The Library

Saturday 28 December 2013

eops 2013LIST

eops Top Ten of 2013 

2013 was a vintage year for music full of unexpected returns and the inevitable shock of the new. I rather enjoyed the balance of new and old in this years list, feels like a rounded presentation but of course that is up to you - read on, dear reader, read on.

First things first - there were a lot of great records that didn't quite make the list this year, so it only seems fair to give some of the best of them a quick #HaikuReview ...





"Pirate radio,
Mix tapes, break-beats, warehouse raves.
That was our culture."


"Feel a little down?
Don't put this on for fucks sake!
*Sad face forever*"

"Blame it on sunshine?
I blame it on the Moogy.
Downbeat abstraction."

"The rebel is back,
Celebration of jungle!
Jah! Rasta-Far-I!"

"Major energy!
This is ridiculous fun,
Not for the poe-faced."

So much for the also rans, here are my favourite ten releases of the year:


10. My Bloody Valentine - MBV


Finding a new My Bloody Valentine album was a bit like running into an old friend in the street. "Yeah so ... you remember mad Kevin? With the band and the fringe? Saw him earlier - looks great! Still sounds a bit mad; mumbling and droning on - but he is proper lovely is Kev".  20 years on and My Bloody Valentine haven't changed a bit, they are still the too cool for school indie band they always were. The only real difference is that they are truly 'Indie' now. So much so that the Mercury Prize disqualified them from their award for not having a digital distribution deal with iTunes or Amazon, because that's what matters right? They wouldn't have won in any case. 'MBV' is a sugar coated beef jerky of an album that could easily make the list but would always prove too sinewy for the soft palette of the 'Barclaycard Mercury Prize'. Those who appreciate the controlled dissonance of old will be blissfully rewarded but the casual Barclaycard user, looking for drive-time fulfilment will probably never get it. Thats OK - My Bloody Valentine aren't exactly headline hungry 'slebs' looking for endorsement, I expect Kevin Shields and company will happily dissolve into obscurity knowing they have left us richer for the slight return.








9. Kurt Vile - Walking on a pretty daze

Kurt Vile comes across as a very laid back kind of guy. He has a very chilled agenda; he likes walking, has long hair, writes ten minute pop songs and has that lovely American drawl about his diction. He sounds like a stoner but professes that he never touches the stuff, which is good because if he got any more laid back he would be horizontal. Maybe it was this slacker attitude that kept him off the radar for so long but now I've wallowed in 'Walking on a pretty daze' I feel like raiding the big fridge of Americana and chowing down on those cheese flavoured 'Goldtones'. This is an album for those mornings when you just want to enjoy the ride, not get too caught up in life and drift through the malaise.





8. Fuck Buttons - Slow Focus


A band so obtuse that their very name cannot be mentioned on radio. Their sonic smithery constructs a monster truck of noise riveted together with steely beats and teflon coated with a glaze of critic proof progressive rock styling. Theirs is not the hipster-induced minimalism that strangled all the fun out of club culture over the last few years, they work on a grand scale. Danny Boyle thought them sufficiently grand to feature in the greatest show on earth and 'Olympians' became the Shazam moment of London 2012 for many stupefied sports fans. It's all rather wonderful that this led them into the mainstream and indeed gifted them the number one album they richly deserve. Slow Focus is music that teeters on the edge of control; it drags the listener around like an illegal dog breed on a long leash - all you can do is to hold on and hope it doesn't catch whatever it is that it's chasing. 



 

7. Charles Bradley - Victim of love


At this time of year we are encouraged to believe in all kinds of unlikely miracles but few can match the tear-jerking story behind Charles Bradley. Blessed with a rasping soul voice matured through years of hardship and grinding poverty, Bradley made ends meet as a James Brown impersonator. The likelihood of finding your own voice professionally in your mid 60s are very slim but a chance meeting with the Daptone label boss ushered in a minor Christmas miracle. Daptone are a 'retro' label but that's not to say they aren't pushing things forward in their own way. Like Amy Winehouse's 'Back to black' they use the familiar touchstones of classic soul but do so with a modern sensibility - forward looking lyrics and precision audio engineering. It's a throwback to quality rather than an attempt at retro kitsch. I mean ... Imagine finding out James Brown was back from the dead and ripping up trees again? Imagine no more, the understudy is stepping up and putting every ounce of his soul into these recordings. I cant stop listening to it.






