Speech Debelle, at Brighton Coalition, October 8th 2009
Nearly a year ago, I raved about the first two Speech Debelle tracks that found my ears. The evidence is here:
Emily Fabpants – I'll Cut the Smile off your Face.
Forget the Mercury Music Prize.
Speech Debelle's Debut Album
+
Lacklustre Live Performance
=
Major Disappointment.
Grizzle, grumble, grouch.
If Speech Debelle had spent more time developing her tracks with an appropriate and able backing band, I might feel differently. The girl needs some proper gritty tunes, sparkling with innovation and attitude, so where the hell are they? The two tracks that I posted here, a full year ago, top the others by miles.
The live show said it all. It was worse than the album. Speech has recruited a one trick pony to back her, and the trick is neither gritty nor good. No band boasting a double bass should frustrate or bore me, let alone both. Just check out the tracks that Sodastream created. Who needs drums or guitars? Well, okay, The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Libertines and in the midst of life we are in debt, et cetera.
So, there we have it. Sharp and incisive lyrics have been left to rot on a pile of cat poo and compost and, I say, "It's just not good enough".
At the gig, a very drunk man - stood right behind me (grrrr!) - kept shouting to his mate. "You know, she only has one album". "You know, it won the Mercury Prize". "You know, I'm a big shouty twat".
That's no one's fault but his.
On top of Speech's slightly 'too' casual approach to the live performance and the concept of 'giving it your all', the sound was despicable. Shouty Twat just made it worse. The lyrics were barely audible, and (come on!) that's what we were there for. We've already established that the tunes are mostly tripe.
Some may blame Speech Debelle's sore throat, which she more than apologised for, but she sang just fine. Evidently, the sound person (or idiot) really liked the one trick pony and Speech just wasn't that arsed about it all. What was that? Did you rap something Speech?
I've seen Lady Debelle twice now (I caught her in the Guardian Lounge at Glastonbury). I don't plan to again. It's a shame really. But, hey ho, you can't win 'em all.
Fapbants Recommends:
The life of Sodastream ended on February 18, 2007. I was lucky enough to see them live three times (Brighton, London, Berlin!). They were truly amazing.
Download MP3: Sodastream - Blinky (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
Download MP3: Sodastream – Devil On My Shoulder (courtesy of sodastream.net.au)
On another note, it's no surprise that when I first heard O Children, I thought "Is this Nick Cave singing about his wife's wonderful tits?" It's not, but O Children are named after a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds track. I mainly like this song for its content. I love the word 'ACE' and it's even better with 'BREASTS'.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Gig Review: Casiokids Are Ace
Casiokids, at New Hero, 2nd October 2009
The mere contemplation of writing this review led to the involuntarily release of air from my lungs. Boy oh boy. Twenty-two days later and I'm still sighing with unanticipated delight.
I first saw Casiokids supporting 'Of Montreal' way back in January. Stuck at the back, behind the noisy designer grown-ups, I took note. This was a band to see without the buzz of the buzz crowd. The buzz crowd need a mouthful of sock or two.
Latitude Festival didn't disappoint. I was there, right down the front, all Emily wide-eyed and bouncing. You know how I get. I'm pretty mental for it. My notes say 9/10.
New Hero was my first chance to see Casiokids playing a full set as a headline band. Whoop. Whoop.
Would they have what it takes? Hell, yeah! And then some. They were off the scale.
Not only do they possess the absolutely stomping track that is 'Fot I Hose', a suitable crescendo for any live show, they are all extremely talented, genre jumping musicians, with a pure-ass-indie approach.
How many Norwegian bands, sporting Hot Chip comparisons, would you expect to cover Ivor Cutler's 'Darling Will You Marry Me Twice'?
Stood high, looking over the crowd, I watched a nodding crowd turn into a dancing mess. Casiokids, fucking eh!
Fabpants Recommends:
Umm, Casiokids?!
Download MP3: Casiokids – Fot I Hose (theregoesthefear.com)
The mere contemplation of writing this review led to the involuntarily release of air from my lungs. Boy oh boy. Twenty-two days later and I'm still sighing with unanticipated delight.
