from Allo Darlin' to be added later):


Chapel Club// Palace
In assessing Chapel Club's début LP, the only analogy that seems halfway appropriate is this: the album evokes those oppressive background drones one only notices when they end- the grinding hum of an extractor fan, say, or a particularly noisy heater. And as far as listening experiences are concerned, it does mean Palace is nothing if not consistent. But it's this numbing consistency that's the problem: obvious influences (Joy Division; Loveless-era My Bloody Valentine; the early 00's post-punk revival) are chewed up and spat out into a final product that's about as exciting as wallpaper paste.

From the mumbled, sub-sub-Ian Curtis vocals that employ an arsenal of clichés with all the subtlety and wit of a truncheon to the face ("All The Eastern Girls'" mind-bending refrain of: "This is a love song/This is a love song..." being one of many, many crimes) to production so relentlessly energy-sapping that it almost feels like the band themselves are physically slumped over the listener, Palace seems to be an exercise in controlled monotony. Sort of like a do-it-yourself solitary confinement kit, really: maddening and utterly, utterly pointless. Avoid.


Yuck// Yuck
For a band with a moniker rich in negative gustatory associations, London five-piece Yuck make surprisingly palatable indie-rawk. If we were to push the overwrought food/music metaphor a little further, you could say their self-titled debut LP is a largely hale and generally pretty healthy stew of deeply Pavement-indebted, fuzzed-out tunes. And it's pretty telling that the only times things get slightly synaesthetically icky are when the band deviate from the aeons-old formula of up-tempo wigouts channelling every instrument through a distortion pedal- a fact attested to by the decidedly stodgy seven-minute album closer, "Rubber". Lyrically, they're so straightforward as to almost be deceptive; there's none of (huge influences) Sonic Youth's playfulness, or Malkmus' laconic wryness. Instead, we have songs about 'making it through the wa-a-a-aaaall' or girls that previously 'got me high' ("Sunday"). Not exactly world-changing, but for a band that so clearly idolise slacker-rock, what do you expect? They're fun enough to be pretty unobtrusive- and certainly aren't gonna trigger any gag reflexes. Unfortunately, however, that's about it: they just don't generate enough excitement to trigger the dopamine-overload rush of their heroes.

Now, onto the actual recommendations. Despite being somewhat hit'n'miss (and that awful, awful genre tag!) Toro Y Moi's recent FACT mix is so consistently lovely as to bend the mind a little. Disco bloody disco, innit.

FACT mix 219 - Toro y Moi (Feb '11) by factmag

In other news: I've been hammering LA Vampires' stuff for a while now (well, a few days...)- especially the collaboration with Zola Jesus. To wit: the beat/vocal-stew heaviness of No No No. On the imaginitively titled EP LA Vampires & Zola Jesus. Also worthy of your attention: everything else LA Vampires have done. I kiddeth you not.



Finally, for the music: a God Help The Girl track that's been kicking around in the back of my head for a while now. Witness: the Be My Baby drumbeat/laaaavely female vocals/ridiculous, almost Shangri-Las esque melodrama in the middle eight. Incredible.



FILMS & BOOKS.
Exhaustive lists of everything watched/read recently probably don't say a great deal (and besides, I can't remember half of it) but here goes:

FILMS: Elephant Man (good, not mindblowing)/ Inland Empire (utterly infuriating; avoid)/A Bout De Souffle (incredible)/ Alphaville (simultaneously hilarious in its depiction of the future, and pretty good. Plus: Anna Karina. Oh me oh my)/ Blue Valentine (stunning. Plus: Grizzly Bear doing the soundtrack!)/ Mulholland Drive (pretty bloody good, I have to say)/ Ma Vie Sexuelle (far, far too long- although I'll probably always be a sucker for people smoking and talking French)/ The Big Sleep (stunning)/ Nausiscaa of The Valley of The Winds (pretty consistent, if a touch overlong)/ There Will Be Blood (fantastic- and what a score! Oh, Jonny...)/ Slacker (really rather excellent, and an absolute steal at just three measly pounds). Oh, and a selection of shorts by Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy, Keaton and someone else whose name escapes me temporarily. Keaton was by far the best, if you were wondering.

I'll do books another time. There's too many and it's just ticked past one.

LISZT.