6. Snow Ghosts - A small murmuration


Snow Ghosts are an anomaly in the genre obsessed world of 'dance music' (if indeed that is the world in which they belong). This is some seriously moody music. The sultry vocals sing of lost love, crows,  hangmen and the sort of unhealthy fascination with death usually associated with black metal. Fittingly, it's the darkness of dub-step that underpins every line, which, in the capable hands of Ross Tones (Throwing Snow) has a striking precision and musicality to it. In the summer I had the pleasure of seeing Snow Ghosts play live in a small gothic church; the perfect venue for their haunting sound. They appeared resplendent with a string section and gave a spirited performance worthy of those hallowed walls - it was damn near perfect. Gong winning 'label of the year'; Houndstooth, deserve a lot of credit for supporting such a left field project with a set of uniquely disturbing videos and a beautifully presented physical release that adds a Cthulhu like quality to the artefact. Despite the Fabric connection, Houndstooth have allowed their vision to flourish unsullied. It's a million miles away from the dance floor but remains squarely on target for all the label stands for: innovation and risk taking. 






5. King Krule - 6 feet beneath the moon


Sink estates, stale cigarettes and the endless grind of day-to-day survival in the capital provide the subject matter of King Krule. Gruff disappointment is evidenced in every line by a keen eye for the most mundane details of modern life. The delivery is equally rough edged and it's a voice that sounds wise well beyond it's years. The slight frame of the ginger haired Archie Marshall looks incapable of producing a sound so powerful - but it is definitely him. At just 19 years old, his competence as a songwriter suggests the birth certificate may have been dabbed at with Tipp-ex. The secret may lie in his schooling, he is 'a product' of the 'Brit School for Performing Arts' that brought us Amy and Adele; he has definitely honed his skills. Whatever you think of hot housing talent like this, you would have to admit that they did a marvellous job of not ironing out his personality. 6 feet from the moon contains poignant songs, barbed with melancholy and truth - the promise of another 20 years of development is tantalising.






4. Grumbling Fur - Glynnaestra


Music journalism is a dying art - gone are the days of 4-5 weekly publications vying for space on the shelves of WHSmith. Instead we now have 4-5 million bloggers (myself included) throwing opinions at the internet like so many monkeys having a dirty protest. Very little sticks to these virtual walls but there is hope for those of us looking for something a little off the beaten track. The Quietus run a distinctly uncommercial website where personal taste is celebrated and catch all genres are treated with the distain they deserve. So left field are they that when I initially saw their review of a band called 'Grumbling Fur' I presumed it was an in-joke for hipsters - far from it. Daniel O'Sullivan and Alexander Tucker have been making experimental music in a variety of guises for some time but the stars have truly aligned with the release of 'Glynnaestra' their 3rd album as Grumbling Fur. It offers a series of intriguing soundscapes and futuristic folk songs that defy categorisation. This album is best approached with no preconceptions but if you need something to get a foothold on then I recommend the lyrical repurposing of the Bladerunner script on the glorious 'Ballad of Roy Batty', it's a peerless reinvention that manages to sound as if it's always been there - much like the rest of the album.






3. Savages - Silence yourself


OK, lets get this out of the way as quickly as we can; the lead singer does sound a bit like Siouxsie Sioux - get over it! Theres only so much DNA in the world. They do share a female perspective and post punk sensibilities but the Savages have their own manifesto and sound. In the age of 'Indie-Landfill' it's been a long time since I heard a band sound this angry and articulate. Silence Yourself is a maze of sexual politics and cultural criticism. The music acts as the angry mob agitating for change, smashing windows and glass ceilings alike. The album itself is skilfully recorded, turn it up and you are right there with them - from the spoken word intro of 'Shut up' to the rodeo thrash of 'Hit me' Savages stampede across your stereo only to leave you considering the wonderfully detached lament of 'Marshall Dear'. Live they make even more sense, I expect a lot more to come as Savages continue their mission to make this clamorous society shut up and listen for a second.






