Saturday, 23 May 2009

deep sht

Post-Drone-punk fun nao with Deep Sht from Londres. I love this utterly zine-worthy cover from the tape (out on Family Time). The guy looks so insistent. WEIRD YOU.

Expect shamelessly Blank Dogs inspired (who wasn't?) tunes with catchiness as a standard and fuzz and mush and girlfriends lost in a cavern as a double standard.

Deep Sht - Other People's Lives


It's fair to say that modern America did lean towards the New Sincerity and remodernisation from as early as Billy Childish and the Stuckists, and so when Eminem claims to challenge conventional stances taken so thoroughly to their zenith - such as Marcus Smith's dissections of Joyce's Ulysses (Anthony Burgess himself claimed that the devotion was "beyond masturbatory") - we can only agree he is being Pythonesque.

Paula Smith argues that the tension in Relapse is sustained "by the consistent dread the failure of a career might provide", and we can see her candour, but at JC Higgins retorts, "Eminem is concerned not just with creating a mood piece, but exploring Lynchian levels of abstraction that are key to the American Gothic nuances". Eminem's devotion to the World Wildlife Fund brings joie de vivre to an otherwise dans le jardin area of Hip Hop, and from this we can only see his work - as this allows us to - as self-reflexive, postmodern schadenfreude that serves as parataxis between the more prosaic, Huxlian themes.

Dave Brown
(Pitchfork Media)

Smith, Marcus. Eminem and the Lost Chalice of (Post)Modernism. Vintage, 2009.
Burgess, Anthony. A Life Trapped in R. Kelly's Closet. Massachussets, 1998.
Smith, Paula. The New Sincerity in Eminem's 'Relapse'. Faber, 2009.
Higgins, JC. The Gothic in Relation to Tits... and Beyond! Faber, 2006.

Friday, 15 May 2009

no paws (no lions)

Scuzz-pop time with No Paws (No Lions); two guys with skills in keyboard collage and drum bashing that would make Greg Saunier proud. They function sort of like a stripped-down TNV, with the organs/samples shoved right at the forefront.

Some killer songs and a fearless/careless live style make for an addictive up-to-the-minute mess. Good times. The CDR is out on Narf.

Listen ~ No Paws (No Lions) - Seventeen


Hello, my name is Paul. My head is shaped like a huge swastika with smaller swastikas coming off each tip to infinity. My mother is outside, beating children that hide in a wigwam. The year is 14,000. I am dead.

Being a ghost is a lot like being gay. One day you find a new bristle towering out of your penis, and you know you are different. This is what happened to me. My father, Michelangelo, was the first to notice the new bristle. At the dinner table, tapping his long fingernails on the glass surface, he said

‘Paul. I know you’re gay. There’s no hiding it from me. I can see a lot more than you think, even though I have no eyes.’

I was quite taken aback. I crossed my arms and said

‘Dad. I’m not gay. I’m a ghost. I’m like god except no one believes in me.’

‘No one believes in god either.’ he said.

‘Touché.’ I said.

‘That’s why we dropped the capital letter.’ he said.

‘I know.’ I said.

In the year 14,000 no one believes in god because god was found to be gay. Scientists built a large crystal panel into the sky, like a diving board but vertical, adorned with gorgeous jewels, and hopped off onto his cloud, to find him masturbating. It is said that the first Scientist, J7, said something along the lines of


before god murdered them all with the largest gun of all time. However, as luck would have it, the second Scientist, 7uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, twittered their findings – that god was masturbating to gay porn on an old Sinclair ZX81 – back to earth and from then on, everyone knew.

There are other advantages to being a ghost. You can jump the queue at bus stops. You piss white paint. That is all.


The next day I was shagging mother on a mountain when my girlfriend, Slug, called.

‘Hey Paul, it’s Slug. Are you okay?’

She sounded sexier than usual, which meant she was worried.

‘I’m fine. Is there a problem here?’

‘No problem darling, it’s just I’ve got a huge spoon in my garden.’

‘What are you telling me for.’

‘I don’t know.’ She sounded even more sexier. ‘I thought you might know what to do.’