(Richard Long, 'Sixteen Works', 1984)

Rather than do the usual top/worst/most staggeringly average ten, I thought I'd do something a bit different. I give you: eleven songs that've kept me sane in the past year. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there won't be a great deal of achingly hip breakingly new new new music, but it will contain a whole bunch of stuff I, me, personally, like a great deal.* Comfort music, essentially. And I'll attempt to keep fanboyism to an absolute minimum, which'll be difficult. Obviously.

1. FOALS// BLUE BLOOD.


Honest and open and direct and just bloody wonderful. I listened to this song constantly. (The album closer, What Remains, is also well worth a look. As is Total Life Forever as a whole, patchiness an' all, come to think of it.)

2. SUN ARAW// DEEP COVER

Interstellar brainstrokes. Amazing.

3. BEACH HOUSE// D.A.R.L.I.N.G.

Hazy and woozy and almost unutterably gorgeous.

4. PARENTHETICAL GIRLS// EVELYN MCHALE

"Sweetheart, those sycophants ain't far// Take those drones by the stones/And we'll be stars/ just the way that we are..."

5. MALE BONDING// YEAR'S NOT LONG

Kind of a stupid video, but never mind. They're kind of a stupid band. And this is so, so awesome cranked up.

6. MYSTERY JETS// YOUNG LOVE

Perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect pop music. And when Laura Marling starts singing...

7. GWEN STEFANI// THE SWEET ESCAPE

I can't logically defend this'n. Insanely, unbelievably moreish. Pure escapism, and fantastic for it.

8. TOM WAITS// GUN STREET GIRL

Simultaneously totally battered & broken, and also incredibly soothing. Like the whole of Rain Dogs, really.

9. BELLE & SEBASTIAN// PUT THE BOOK BACK ON THE SHELF

Kind of a cheeky two-fer-one- the hidden track Songs For Children at the end is lovely- but the main event here will always be Put The Book Back On The Shelf. I can't even really tell you why that track in particular anymore, given how good their entire back catalogue is. How about we settle with just because?

10. OTIS REDDING// CIGARETTES AND COFFEE

There are no words.

11. NOAH & THE WHALE// BLUE SKIES

Firstly: I never thought I'd say this about Noah & The Whale, but The First Days Of Spring is a brilliant record. Secondly: it could've been any of the tracks from that record up here now, but this'n won out because I'm a big fan of They Shoot Music.

So, here we are. Eleven songs I like a great deal- and a whole lot of others I now wish were included. Oh well.

*Late disclaimer: actually, upon rereading this list, a good chunk of the tracks were released in 2010. So it kinda is achingly hip new music. But never mind. I'm so ahead of the curve that this shit's already way old.

SEEIN' SPECTRES IN MY DREAMS

More things that appeared places other than here! Two review pieces, and one interview, published in various issues of a student newspaper...



First up it's Small Black's New Chain. This one (I think) largely escaped the editorial scalpel, save for a few semi-colons and hypens.

"It feels unfair to be dismissive about Small Black's first LP: there's nothing that can be pinpointed as obviously wrong; there are no unforgivable faux-pas or embarrassing missteps. The problem, if you can call it that, is that New Chain is just... okay.

Individual elements are inoffensive enough: drum machines are set firmly at 'early '80s', the synthesizers are acceptably lo- in sound fidelity, and the vocals are 'badly' recorded to the point of being largely unintelligible. When heard in isolation, some of the tracks are even quite good: 'Camouflage' packs epic drums and none-too-subtle Joy Division nods, while 'Goons' happily clatters away for two and a bit minutes. But over an album, Small Black just fade into the background. They seem to have missed the fun of the era they pastiche so faithfully; there's none of the camp sense of humour or self-awareness that still makes early synth-pop beguiling. And without this playfulness, New Chain ends up as aural wallpaper: not unpleasant, but nothing to get fired up about either."



Weekend's (rather bloody good) Sports.

"On first listen, Californian shoegaze trio Weekend's début LP Sports is kinda bemusing: it's hard to escape thinking that the thick waves of static clouding every track are somehow accidental, as if 'it just happened that way' when recording. But first impressions can wrong-foot; on second listen, one realises that the 'accidental' feedback is totally the point, and serves as counterpoint to the band's obvious knack for writing pop songs: highlight "End Times" could've been written by C86er-than-thou label-mates The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart- if it weren't for ear-splitting noise obscuring the melodies. And though not exactly a new idea, this struggle between violence and sweetness still results in a thrilling record. It does help that the Sports' 45 minutes are packed full of sly twists; it's these little touches that move Weekend from 'faithful shoegaze pasticheurs' to 'something special'. Take the breakneck, charge at the end of "Veil"; the transition from the (appropriately) droney "Monday Morning" into thrashed-out "Monongah, MV"; the tactile waves of fuzz piling over the vocals on opener "Coma Summer"- the more you listen, the more you find."