I first saw Casiokids supporting 'Of Montreal' way back in January. Stuck at the back, behind the noisy designer grown-ups, I took note. This was a band to see without the buzz of the buzz crowd. The buzz crowd need a mouthful of sock or two.
Latitude Festival didn't disappoint. I was there, right down the front, all Emily wide-eyed and bouncing. You know how I get. I'm pretty mental for it. My notes say 9/10.
New Hero was my first chance to see Casiokids playing a full set as a headline band. Whoop. Whoop.
Would they have what it takes? Hell, yeah! And then some. They were off the scale.
Not only do they possess the absolutely stomping track that is 'Fot I Hose', a suitable crescendo for any live show, they are all extremely talented, genre jumping musicians, with a pure-ass-indie approach.
How many Norwegian bands, sporting Hot Chip comparisons, would you expect to cover Ivor Cutler's 'Darling Will You Marry Me Twice'?
Stood high, looking over the crowd, I watched a nodding crowd turn into a dancing mess. Casiokids, fucking eh!
Fabpants Recommends:
Umm, Casiokids?!
Download MP3: Casiokids – Fot I Hose (theregoesthefear.com)
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Less is More
As a child, my Dad would gaze out of windows and his mind would drift to a better place. He'd think of the summer and of the two weeks that he'd spend messing about in boats with his Ma, his Pa and his best friend, all on the Norfolk Broads.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars and finds a better place. My Dad grew up in Coventry. Coventry was bombed to bits in World War 2. It's a sprawling mass, with the soulless heart of a poverty stricken New Town. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats were miles away, but they travelled as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies.
As time passed, my Dad's window dreams became a permanent reality. His heart was set young, and never changed. He would buy a house of his own, within easy reach of the Norfolk Broads. He would gain a boat instead of a honeymoon. He would sail every Sunday and every Wednesday. At work, he would dream of boats. He lived the dream, he nurtured the dream and the dream made me what I am today.
Now, the dream is mine.
When the days draw in and my hands get cold, I imagine warm summer days on the Norfolk Broads.
With every light breeze, on a clear bright day, my heart belongs to my childhood home. I picture myself in a small rustic boat, bobbing about in a private offshoot. In an imagined moment, I'm at peace with the world. Tropical islands are nothing when you have the Norfolk Broads.
I gaze out of the window, and I repeat a past that's not my own. My mind will drift to a better place. I think of the teacher strikes and of days when I would go out on the water, alone, to sup on calm and unfettered freedom.
I would break the rules, but they never broke me.
The art of sailing was not for study, but for experimental escapism. My Dad won races, while I came last. We both hit land with the glee of achievement. For me, the race was the perfect setting for harmless mishaps, great adventures and tireless fun.
Every year, I still spend a small part of the summer on the Norfolk Broads. A van is hired, kayaks flung in, and the scene is set. Each moment 'on the water' forms the restoration of my soul. I return home, complete, carrying sustenance for the months ahead.
Already this autumn, I've spent many moments recalling a perfect August week, now some two months ago. Not a day passed, that week, when the sun wasn't queen of the skies, and a light breeze didn’t carry her warmth. I kayaked, sailed and devoured the views.
We stayed in a wonderful campsite in Thurne, and paddled to the ruins of St Benets Abbey. There, a giant oak cross filled the cow-lined sky, with majesty of a tall and wizened age-old tree.
From Ludham we paddled to How Hill nature reserve. Water gypsies sat in wooden boats eating hot tinned spaghetti and chatting like the birds in spring.
A trip from Martham took us to Heigham Sound, where only water, gulls and dragonflies glistened in our wake.
At Horsey Mere, we found a cut, a tiny river where only small boats can go. It took us to a derelict windmill near Waxham, and felt far away from the world. From wet arse to wet ears, I rippled inside with delight. A swim had called me in.
On the Saturday, the world welcomed us back into its fold, for the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta. This yearly event carries the assurance of good-humoured calamity and endears me to its cheer. Unsinkable boats sink and experienced sailors get 'stuck in the reeds'. Broad and bloated Half-Deckers race slowly in their only event of the year.