It sounded like she was crying which I found very erotic. We have this game we play where she calls me up at a random time in the day and cries on the phone. I almost always spray cum up the walls in the London Underground the second I hear her voice. It is kind of a prank she plays.

But that day, she wasn’t playing no prank. I said

‘I don’t know. Try putting a bowl of cereal by the patio.’

‘Really? You think that’ll work?’ she said.

‘It’s worth a try.’ I said.

Then I finished with mother. By the end of it, she was gay.


The next day Slug was letting her long red hair fall back off her pale, beautiful, Russian shoulders with a delicate smattering of freckles and a bone structure that seems to draw itself with its own beauty, telling me about the spoon.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘It worked!’ she exclaimed, looking gorgeous, ‘Your plan worked!’

My cheeks went red. I love helping her, it’s just I get embarrassed. ‘Aw shucks.’ I said.

I glanced out the garden and saw that the spoon was still there. Slug glanced with me. She threw her hands up and made a face of sheer egg-fart and said

‘It’s back.’ She looked obsequiously angry. She ran outside, barefoot. ‘It’s BACK.’ She fell to her knees. ‘It’s BACK.’ She started tearing off her clothes. ‘It’s BACK.’

She said ‘It’s BACK’ so many times that I ended up completely bored, and started to imagine she was saying ‘its back’, as if describing the spoon’s back. Whilst my girlfriend was tearing off her knickers and punching huge dents in the lawn, I took this further and imagined the spoon’s back – a fleshy mound on the back of the spoon, although it wouldn’t be on the back! (I argued against myself) because it would be the back! I started to think that this sort of circular logic is what applies to my own head – that of a huge swastika with smaller swastikas coming off each tip to infinity – which, in turn, made me feel less of a man for a few seconds.

After a few hours, Slug came into the house, covered in blood and mud.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

I looked outside. Slug had covered the entire spoon in tiny scraps of More! Magazine. I looked back at her. A dog looked at me. I looked at the dog. The dog looked at Slug. Slug looked at the dog. The dog looked at me.


The next day we went to the seaside. Slug had so many towels, it was ridiculous! She looked the spit of Larry David’s wife in Curb Your Enthusiasm that day. I should explain that the reason we have Curb Your Enthusiasm is because time is actually nothing but an endless loop, and when it reaches a certain point it begins again, and all human achievement is lost. In the year 14,000 we are on the third loop. Something to think about.

‘You look the spit of Larry David’s wife in Curb Your Enthusiasm that day, I mean this day.’ I said.

‘Thanks hun!’ she said.

‘I like it because you have that weird primate jaw that some girls have. I like it because it alludes to fellatio. It’s like an ape jaw. I want to fuck your jaw.’ I said.

‘Thanks gun!’ she said.

‘Gun?’ I said.

‘Oh no, sorry, I was thinking about guns.’ She said.

Boulder was at the beach. Boulder is one of our neighbours, with a boulder for a head. He has a son that looks like a staple.

‘Hey!’ I said, to be polite.

‘Hey!’ Boulder said.

‘Nice weather, right?’ I said.

‘Yeah right!’ Boulder said. ‘I’ll have to try not to get too eroded.’ he said and pointed to the centre of his skull.

‘What did he say? None of what he says makes any sense.’ Slug said to me quietly, in a worried tone.

Then Boulder’s head exploded and seventeen people were killed.


The next day was my running day. I usually go running to get away from Slug, when she’s playing more pranks like when she pours boiling water on my face to wake me up. I find running very relaxing, plus it’s a great way to keep fit and have fun! Usually I run around a local track, but due to the success of my two recent books – Paul’s New Track, and Postmodernism, I have been able to afford a new track of my own.

Usually I run a 400m sprint, then masturbate, and then run another 400m sprint. But this day was a little different. God was on the track, milling around in the corner by some hedges, looking dejected. I ran about 300 and then walked up to him.

‘Hey, you’re – god, right?’ I said.

‘Yup.’ he said. I could see he had been crying.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Oh. Fine. Little erectile dysfunction, nothing to write home about.’