2. Factory Floor - Factory Floor


From the outside, the synthetic ramblings of Factory Floor might seem mechanical, devoid of humanity even. I think that is just what comes from being so devoted to an idealised sound. They make no concessions and ask no favours. In an age when Ministry of Sound compilations regurgitate dance culture over supermarket shelves and America embraces EDMs garish post Ibiza trance-step honkery, Factory Floor bring a much needed punk attitude back to the dancefloor. This is warehouse music. It may sound empty to those raised on a high calorie diet of Tiesto and Guetta but stick it on a sound system and it will rattle your teeth out just as effectively. Less really CAN mean more. If Skynet made techno instead of Terminators, they would sound something like this. However that suggests that this sort of music is simply generated but there is, buried deep inside of it - a very human heart. The truth is synthesizers don't program themselves, it takes a very precise and disciplined imagination to create such rigurously structured music and still imbue it with life. Factory Floor strip everything back to basics and in doing so remind me why techno is still a vital and deeply primal sound.






1. David Bowie - The Next Day


Hello old friend, I started to worry you would never return. As a disclaimer I had better admit that I have always loved 'The Dame'. I've bought every album, (often more through hope than expectation). That said I am under no illusions - I may have bought them all, but that's not to say I've liked them all. Bowie fans accept the odd stinker because what we love most about Bowie is that we never know where he is going to take us next, so rest assured this isn't just a blinkered fanboy salutation. I was more than ready for crushing disappointment after a decade of silence ... in fact I was half expecting it. Well, I say I was expecting it but the jaw dropping thing was that *nobody* was expecting it - it just dropped like a star-man's meteor onto a velvet cushion. 'Where are we now?' was such a low-key first single that it wrong footed almost everyone. Some critics jumped to the conclusion that his rocking days were over, his voice had gone and by returning to Berlin he had possibly run out of ideas - oh boy did they get a crinkly mouth. Everything about it confounded expectation, the stripped back nature of the band, the jarringly simplistic cover, the total lack of promotion, the suite of excellent videos showcasing some of the best new artists and film makers alongside a stellar cast of cameos, but the real boon was in the songwriting. Tunes that burrow deep into the subconscious and lyrics that reveal layer after layer of surprisingly contemporary subtext. All of this set against a summer in which the 'David Bowie is ...' exhibition sold out the V&A all summer long. The Thin White Duke is back, all hail The Dame! Now David - lets have a tour and make 2014 a very happy new year indeed.






Gig of the year:

Loop - ATP End of an Era
The returning kings of noise destroyed All Tomorrows Parties last UK hurrah at Camber Sands and reminded all present of their searing psychedelic majesty.

Reissue of the year:

Aretha Franklin - I never loved a man like I love you
Repressed on 180 gram heavyweight vinyl and remastered with due care and attention this album captures all that is good about soul music and the vinyl format.

Compilation of the year:

V/A Trevor Jackson presents Metal Dance 2 
A celebration of EBM, Industrial and Post Punk Electronica, this left field compilation marks a period of invention often overlooked by clubland historians.

One to watch:

East India Youth 
Looking something like a dapper young Doctor Who, East India Youth writes mesmeric pop songs that beam in and out of existence like the TARDIS being bump started on a cold day. It's hard to put your finger on why this music resonates so much but all the signs are good with critical support from the likes of The Guardian's Alexis Petridis and The (aforementioned) Quietus. William Doyle (for he is the East India Youth), is now signed to Stolen Recordings and has a publishing deal with 4AD (the legendary indie label that brought us the Cocteau Twins and Bauhaus amongst many others). An album is expected in January and I have high hopes for the youth.





Any other business?

Look, if I've paid £20 for a gig ticket the least you can do is shut the fuck up when the headliners are on. I've done a bit of research and I reckon that the optimum price of a gig is about £8. Any less and people chat all over it because they haven't invested in the experience. Any more and they just don't give a fuck. In fact the worst gigs of all are the really sodding expensive ones full of day trippers who have no idea who they're going to see. I paid £70 (seven - zero), to see Kraftwerk at the Tate Modern only to have to listen to some woman asking pertinent questions all the way through such as: 'Oh was that the sound of a real car?' ... "Was that a Eurostar train?" ... "Sounds just like a bike now eh?" ... "Is Space Lab real?" and on and fucking on like a toddler at the zoo. As the Savages say - 'Silence yourself', or I will.