And an interview with Jimmy Smith, one of Foals' two guitarists. This is rather a long 'un, and was written under stressful circumstances (to say the very bloody least). In truth, I have no idea how it got finished, and it's probably riddled with errors, but, nevertheless...

"The Oxford-bred five piece that emerged from myspace (remember that thing?) three years ago were quite a different beast from the band we see today: back then, nervy guitars, obtuse lyrics and songs that were frankly claustrophobic prevailed. Insularity was the order of the day: indie-disco baiter "Cassius" pretty much stonewalls any lyrical analysis, for example- and this isn't even starting on Yannis Philippakis' yelped vocals, or the studio-tomfoolery heavy finished record. I mean, I liked Antidotes. I liked it a lot. But it was hard work. Two years down the line, however, and a great deal has changed...

It'd be a pretty horrendous cliché to say that with age comes maturity, especially when one factors in the fact that the time elapsed since Foals' début album Antidotes is- just to reinforce the point- a smidgen over two years. But like most clichés, it carries a certain amount of truth: the band's second record, Total Life Forever, released earlier this year, is a far less alienating affair than their first effort- as guitarist Jimmy Smith says, 'it's more open; there's more space on it'. It certainly sounds more comfortable, more assured than their début- but the reasons for the band's shift in sound, however, was actually as much by accident as design. Circumstantial factors- namely 'living together in a semi-detached house next door to a young family'- forced the group to shift their focus, 'moving from volume to sound', with various band members 'often playing quite quietly, quite late into the night, without drums', and writing songs individually.

This approach stands in stark contrast to both the recording of their previous record and demos made in the writing process: early demo track "Glaciers" involved 'Yannis getting stoned out of his mind' in a tiny studio in London, and piling tape loops on top of tape loops, which is '[what Total Life Forever] would've been like if we had been allowed to have done loads of overdubs in the studio'. The tendency to exploit the studio has hamstrung Foals before: "Big Big Love" from Antidotes 'was just totally unplayable live. Total overdub central'. The band members' desire to use anything and everything available to them when recording was something producer Luke Smith had to actively fight: 'There's a tendency in the studio to want to do everything. There are all these instruments lying around... and [when we suggested using them] he was like "there's no way you can do that live, and it'll sound fucking terrible; just leave it... Leave that space empty!"'

Instead, at the behest of their producer, they returned to basics: TLF is 'just the five of us, playing in a room'. Recording the album turned into quite a gruelling process, however- attempts to 'get the heart of the song' onto tape often meant doing 'twenty five, thirty, takes in a row... you'd start hallucinating, feeling really weird, completely out of it. Then the track finishes, and you've been playing for six minutes, and... "CRRK! Do it again!"'

Dispiriting though it may have been to record, Foals' new way of doing things is paying dividends live: their set the night before 'was absolutely mental, the crowd were going nuts'. In Bristol it's the same- and the music is of a consistently high standard, with new material often outshining the old. And for a band that once facetiously denied knowing any chords and effectively made guitar solos anathema, several moments in the set sound suspiciously lead-guitar orientated: distorted guitars duel in the segues before and after lead single "Spanish Sahara". Their new-found openness even manifests itself in the way the band plays live: whereas before singer/guitarist Philippakis and guitarist Smith faced each other across the stage, ignoring the audience, nowadays all members face front and centre. At some points they even smile.

It's not all positivity, however. A discussion of LA musician Ariel Pink's latest record quickly turns into a discussion of the state of the music industry- an establishment one gets the impression Foals are distinctly unimpressed with. 'I think the music industry needs a fucking huge revamp. It needs Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen to come in and sweep everyone away... All these traditions from the arena rock days, slapped on everything. It makes big bands really successful, but small bands have a horrible time...' Any latent teenage idealism about changing "the system" from within isn't forthcoming, however- Jimmy is adamant that, although he wishes 'the major labels would die', 'you've got to accept they never will... There are all these arseholes leeching off people, off bands'. It seems a rather curious position to be in, being supported by an institution you detest. Smith acknowledges the oddness of the situation, but says 'eventually you realise that it's about making music and playing shows, and concentrate on that'. Interpolating these statements to insinuate hypocrisy on Foals' part seems distinctly unfair, however: it's an issue faced by most musicians, and even more so when artists start to break into the mainstream. "Focusing on the music" might be ducking the politics somewhat- but it's also a pretty inevitable end-result.