I nodded. His jokes reminded me of Boulder’s, and this annoyed me.

‘You can’t be on this track. This is my track. Just to say.’ I said.

‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll move.’

Then he shuffled out through a hole in the hedge.

I continued my run, but just as I neared the finish line, I noticed a figure in the middle of the track. It was Slug, looking long and thin, and pale in the strong morning light, holding a present. I ran up to her.

‘Hey darling, what are you doing? Is it the spoon?’ I asked.

‘No, nothing like that.’ she said.

‘What’s with the gift?’ I asked.

‘It’s for you.’ she said.

‘Awesome!’ I said.

She stood nervously, stretching her legs as I opened the present. I kept looking up at her face, and thinking about how much I admired her. She looked really modest and yet pleased with herself. Her freckles were defined in the light.

I tore off the paper.

‘Oh wow! It’s the Curb Your Enthusiasm boxset!’ I said. ‘Feels a little light.’ I said. I opened it.

‘Hey! There’s no discs in here!’

‘This is a riddle for you to solve.’ Slug said, then she spun around, throwing glitter everywhere, and ran to the edge of the field.

I took it as an insult, as I stood there, stunned. She was making a point of my being a ghost. All these years we’ve been together, I thought, she’s been a racist.

Thursday, 14 May 2009

among the bones

More London fun-dom from Among The Bones - refreshing, born-again liquidation and luxury without the $cientology. Like a mass ceremony held by strange VST demi-gods.

'Hark from the Tombs' is a seminal swell of a song, building to a throb of treasure-like tingles and drones. It sounds... well, holy.

Among the Bones - Hark from the Tombs

Tuesday, 12 May 2009


If you fuck up I'll kill you. Trudgers brings bad love and the stench of candlelight from Murrieta, CA. Imagine what the soundtrack to the voyeur scene in Blue Velvet should have been and you are still so far...

"Uneventful, repetitious night music" seems self-chastised and perfect, in most all of Trudgers' gothic strokes, but especially in the gorgeously sad 'Dream Building'. That there is darkness in these tracks seems beyond the point. They are mood pieces, stressed to the point of perfection.

TRUDGERS = Dream Building

Tuesday, 5 May 2009


Although Mr. Kath might not admit it, much of what Crystal Castles do can be attributed to the fiction of a Mr. Paul Auster. Kath has said on several occasions that "shy children don't get anywhere" and we can see his point.

Described by the NME as "like an inverted comma that inverts forever being spoken by a dead anime girl lost in a maze of a 2-year-old child's interpretation of binary code", it was an instant classic. Following the recession, the Royal Bank of Scotland were quoted to have said "we appreciate everything Crystal Castles have done and we wish them good luck for the future". A subsequent celebratory party has been planned for the albums 10th anniversary - in 2018.

But, as Billy Neville always said "Crystal Castles are about the astute criticism of metaphysics, not its acceptance" and who are we to argue?

-Charles Chevins
(Pitchfork Media)

Higgs, Marcus. Diamond Dust: An Inquiry Toward the Gun. Faber, 2012.
Glass, Alice. MY PANTS. Faber, 2004.
Kenneth, Karl Klyde. Racism in Pop Music 1979-2009. Faber, 2009.

TRACK BY TRACK ~ Deerhoof - The Man, The King, The Girl

To my mind, zee best Deerhoof record. If you want to hear the sounds of friends in friends' houses recording their own bonding processes over beer, get this.

1. Tiger Chain
From the first wrecked chord the Hoof are onto something special. It begins sounding like a stumbling awakening to a barren Terminator landscape, except everything's made of felt. Then comes one of the best drops everr - Rob's squealing guitars flail into an insane and lovely wash of Greg's drums and Satomi's fractured, angelic vocals. 'Slather me with butter / Ring around the world ash pit.' she sings like a girl with no friends at a party.

2. Polly Bee
Genius-ly, 'Tiger Chain' is followed by an instantly catchy little love called 'Polly Bee'. 'All my love to the sun in the morning sky / Mommas unhappy all the time.' Satomi sings over strange, hypnotised keys that get crunched into nothingness by punked out riffs and catchy basslines.