Ridiculous hype of the year

There is only one candidate for this award - Daft Punk. Much as I love Nile Rogers and reluctantly accept that 'Get Lucky' is a catchy bit of disco by numbers, I was utterly appalled by the hype-driven, cash in the envelope, 10/10 reviews this record received. A score of 10/10 suggests the record is *PERFECT*, that it deserves a place amongst the all-time greats and crucially that it pushes the genre forward. 'Random Access Memories' has none of these traits. How anyone can label this pompous pile of over produced 70s revivalism as the 'future of dance music' is simply beyond me. There is nothing new on this record. It's a 6/10 on a good day but the industry loves a big commercial hit and regrettably far too many erstwhile 'trusted reviewers' decided that sucking on corporate cock was more important than actually giving an honest appraisal in context. *Oh no's - now you has the sad face*? I know, I know ... you like it! It's fun! The robot voices are SO COOL! Well that's as may be but its certainly not a 'great' LP worthy of a perfect score, really, it just isn't. File it alongside all the other 'Ministry of Sound' compilations you buy to prove you are still 'down with the kids'. Then take a long hard look at yourself. In the interests of fairness I shall offer another #HaikuReview - 17 more syllables than it deserves really.


Daft Punk - Random access memories
"Coffee table dance,
Self indulgent retro kitsch,
Overrated? Meh ..."

No. YOU shut up.


I feel much better for getting that off my chest - go buy; Gold Panda, Faulty DL, Zed Bias or any number of far more impressive dance LPs released this year. 


Thank you for reading, please buy your music - and if you can, re-employ your record player (or buy a new one), and enjoy the feeling of music on a physical format again. 


Feedback/abuse welcome,


eops


Sunday 16 June 2013

REWIND! Stylus Stories a slight return ...

In an effort to create inertia and post more frequently, but with less content (bloody words), I thought I'd take the time to say thanks for all the RT's, shares and general feedback - it's much appreciated. 

Stylus Stories (as featured in the last blog ... ) are a lovely lot and have furnished me with an audio recording of me telling my other story about touching David Bowie, with my right hand ...

*shudder* 

Anyway - I thought I'd post it up here as it gives you a better idea of the vibe - i.e. its an 'audio thing' ... with beer.


*cringe*


Tin Machine - I can't read




Moving on ...


I thought I'd also give you a round up of what I'm doing and digging. Doing wise I have just done a remix for my friend Rob Bridgett and his chaotic moniker 'Black London'. The track 'Tunneler' is a beast of a thing and despite Mr. B now residing in Canada I feel that it captures some of the magic and chaos of East London where I live. Naturally I wanted to hack and slay and here is the result ...


Rob is a unique talent both in terms of sound design and composition - if you like dark thoughtful abstraction this is the guy for you.

CLICK HERE TO CLIMB INSIDE BOB's LAPTOP


Furthermore ...


In an effort to save everyone time and space I have reviewed some of my favourite new LP's in haiku form ... 



British Sea Power - Machineries of Joy:


'Domestic indie;
Oh! Indigenous tunesmiths -
Evolve and grow strong'



Acid - "Mysterons Invade The Jackin' Zone" (SoulJazz):


"Altogether now!
Nerp-nip-NEEEEEEOW-NOING-nip-nip!
Acid test? Still FRESH!"



Savages 'Silence Yourself':


"She sounds like Siouxsie?
GET OVER IT ALREADY!
Gothic post punk? Yes."


Finally ...


I have been tipping the Snow Ghosts LP for a while now and Im glad to say we are finally getting to hear some of it.

Snow Ghosts - Murder Cries






I think it's an intriguing mix of folk-like songwriting and the kind of dark electronica that is weirdly informed by the drama of the metal world. Also, spare a thought for the artists ... After months of production, recording and video making they found themselves inadvertently banned from the BBC after the Woolwich atrocity for incorporating the word 'murder' in the title. I'd call that 'overkill' but who knows what might happen after I press 'publish'. 

And ... that about wraps up this mini update. 

Remember:

Buy your music, live for danger and never eat anything bigger than your head. 

I will return next time I find something that makes me want to rant into the hollow barrel of the internet. I expect that will happen sooner rather than later.

@eops

Sunday 9 June 2013

Stylus Stories

Every Record tells a story...