The Commodore and Chief is no sailor boy. I'm not sure he even knows how. His boat, Lady Ann, runs on fuel. The night before the Regatta horn blows, he drives his land vehicle through local villages and knocks on doors. An event appears from nothing but good will, high spirits and a 'hey ho, give us a hand mate'. It's made of flags, a stopwatch and general confusion. The magic ingredient is a grubby captain's cap. When on the Commodore's head, a Regatta is born.
At the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta, there is no fanfare. Medals are awarded for 'the furthest distance travelled by water and then not bothering to race'. Boats are allocated handicaps based on how well they sailed or didn't sail that day. It's a random affair, influenced by beer, reverse-nepotism and figures formed in the smoke of the misty Norfolk air.
The Regatta sets souls free. My Dad said, "Why not helm?" I captained my first ever race in a boat deemed unfit for the purpose. If I crashed it racing, the insurance company would say 'No'. The Half-Decker is an underdog in the racing world. I came last in a race of its kind. Cries of "You’re not over the line yet," were met with a slow but cheerful crossing. I'd already dropped the sail. Perhaps there should be a medal for that. At least I didn't bash the boat.
My Dad's 'Honeymoon' boat and my late Granddad's Half Decker sat side by side, the polished varnish shining in the sun. My Dad grinned all weekend. At times, his grey hair looked blond and his eyes just ten years old.
"Why don’t I move back to Norfolk?" I often ask myself.
Perhaps my Dad spent his childhood dreaming about the Norfolk Broads because he didn't live there. For him, Norfolk was a holiday retreat, a retreat from his Coventry existence. It was his thing to look forward to when life was tough, dull or cantankerous. It became his tonic and remains so to this day.
Now, I spend my adult life dreaming about the Norfolk Broads. It's my thing to look forward to when life is cold, demanding or awkward. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats may be many miles away, but they travel as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies. Perhaps they taste better that way.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars, captures the best parts of life, purifies them, and keeps a whimsical human sane.
Perhaps less is more.
Fabpants Recommends:
Before I recommend any music, if the above isn't endorsement enough, visit Norfolk. You don't have to go in a boat, but it helps. This year, as in every other, I did much, much more.
I rode on a miniature train from Wroxham to Alysham and bicycled back along the railway line.
I visited an Art Exhibition in various venues across Norwich, a fine city to be sure. The theme was identity and intense imagery is imprinted on my brain. At Norwich Castle, I saw Zbigniew Libera’s amazing LEGO box art, depicting concentration camps and the holocaust. The real life LEGO sets, developed with the LEGO Corporation of Denmark, included gas chambers and skeletons.
At Norwich Forum, an exhibition included photographs of asylum seekers living in a Butlin’s holiday camp . Butlins mugs were visibly for sale in a shop selling rice, milk and basic essentials. "A memento of your stay?"
At Fritton Lake, I played pitch and putt, bounced on a giant pillow, and picnicked on a rowboat. There is an amazing Norfolk scented Ghost Walk at Fairhaven, which we still talk of to this day. Finally, not to be missed, is the seafront mayhem of Great Yarmouth. It's a sandy, sugar-coated gem of flashing lights and family fun.
And, on a musical note, I do believe I’ve found my album of the year. It's Jamie T's 'Kings & Queens'. It's bloody brilliant.
Download MP3: Jamie T – Emily’s Heart (sorry, this link has died)
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars and finds a better place. My Dad grew up in Coventry. Coventry was bombed to bits in World War 2. It's a sprawling mass, with the soulless heart of a poverty stricken New Town. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats were miles away, but they travelled as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies.
As time passed, my Dad's window dreams became a permanent reality. His heart was set young, and never changed. He would buy a house of his own, within easy reach of the Norfolk Broads. He would gain a boat instead of a honeymoon. He would sail every Sunday and every Wednesday. At work, he would dream of boats. He lived the dream, he nurtured the dream and the dream made me what I am today.