3. Sophie
There is something awesome about entitling a track a girls name and then it consisting of nothing but unhinged noise.

4. A-Town Test Site
Greg destorys his snare drum and we start to think whether this album should come with a pack of paracetomols. This is pretty good showcase of how emotive rhythm can be, something that Greg Saunier is an absolute demon at.

5. Gold on Black
Dark-ass slayage from Rob on this track with a killer fucking riff followed by more awesome key harmonies and some truly piss-taking fills from Greg. A track to have rough biker-sex to.

6. For Those of Us on Foot
This is a track I can imagine would cause people to be put off early Deehoof by. An ungodly rash of hiss with what is basically animals communicating in song, whilst singing the chorus we just heard to 'Polly Bee'. Builds to some slammin' march rhythms and a recording of one of the band's angry dogs snarling at the mic. I forget who's dog it is, but he is credited in the liner notes.

7. Gore in Rut
Tracks like this make me sad that Greg has reigned in his jazz-spazz-stab drumming skills for something a bit more... indie. 'I can't have it / The monster rabbit' Satomi sings (I think). One of the pleasures of this record is that what you hear changes every time. Isn't that the point of music?

8. Wheely Freed Speaks to the People
A showcase in the violent/lovely aesthetic that Deehoof basicaly invented. Some gorgeous chord progressions and soprano harmonies from Mrs. Matsuzaki. A real mover.

9. Bendinin
A kind-hearted flag of a song in the tradition of the wonderful 'Dinner for Two' off Apple O'. There is a short bit of this where Greg's vocals sound so poor that he seems like a lost idiot that needs help, and this I love.

10. Itchy P-Pads
Clang, clang, clang. A burst of ungodly racket after the cooling down of 'Bendinin'. There are parts of silence in this where I can imagine them playing in the living room.

11. The Pickup Bear
This is such an amazing song. Crazy-short at just over a minute, Satomi sings 'The pick up bear' with such knowing. I get this image of a bear that the band know that gives them lifts around the place, and most of the town know him, but he's not very nice to you if you don't know him.

12. The Comedian Flavorists
There is a strange smell of Reveille in this track - very major LA LA sounding announcement-like songs.

13. Queen of the Mole People
Final song of calm, back of a coach journey music. Greg's drums are so tame in this, but you can feel a sense of an excited kid getting drunk on champagne at a wedding - there's too much enthusiasm. It's profound fun. End lyric 'I forgot my money, I forgot my money' gives me chills.

& 14. - 18
The live tracks. Deerhoof really lived it when they were starting out playing live. You can hear the awe of the audience, absolutely in shock at how bad the band are that are playing before them. They sound even more retarded than the Shaggs for god's sake. This is, of course, why they mean everything. 'Carriage' is a fine example of animalistic, wrathful screaming and horror, as is 'The Mausker'. On one of the tracks you can hear a guy (I guess it was recorded from the back of the venue) say 'What the hell is this?'. I would have loved to be at one of these penetrating shows. It's dangerous to let yourself like early Deerhoof - as someone reviewing at pitchfork said 'Deerhoof have lost me friends, apartments and several girlfriends' but you will be a richer person if you dig into the early recordings and give in to their terrible charm.

Sunday, 3 May 2009

jeans wilder

Loving the new loner stare-gaze thing that's reverberating in the corner like a small, sexy girl that doesn't know who she is yet (and all the better) right now. This is an Andres Serrano print. Only joking. It's the visual interpretation of California's Jeans Wilder. I'm pretty sure I heard a slice of this man's greatness on DJ Rick's seminal Art for Spastics. Maybe it was a dream. Dreams are acceptable.

The 'Something in the Way' cover is pretty haunting, adding a rusty, dischordant sense of ambience and new dread to what was probably one of the best Nirvana tracks when we think about it. The very fun 'Miss Yr Scent' is plenty damaged yet controlled, and although oldie 'Evening Gown' sometimes nods towards the teepee rock of Brightblack, it's short and just scary enough to sustain an American gothic undertone.

JEANS WILDER - Evening Gown