I have never really been one for taking photographs, they seem clumsy reminders to me. When you pull out a camera everyone instinctively acts a little more guarded and a photo (as we all know), can make you look good or bad depending on your luck. I have a phonographic memory, every record I own is internally referenced in my brain and that enables me to hark back to not only the look of the day but the feelings that surrounded me when I first heard it. Turns out I'm not the only one who thinks like this.

Stylus Stories is a monthly gathering of music lovers which asks the public to pick up to two records that mean something to them personally and then tell everyone about them. An idea which is frankly genius in its simplicity and brings together music fans of all ages from 18-80. Unrehearsed public speaking isn't for everyone but this beautifully naive event speaks from the heart and I have to say I found it one of the most life affirming nights I have attended in years. I heard stories from the 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's and indeed 90's in one evening and such was the warmth and trust in the room that we arrived as strangers and left as friends. 

I told two stories, one about Tin Machine (David Bowie) which you can listen to on the Stylus Stories website if you search about a bit, and one featuring an altogether more dreadful record that I shall re-tell here. If you want an evening to remind you of the power of music and culture that makes each generation sing then do please dig out those dusty 45's and come along to the next event, I promise its an uplifting experience. 

Join in the fun at the next 'Stylus Stories':
Friday 6th of September, from 7.30pm, at The Great Northern Railway Tavern, 67 High Street, Hornsey N8 7QB


My 'Stylus Story': Ramirez "La Gallinero (a.k.a. The Chicken Song)"


People of a certain age will know what I'm talking about when I say that the 90's were the most fantastic, rebellious, ridiculous and downright dangerous of good old days. Anyone who was involved in the free rave scene back in the day will still carry a flame for the feelings we all shared. One of my favourite things to do is spot an old raver. You can see them hiding in the modern camouflage - all suited and booted like a grown up. But once you spot them you get the joy of blowing their cover, there's always a furtive and knowing wink involved. They aren't hard to spot either, once you know what you are looking for. All it takes is a snippet of hardcore, a casual reference to vinyl or the merest mention of 'Vicks Vapo-rub' and their eyes glaze over - the memories flood back to a time when roof licking happiness was the minimum requirement for a night out.

Great Days.

That's not to say everything about the rave days was great, much of it was self serving hedonism, some of the fashion was deeply iffy (Global Hypercolor anyone?), even the most ardent of DJs would have to admit that some of the music was cheesy enough to make sandwiches with. 

No-one said that the 'Stylus Stories' had to feature good music however and tempting though it was to select some high brow concept album as my offering, I decided the key element was the story rather than the tune. As a result I have selected one of the era's less notable soundscapes - that of 'El Gallinero' by Ramirez, a Spanish DJ and amateur ornithologist with a penchant for Chickens.  

As a keen student of music and social politics (everyone was in the 80's), I had grown up impatient for my generation's musical movement - the 50's had rock & roll, the 60's psychedelia, the 70's had a three way split of funk, prog-rock and eventually punk. The 80's (in which I was cast) seemed less forthcoming. 

Looking back now the revisionists would have you believe the 80's were a time of carefree electro pop, all high shoulder pads and cocaine parties but the truth is a million miles away from that. Outside the 'city' real life was in fact pretty depressing. My recollections of the 80's revolve around 'Protect and survive' adverts which encouraged you to survive a nuclear war by painting yourself white and hiding under a door for the winter, mass unemployment blighting large parts of the country and a critically fractured society of haves and have nots. For my generation there really was no togetherness, we aligned ourselves with the thinnest of sub genres simply to make it clear we were not part of the status quo - or indeed Status Quo. Indie actually meant that the artist was on an independent label rather than being a catch all phrase to market weak guitar music. In a way the fact we had an indie scene at all shows how disconnected the music industry had got from the fans.

I began to dispair at my parents bad timing. By the end of the 80's nothing of any consequence had happened in my market town, it was starting to look like nothing ever would ... but then, at the fag end of 1989 someone took me to an 'acid house party'. At last this otherworldly electronic music drew together a generation who had really had enough of real life's eternal bullshit.

It was the shock of the new, by the spring of 1990 the entire world had flipped on its axis. Now we were RAVERS. For the first time in living memory my friends were not dressed entirely in black, people were smiling and there was a party every night of the week.