And the band are doing their best to work make the process work for them- as they see it, 'the music industry is built on cycles... and once you're caught up in it, that's that'. Their next move, therefore, is 'to try and break our own cycles. Get the new album out quicker... Maybe do an EP. We've always wanted to do an EP.' This is offset, however, by an almost neurotic self-critical streak: 'we're so anal, and so worried about letting ourselves down musically... We've got a few ideas left , though. The well's not dry yet...'"

NO MORE INDIE ROCK/ JUST A TICKING CLOCK

(David Shrigley, Time To Choose, date unknown)

First, some STUFF WHAT ACTUALLY APPEARED SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN HERE. (Albeit in radically attenuated form, with the insertion of a typo.)



[Exhibit A) A promised works piece on Life Without Buildings' one and only studio record, Any Other City, written for Bristol's student paper Epigram. Essentially, the promised works section is both a chance for my friend Jon to fill the paper with content, and for a writer to remind people why forgotten/ignored/underground album x is brilliant. TO WIT:]

"Life Without Buildings feel like one of those bands. The kind that should be renowned in the "right" circles. And they've got the credentials: only one studio album, little in the way of biographical detail, a painfully short career (1999-2002) and a singer that was (and is) by trade a visual artist. Instead, they largely dropped beneath the radar- which is rather a shame, because that one album, 2001's Any Other City, is something of a gem.

Honesty is probably the best policy here: I'm willing to wager your response to this album is going to hinge upon whether the singer annoys the hell out of you. Sounds obvious, right? The vocalist normally plays a pretty huge part in determining whether one likes a band. Well, hold that thought- the thing about Sue Tompkins' vocals is that they are really, really striking. Subtract 'em from this album's equation, and you're left with rather pleasant, vaguely krautrocky post-punk tracks. Add the vocals back in, however, and you have a rather different proposition: the compositions coalesce around this ever-changing, unique...

The only really apt point of comparison is probably Horses-era Patti Smith. Both clearly owe a great deal to the beat poets in terms of delivery, but whilst Smith's focus is upon stories, Tompkins hones in on the wuurds. She revels in them. The traditional verse/chorus pattern is totally abandoned- purely verbal digressions, pulling words apart into syllables, abound. She twists back upon herself constantly, too: phrases emerge, are repeated, forgotten, half-repeated, altered, picked apart, and variously howled, sung, whispered or simply spoken. And she's almost unique, in that quoting her lyrics outside of the song does little to aid understanding them: they defy easy deconstruction; demand to be listened to. If you want a laugh, check out the transcriptions on the internet: alone, they're ridiculous, but when heard with musical accompaniment, they make perfect, obtuse sense. Stand-out track Sorrow, for instance, has the guitar continually ramping up, fading out and dropping back in, providing an anchor for Tompkins' external/internal monologue covering pretty much everything. It is, quite simply, astounding. Any Other City has that rare kind of brilliance: it just demands repeated listens. So long, of course, as you like that voice..."



[EXHIBIT B) A review (now out of date, what with the record coming out a little while back) of Maps & Atlases' first full-length, Perch Patchwork. Of the two, this suffered more as a result of the editorial axe-waving, but it's not really anyone's fault. I should've written a better piece, Jon should've paid more attention, etc. etc. Anyway. Here 'tis:]

"Don't believe the hype: when Maps & Atlases say their début LP Perch Patchwork is 'more pop' than earlier releases, it doesn't mean much; they won't be Top 40 any time soon. They're still as inscrutable lyrically: I have little idea what the hell a "Perch Patchwork" is supposed to be (fish mosaic, perhaps?), or why being greeted by a pigeon is so portentous, but underneath those odd, nasal vocals so much is going on. Stop-start guitars; unexpected, inventive drum/bass stuff; strings; the occasional parping of a brass section; what I swear were pan-pipes- it's surprising, adventurous music. Take the pretty much drum-only The Charm, or the absurdly catchy Solid Ground- the whole record kind of feels like M&A flexing their songwriting muscles. And the result? Well, it's a marriage of experimental waywardness and hooky pop songs- and a pretty much brilliant to boot: equally obtuse and accessible."