Raving brought everyone together, inner city kids mixing with market town rejects, black, white, rich and poor. We would roam around the Cotswolds like a heard of electrified wildebeast excitedly looking for the next watering hole of liquid bass. At first the Police were OK with it, there was never any trouble at our parties, the vibe was exemplary. Most encounters with the boys in blue revolved around confused traffic cops who really just wanted an easy life parked up in a sleepy lay by. Frankly these country cops didn't know what hit them as thousands of day-glo night trippers swarmed along the back roads en masse. In the early days their policy was simply to help us get to where we wanted to go, anything to get us off their patch. True community policing really, but it could never last - especially when Fleet Street newspapers began to whip themselves into a frenzy regarding this dangerous and sinister trend for young adults to gather together and dance about a bit.

Soon anyone invloved with the free rave scene became marked men. Throwing parties became a dramatic game of cat and mouse, organisers found their phones tapped, cars followed and civil liberties in short supply. In short the government got worried and soon changed the law in such a way that simply playing music 'characterised by a repetitive beat' outside was a criminal offence. Ravel's 'Bolero' would never be played 'al fresco' again.

One thing that never changed however was the 'joie de vivre' of the raving community. The will to party was unstoppable, come rain or shine we gathered, driving round roadblocks, climbing over walls, thinking and acting as one Borg-like techno machine. 

For their part the Police began to get nastier, the tactics became ever more confrontational. When the dreaded Criminal Justice Bill was passed they could finally hit us where it hurt most - deep in the 18' bass bins. The new law meant that equipment could now be seized on a whim and held for weeks at a time without redress. The party could only go on if everyone stuck together and I remember several times total strangers were entrusted with taking away one speaker each to avoid the system being impounded, never losing so much as a lead.

It was after an extended run of killer parties that life began to get very difficult, the local plod were beginning to take things personally. The boys in blue became familiar faces, the Thames Valley force in particular warned us 'next time would be our last time'. We were having far too much fun to stop now though.

Foxing the fuzz in those halcyon days when access to a mobile phone could make you into a criminal mastermind in minutes wasn't too hard. We could change the meeting point in a minute - the age of telecommunications was definitely on our side. One particular night where we got one over on the party poopers will live long in the memory. 

That night we (literally) had a barnstorming party - the posse was strong and the Police were (literally) a country mile behind us (again). Come 6am as the morning mist billowed across the eeire English countryside the unmistakable sight of a Police van loomed into view. 

The cops were forced to park some way away from the dance-floor and as they determinedly plodded their way towards us things began to look very bad. This was it, bye-bye decks, bye-bye speaker stacks, hello police cell and criminal record. We were banged to rights and we all knew it - but we were never going to go out quietly. 

As last tunes go this was going to be a requiem for our dreams, we needed one last moment of defiance - something to prove we weren't chicken. The DJ dug deep into the crate but there was no accounting for taste and the morning shifts were always a time for the less renowned spinners to take up arms. His fingers blurred as he flipped through the plastic, this could well be the last tune, at the last party we ever threw. I can only blame the euphoric nature of ecstasy for convincing him that 'El Gallinero' by Ramirez would be the sound that drew a line under our long awaited sub culture. 

As the Rozzers opened the gate the music ground to a halt, time appeared to slow down as the record slurred to a stop. The crowd was now aware of the impending shut down and some uncharacteristically disgruntled boos began to float into the ether. Then with the sun cracking a golden yolk over the countryside the rhythm controller dropped his tune.     

"COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The cry of a rooster filled the air, amplified over 10,000 watts of sheer audio muscle and the 'Chicken Song', that awful cheesy slice of Eurotrash began to boom out to rapturous applause. This wasn't the era defining curtain call that some of us were expecting. No this was 6 glorious minutes of lunatic chicken clucking spread over a banging 4x4 beat. They say the worst things often bring out the best in people and I felt compelled to agree as a thousand of my peers began to squawk, cluck and crow their way around the field ...

Ramirez - "El Gallinero (a.k.a The Chicken Song)" 
Single Edit.

All together now ...

"BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
- COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!"

The cops (understandably), were beyond baffled as a field of fluorescent ravers flapped energetically around them in what can only be described as a palpable moment of mass hysteria. It was in truth one of the most glorious and uproariously funny moments of my entire life. The sheer madness of the situation stripped away all the erstwhile authority the Police had carried with them. You could see them struggling to comprehend what was going on with each leadened step they took through this frenetic flock of chickens. 

As they approached the decks they began to shout over the cacophony at each other - desperately trying to find a way to save some face from the situation.

Cop 1: "What the fuck is going on?"
Cop 2: "DRUGS!"
Cop 3: "Should I call for back up?"

The chief officer suddenly stalled and turned on his heals to berate the younger officer:

Cop 2: "Do you really want to arrest and process 500 chickens? Cos I fucking well don't!"
Cop 1: "Its a good point well made."

And with that a discreet word was had with the DJ, he was politely asked to turn it down and warned not to come back again next week. Amazingly we had won! This all goes to prove that quality isn't everything - even a really shit Euro-cheese 12' can bring down 'The Man' given the wholehearted support of the masses. 

Rave on spring chickens, rave on.



Here's another chance for you to dance with me ....

Now just to prove that there were some great rave tracks as well as some deeply cheesy ones here are five classics from back in the day:



Shades of Rhythm - Spirit of Eden (Original)



Dance Conspiracy - Dub War


Second Phase - Mentasm (Remix)


CJ Bolland - Ravesignal III 'Horsepower' (Original)


The Prodigy - Your Love (Original)







Tuesday 15 January 2013

HMV: Nipper was a mongrel

Before I start this blatant rant I'd like to first offer my sincere and heartfelt sympathy to the workers and customers affected by the impending death of HMV. None of this is their fault but inevitably they are the ones who will really suffer. However I feel compelled to tell the other side of the story - the story about how the decision makers behind HMV set about creating not only their own demise but also that of independent music shops across the country starting some 20 years ago. They are now reaping what they have sown. 

Last week I finally found myself being dragged kicking and screaming into the brave new digital world, David Bowie (my favourite artist), after a decade of silence suddenly decided to drop a new single. The first album I bought with my own money was a Bowie album and I have dutifully collected every major release from my local record store for the last 30+ years. I would rush home carrying my CD or vinyl like a giddy child and spend the next few hours listening to every note whilst pouring over the cover. This latest release however had none of that romance attached to it. For the first time in three decades there simply was no physical release to purchase. I logged on to iTunes, on my own, at 8am and clicked the download tab. A minute later I could hear my purchase floating out of the speakers but I couldn't touch it and I certainly couldn't file it away with the rest of my collection. Modern life is rubbish.



So you can appreciate where I am coming from - I'm romantic about my music, I'm old school - but I'm not really a luddite. It was easy and convenient from a customers point of view, just a bit hollow from a fans. The times have changed however and nothing I say will ever bring the good old days back. As long as people are *buying* their music I dont really mind what format they use - I'll always prefer my vinyl. Shortly after this damp squib of a shopping experience the news of HMV going into administration. Everyone began talking loudly about how the internet had finally killed the record shop ... but thats only half the story, as anyone who worked in a record shop will tell you the rot set in long before the internet became a genuine threat.

It seems the High Street is dead, the shop fronts act as little more than elaborate gravestones in most town centres. The only thing you might consider buying there now is a pasty and a cup of overpriced coffee. This is a sad fact for anyone of a certain age but what surprised me was the sentimental way people began to speak about HMV. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth on the subject - Twitter was ablaze with regret and many music aficionados started recounting soft soliloquies about the last of the record shops dying. Well stop right there I say, let me tell you a little secret.

Nipper was a complete mongrel.



Forget about the curious little dog staring wistfully down the gramophone horn, I'm here to tell you that Nipper was in fact a vicious attack dog who ruthlessly savaged anyone who trod on his territory. It's territory being just about any market town that it decided to cock its leg on.

Aside from the tragic situation that the 4,000 odd shop workers and back-room staff found themselves in this week, the really terrible statistic embroiled in this HMV debacle is that 38% of all physical music media in the UK went through the tills of HMV. As the leash around Nippers neck suddenly reached the end of its tether it became clear that the loss of HMV as a sales portal was going to ruin a large part of the UK music industry. My sympathy doesn't lie with HMV however - theres a good reason why that chilling figure of 38% came about - make no mistake HMV made this bed.