RECENT ENTHUSIASM:

MUSIC
James Blake continues on his streak of awesome, and it doesn't look like it's gonna end any time soon, either. This is a cover of Feist's Limit To Your Love, with Mr. Blake's vocals (finally) front and centre. It's also a month or so old (in terms of release) so I'm a touch behind, but never mind. See: that unfuckingbelievable gut-bothering sub bass part, and his really excellent (and I think more recent) Klavierwerke EP. Supergood.

Recent digging on a (ahem!) nameless website uncovered yet another gem of a band signed to Slumberland records: the fantastic Weekend. Just turn this the hell up: distorted guitars! Noise! Obscured vocals! Win! Their record Sports will be coming out soon, and IT WILL BE GOOD.

Weekend "Coma Summer" by Slumberland Records


In other news, I saw DOOM Saturday (he was excellent) and last night's entertainment came in the form of HEALTH supporting Crystal Castles. I was actually looking forward to HEALTH more, but Crystal Castles totally blew them out of the water. Alice Glass is unbelievably charismatic, and they are very, very fond of strobe lighting. This aside, I also saw No Age supported by Male Bonding- and it was a rare case of the support being vastly superior to the headliner. Still, it was cheap- and No Age's hilarious combo of sincerity and fondness for totally unnecessary swearing was totally worth the price of admission. Not to mention other amsuing things that happened in conjunction with my attending the gig, but they're both hard to explain and not especially funny for any party that wasn't present. So, best left unsaid. Let's not resort to in-jokes, here.

I also saw the wonderful Joanna Newsom supported by Roy Harper, but it was a long time ago, and there's no easy way to express just how incredible Ms. Newsom was. The set was skewed in favour of Have One On Me (no bad thing) and featured some of the best live drumming I have ever, ever seen. Just... wow.

BOOKS
Term's recently gotten underway, so reading purely for pleasure (though philosophy is undoubtedly fun, it sometimes infuriates...) is kind of out of the question for the next little while. The last book to be completed was Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men In A Boat, which I enjoyed very very much. More in depth analysis may come later, but for now: it made me chuckle.

The current project is Virgil's Aenid, but that will more'n likely take an age, and it'll be an age before I can find enough time to actually read the damn thing. So, I suppose it goes.

RECENT ENTHUSIASM// 4. Come on feet!

(Lily Van Der Stokker, title and date unknown)

So, I haven't done one of these in a while. I've been a little busy. Up and down the country, busy writing stuff that might actually be seen, sorting out a house and a society... But anyway, these are no excuses. Rough recent interesting stuff rundown...

MUSIC.

Listening has been mainly hip hop. A list of names would just be boring, so here's a few videos instead:

Quasimoto- Greenery.
Way-out there stuff from Madlib, released under the pseudonym Quasimoto/ Lord Quas. The voice is... distinctive, to say the least. Fun, kinda goofy, playful stuff. His first record is probably more consistent, but this track from his second (The Further Adventures of Lord Quas) gives a pretty good idea what to expect: dreamy, but not necessarily nightmarish. Also: track Jazz Cats Pt. 1, though not outstanding as a song, is such a good rundown of quality jazz artists. I've been using it as a springboard for finding stuff, and I recommend you do the same. Now.



Earl Sweatshirt- EARL
From the so-extreme-it's-just-cartoonish crew Odd Future (or, as they some times insist on being called, OFWGKTA (or Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. Yeah.)) comes Earl Sweatshirt. I make no bones about it: both lyrically and in terms of the video's content, this stuff ain't for queasy stomachs. But it's also (once you get past the aforementioned violence) brilliantly produced- kinda unique, and hard to pin down. A bit lo-fi, with fantastic detuned synth lines and meandering raps packed with genuine 'what'd he say?!' moments. Free downloads of various mixtapes available from their tumblr, here. Their approach is kinda like a new Wu Tang-Clan: one group album, and various mixtapes from the respective members, all masterminded by 'the creator' Tyler. Domo Genesis' Rolling Papers is excellent, but as far as I can tell they're all worth checking out.