Long before the internet took a hold of our lives the rot had already set in. Years ago in the 80's and early 90's most towns had at least one record shop. Most of the time that shop was a small 'Mom & Pop' shop that had roots in its community and a deep commitment to the culture it peddled. Record shops were where musicians met up, it was where the adverts to form a band were stuck to the wall with chewing gum, it was where a dedicated team of music nerds would help guide you through the many releases available each week and set you on a path to musical emancipation. Independent stores served their local community, the music industry ruefully dealt with these tiny and often obscure emporiums - but it was never going to last.

HMV (and their ilk), brought big business into the equation. With a chain of shops the major labels found life became much easier to deal with. The economy of scale, the simplification of distribution and money-spinning switch to CD's all began to combine into a perfect storm.

When HMV came to your town everything looked new and shiny (even the music), these shops were smart, they had metal racks, proper window displays and total backing from the major labels. With so many old school record shops being truly independent the likes of HMV could simply steam roll the competition.

Together the majors and the big chains began to slice up the music marketplace. Indie stores simply couldn't compete and HMV (especially), had a clear policy of undercutting their rivals and setting their own agenda. Label reps would often come into our shop and tacitly admit that they were fixing the charts in conjunction with HMV. To ensure a high chart position on the week of release they would literally give HMV boxes of records and CD's to flog on to the customer for 99p a pop. Smaller shops were forced to swallow their pride and raid the bargain bins of HMV just so they could afford to stock the newest releases. It would cost our shop £1.29 per unit to order (in bulk) the latest chart hits, yet HMV were getting it all for free? Of course once the song had charted the demand rose and the labels would make their money back - but not through the independents.

This behaviour had a number of unwanted side effects, shops began to close but perhaps more crucially the charts ceased to be taken seriously. HMV and co began to scramble the golden egg. The market became distorted and the number one spot became meaningless to a large proportion of the record buying public.

As the local shops began to drop like flies the very culture on which the industry was built on began to look paper thin. The indies briefly fought back by clubbing together to form 'The chain with no name' in an effort to counteract the policies of the big names. There was a short period when the term 'Indie music' actually meant something - HMV simply turned the phrase to their own advantage and began to use 'Indie' as a genre title. Even this valiant fight back was subverted and used against the smaller shops.

So the long slow decline began - accelerated by the arrival of the internet no doubt but even then a more inclusive and forward looking attitude could of saved the High Street. HMV didn't embrace the digital age, they scoffed at it for a while ... until it was too late. Having destroyed the competition they set about destroying themselves. HMV in it's later years was less of a music shop and more of a discount warehouse for cheap DVD's and, lets face it, utter tat. I'm surprised the stores didn't explode with irony as they were reduced to selling iPods in store. Like turkeys voting for christmas they totally lost sight of what was truly important. So now the fat lady has started to sing and an astonishing 38% of physical music sales became dependant on the now mangey mut of HMV. This wasn't an accident of fate - HMV worked hard to become top dog - and they did it by screwing the rest of retail over.


I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play ...

So much for old news though - the ship has sailed, we will never see a return to the good old days.  There is some hope however. A good service still counts for something. While the sales of physical media are a fraction of what they were music still attracts true fanatics, fans that want an informed, high quality, bespoke music service. If there is one glimmer of hope in this mess it might just be the return of a few highly motivated specialist record shops. Even some of the old guard are still limping on! So if you care about this mortally wounded culture then get out there and start supporting the likes of Kristina Records Dalston, Jumbo Records in Leeds, Phonica in Soho and Vinyl Underground in Northampton. Theres a few dotted around the country and they will welcome sales by internet and post as readily as by footfall. Hell, they even pay their taxes here in a nod to the old school way of doing things.

No one will be sorrier than me to see the death of the High Street record shop - I worked in one for over a decade but I cant shed a tear for HMV. They were utter bastards back in the day. Mourn the loss of Massive, Avid, Selectadisc, Jelly Jam, Rounder, Hot Wax, Record Savings, Chalky's, Manic Hedgehog, Rays, Mole Jazz, Demand, Chockys Chewns, Uptown, Mr CD, Music Market, Movement and a whole host of others ... but don't spare a thought for the passing of the last bully standing.



Capitalism has no regard for culture and always eats itself in the long run.