And (another) DOOM alterego, Viktor Vaughn. This's the title track from his not-so-recent Vaudeville Villain. Straight up awesome, with one mother of a groove. Obviously, if one hasn't, one should also give the DOOM/Madlib collaboration Madvillain a listen as well, because Madvillainy is packed full of genius, but DOOM's entire back catalogue (except, possibly, Dangerdoom, which is fun but rather insubstantial) rewards digging. Further updates as I get acquainted with the aforementioned back catalogue are to be expected; I'm not saying I know it all here- just that, currently, I haven't heard Daniel Dumile do anything terrible.



Recent gig-going has been embarrasingly lax, but I did manage to catch the (overpriced) Ducktails at the Cube. Bearing in mind I hadn't bothered to listen to their recorded stuff (which, according to two out of the three people I went with, is much better than the live show), the gig was massively, massively underwhelming. Every track felt sub-something else, and weirdly half-finished. The songs seemed somehow malformed- like someone had started writing a song, got bored halfway through and raced through the process. Again: I haven't listened to the recorded stuff, but on the basis of that gig, I don't feel at all inspired to search it out.

But the frontman was likeable enough, and his backing band was the rather good Spectrals, so it wasn't all bad- just a bit dull.

BOOKS.



Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov and Dante's Inferno both got polished off in quick succession. Well, I tell a lie- the Dostoyevsky's been on the go for quite a while, but I got inspired and chewed through two thirds in a week or so. I don't think I can say anything particularly insightful here: both books deserve the status they have, and they're both a bit too weighty to analyse pithily.

So, instead: a quick thumbs-up for a little book of two lectures by the wonderful John Ruskin. Called On Art and Life, and available as part of Penguin's Great Ideas series, Ruskin is consistently charming, especially in the second piece- a lecture delivered on the subject of iron. It doesn't seem too unreasonable to get a high dose of cultyah for ~£3.50, does it? No. So go buy.

MUSICAL POLITICS & THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

(Francis Bacon- Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, 1944)

(Or: everyone's a critic: 'net journalism gets uglier.
Wherein things get heinously meta-, and a site reviewing reviews (kinda) gets reviewed.)

Writing about music is difficult. Zappa wasn't far off with the "dancing about architecture" similie- and yet, people persistently try. Just look at this blog, fer heaven's sake- trying to articulate why I like certain things without coming across as a tool (at least I hope I don't, but I'll leave judging there to you) isn't easy anyway, and it's much harder when it comes to music. There's something ineffable about albums I really love, and often it defies any analysis other than 'this makes me feel good inside'. This ineffability thing makes music journalism as a whole quite tricky: you're trying to convey something that's in a deep sense personal; quite literally subjective, and also doing so in a way that's interesting or persuasive, or at best both.

Which makes a website called ripfork, the¹ scourge of the independent music² critical machine, kind of interesting. It's safe to ripfork is rather unimpressed with the current state of music criticism- and its targets are the frequently overblown³ record/gig reviews from 'sites like pitchfork, drownedinsound et al. The reviews of reviews are close to medical diagnosis⁴: various language ailments are 'revealed' through close analysis of the review. And it's tricky not to write this piece in a way that's self-justifying or weasely or trying to remove myself from the 'bad journalism' camp (because I'm pretty sure I've been guilty of some of the things Wendus indicts others for), but I'll give it a shot- because there's some intriguing fall-out stuff about music, criticism and the English language that I think results. So: hear me out.

The root of Wendus' occasionally quite vitriolic attacks is quite a simple one, really: people hiding that they don't have much to say behind otiose verbiage.⁵ It's a pretty old problem; Orwell took "vague language" to task in the wonderfully concise Politics and the English Language of 1946. After all, words offer the means to meaning, to communication- and vague language communicates a lot, although admittedly probably not exactly what the author originally intended. In part, vagueness seems like a kind of bluffing mechanism: hiding the fact that you haven't got much to say. Sort of like the emperor's new clothes gone apeshit, with a thesaurus in hand.

This is all well and good and kinda admirable. But Wendus seems to want to go further: his mission, as far as I can tell, is to stop music journalism in its entirety. Don't think I'm exaggerating here: frequently calling journalists "music lice" and exhorting them to create music of their own just seems boneheaded. It's something that isn't helped by the frequent (and kind of unnecessary) personal attacks. There's two separate things running alongside here, but together they undermine what could've been a brilliant website and a really important point.

First, the personal attacks: I'm gonna take it for granted that a lot of independent music websites and their journalists frequently go for the musician and not the music. This is regrettably part and parcel of the scene. But in insulting those that insult, the moral high ground isn't just lost, it's totally forgotten about. Argument ad hominem pretty slams the brakes on any kind of productive dialogue, and it just feels like an attempt to score easy points. Anyone can be rude on the internet. It's... cheap.

And the "why don't you stop criticising and create" thing, a favourite of the critically maligned artist since time immemorial is just stupid. However dire a state it may be in now, criticism still does act to filter out the crap and reveal otherwise hidden gems. Of course it isn't perfect, but it's useful. Denying that is just blinkered and retrogressive.

I'm not going to go as far as Wilde did in The Critic As Artist and say that criticism is more valuable than art itself, but I certainly think that it- when done well- can be incredibly interesting. And Ripfork highlights the problem with a lot of the criticism about: it's boring and obfuscating and a chore to read. It's not really any wonder I frequently skip the reviews and scroll down for the star/needlessly precise points rating⁶; that's become the important bit, not the opinions of an informed and amusing music fan- which, if you think about it, probably should be the thing that matters.

What I think we need are more people unafraid to use the personal pronoun I, more reviewers that talk in plain English and avoid excessive genrefication⁷. More people like DiS's bloody marvellous Wendy Roby, or the wonderful Simon Price. Criticism can be great, despite what Mr Wendus says.

¹ (or at least, a)

² The temptation to put this in scare quotes was huge, but I valiantly resisted. Very broadly, I mean: the people interested in independent music, either in terms of record-label ownership or "spirit", and focused primarily on bands often not particularly commercially successful. This is a rough definition, but I'm sure you can guess the people and musicians I mean. A clue: it's not bands like The Killers. There's some serious worm/can/opening that has the potential to go on here- especially about why the indie community is the way it is. But, if this ain't mixing metaphors too much, I'll try to keep a lid on that stuff.

³ To say the very least.

⁴ If the person doing the diagnostic work was really, really angry at the patient.

⁵ I like the word otiose, okay?

⁶ And I think there's a pretty good case for just doing away with star ratings altogether. If nothing else, it'd force people to read the reviews.

⁷ The genrefying thing is a complete minefield, and I don't particularly want to venture into it right now- both sides have a point, but when your description runs to three or more hyphenated words, you should probably just stop...

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE...

(The rather lovely Patrick Wolf, photographer currently unknown. But regardless, I'm very fond of this shot.)

MUSIC
Extraneous personal stuff: I'm off to Cornwall for a few days in a few days, which means A) no pithy little pop culture nuggets for you, and B) Patrick Wolf's gorgeous second album Wind In The Wires for me. For the uninitiated: it's a record all about Cornwall, and I'm excited at the prospect of listening to it whilst zooming through the landscape it so beautifully sets to music. Here's the title track...


After stalking The Pains of Being Pure At Heart's Kip Berman on last.fm (findable here, if you're interested) and listening to his favourite tracks, I hit upon this absolute gem. Words just cannot convey how unbelievably cool this track is. There's just no other way of putting it. I give you Polaroid/Roman/Photo, by 'French synthwave[rs]' Ruth...


Also, and sadly not available on youtube, personal fanboy favourites Parenthetical Girls are set to release Part II of their Privilege 12" set soon. Part II is entitled The Past, Imperfect, and you can listen to the track Young Throats at this website heyar. (The frankly awful blather is simply not my responsibility; I link for the musc, and if that 'site poisons your mind I shan't be held accountable.)

Also, whilst I remember, and of course assuming you're interested, my last.fm can be found here.

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BOOKS

Latest reading has been, newspapers and assorted articles aside, Wilde's The Critic As Artist. As far as I can tell, it's the fullest statement of his aestheticism, and crucially also a scintillating, wonderful read. It's in dialogue form, and often seems simply to be a vehicle for his infamous epigrammatic wit. I would talk on, but I don't want to spoil just how good it is for you. Well worth taking a day or two to digest and enjoy.

An online version is available here, but as ever I fear the printed word reads best when printed- your kindle/ipad/e-reader be damned. As a corollary: that version is 'unable to reproduce' the occasional bouts of Greek Oscar indulged in, so you will actually miss a fair bit of the dialogue's meaning. Yet another reason to get yourself to the bookshop.

Reading whilst I am away shall be: Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, a book of Plath's poems, a book of essays on the philosophy of law, and nothing else. For now, goodbye.

"Let us go... and look at the roses. Come! I am tired of thought."