Now, the dream is mine.
When the days draw in and my hands get cold, I imagine warm summer days on the Norfolk Broads.
With every light breeze, on a clear bright day, my heart belongs to my childhood home. I picture myself in a small rustic boat, bobbing about in a private offshoot. In an imagined moment, I'm at peace with the world. Tropical islands are nothing when you have the Norfolk Broads.
I gaze out of the window, and I repeat a past that's not my own. My mind will drift to a better place. I think of the teacher strikes and of days when I would go out on the water, alone, to sup on calm and unfettered freedom.
I would break the rules, but they never broke me.
The art of sailing was not for study, but for experimental escapism. My Dad won races, while I came last. We both hit land with the glee of achievement. For me, the race was the perfect setting for harmless mishaps, great adventures and tireless fun.
Every year, I still spend a small part of the summer on the Norfolk Broads. A van is hired, kayaks flung in, and the scene is set. Each moment 'on the water' forms the restoration of my soul. I return home, complete, carrying sustenance for the months ahead.
Already this autumn, I've spent many moments recalling a perfect August week, now some two months ago. Not a day passed, that week, when the sun wasn't queen of the skies, and a light breeze didn’t carry her warmth. I kayaked, sailed and devoured the views.
We stayed in a wonderful campsite in Thurne, and paddled to the ruins of St Benets Abbey. There, a giant oak cross filled the cow-lined sky, with majesty of a tall and wizened age-old tree.
From Ludham we paddled to How Hill nature reserve. Water gypsies sat in wooden boats eating hot tinned spaghetti and chatting like the birds in spring.
A trip from Martham took us to Heigham Sound, where only water, gulls and dragonflies glistened in our wake.
At Horsey Mere, we found a cut, a tiny river where only small boats can go. It took us to a derelict windmill near Waxham, and felt far away from the world. From wet arse to wet ears, I rippled inside with delight. A swim had called me in.
On the Saturday, the world welcomed us back into its fold, for the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta. This yearly event carries the assurance of good-humoured calamity and endears me to its cheer. Unsinkable boats sink and experienced sailors get 'stuck in the reeds'. Broad and bloated Half-Deckers race slowly in their only event of the year.
The Commodore and Chief is no sailor boy. I'm not sure he even knows how. His boat, Lady Ann, runs on fuel. The night before the Regatta horn blows, he drives his land vehicle through local villages and knocks on doors. An event appears from nothing but good will, high spirits and a 'hey ho, give us a hand mate'. It's made of flags, a stopwatch and general confusion. The magic ingredient is a grubby captain's cap. When on the Commodore's head, a Regatta is born.
At the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta, there is no fanfare. Medals are awarded for 'the furthest distance travelled by water and then not bothering to race'. Boats are allocated handicaps based on how well they sailed or didn't sail that day. It's a random affair, influenced by beer, reverse-nepotism and figures formed in the smoke of the misty Norfolk air.
The Regatta sets souls free. My Dad said, "Why not helm?" I captained my first ever race in a boat deemed unfit for the purpose. If I crashed it racing, the insurance company would say 'No'. The Half-Decker is an underdog in the racing world. I came last in a race of its kind. Cries of "You’re not over the line yet," were met with a slow but cheerful crossing. I'd already dropped the sail. Perhaps there should be a medal for that. At least I didn't bash the boat.
My Dad's 'Honeymoon' boat and my late Granddad's Half Decker sat side by side, the polished varnish shining in the sun. My Dad grinned all weekend. At times, his grey hair looked blond and his eyes just ten years old.
"Why don’t I move back to Norfolk?" I often ask myself.
Perhaps my Dad spent his childhood dreaming about the Norfolk Broads because he didn't live there. For him, Norfolk was a holiday retreat, a retreat from his Coventry existence. It was his thing to look forward to when life was tough, dull or cantankerous. It became his tonic and remains so to this day.
Now, I spend my adult life dreaming about the Norfolk Broads. It's my thing to look forward to when life is cold, demanding or awkward. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats may be many miles away, but they travel as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies. Perhaps they taste better that way.
Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars, captures the best parts of life, purifies them, and keeps a whimsical human sane.
Perhaps less is more.
Fabpants Recommends:
Before I recommend any music, if the above isn't endorsement enough, visit Norfolk. You don't have to go in a boat, but it helps. This year, as in every other, I did much, much more.
I rode on a miniature train from Wroxham to Alysham and bicycled back along the railway line.
I visited an Art Exhibition in various venues across Norwich, a fine city to be sure. The theme was identity and intense imagery is imprinted on my brain. At Norwich Castle, I saw Zbigniew Libera’s amazing LEGO box art, depicting concentration camps and the holocaust. The real life LEGO sets, developed with the LEGO Corporation of Denmark, included gas chambers and skeletons.
At Norwich Forum, an exhibition included photographs of asylum seekers living in a Butlin’s holiday camp . Butlins mugs were visibly for sale in a shop selling rice, milk and basic essentials. "A memento of your stay?"
At Fritton Lake, I played pitch and putt, bounced on a giant pillow, and picnicked on a rowboat. There is an amazing Norfolk scented Ghost Walk at Fairhaven, which we still talk of to this day. Finally, not to be missed, is the seafront mayhem of Great Yarmouth. It's a sandy, sugar-coated gem of flashing lights and family fun.
And, on a musical note, I do believe I’ve found my album of the year. It's Jamie T's 'Kings & Queens'. It's bloody brilliant.
Download MP3: Jamie T – Emily’s Heart (sorry, this link has died)
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Gig Review: Wave if You're Reading This
Wave Machines, at Brighton Freebutt, 30th September 2009
They came on with facemasks. They left with a bang. "Are you going to dance with us?" the groovy girls asked.
Didn't everyone? Could it be helped?
If I'd have known in advance, I'd have jumped and down shouting "Yes. Yes. Yes." Instead, I yawned. Perhaps I blinked 'maybe'. I hope I showed an inkling of optimism. I blame the support act, the waiting and the toilets. Having a piss at the Freebutt is like signing up to a step aerobics class in a dirty gym. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the flushable bowl of hell.
I want a black and white mask of my own face. I would wear permanent optimism. It would say "Yes!" for me. It would say "I like DISCO!" It would say "I like to DANCE!" "I like ‘WAVE MACHINES!"
Wave Machines do disco like an intelligent, introverted Scissor Sisters. Shy boys wear masks. Extroverts wear rubber wrestling singlets. One by one, they peel them off. The enticement works. The focus on real flesh, real wrinkles and real hair, has me spellbound. I'm glad of four faces. Eight eyes look back. They look happy.
The nightclub boogieman that is Carl Brown is amazing. You'd pass him on a supermarket and never know. He has the moves. He has the grooves. He's on fire.
Tim Bruzon should sing every song, every backing vocal and every accidental cough. What a voice: tamed, unstrained and achingly perfect, even the fragile falsetto.
A band of such talent should share. Of course, they should share. The Fab Four did. I, for one, love 'Yellow Submarine'. It's an uplifting joy of a number. In Wave Machines, even with four talented vocalists, Tim should sing every song. That's my live opinion. He's bloody brilliant.
"Did you like them?" their Manager asked, as I passed him £10 for a CD. "Oh yeah", I replied. "I’ve been loving the album since I stole it."
I got extra thanks for buying it. It pays to be a thief.
Fabpants Recommends:
The album 'Wave if You’re Really There', on which the above live show was based, is stunning. At The Freebutt the sound system automatically cuts out when ripples form in nearby cups of tea. It cut out during the encore for Wave Machines. That night, it heard music for the first time. Shock makes us all shut down.
Download MP3: Wave Machines – Punk Spirit (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Download MP3: Wave Machines – You Say the Stupidest Things (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
RIP Beau Velasco, a founding member of the Death Set. He co-wrote all those tracks I went rabid for in 2008.
Emily Fabpants Predicts The Motherfucking Death Set will be Ace Live
Emily Fabpants says Listen to The Death Set
Beau wasn't there, but The Death Set WERE Ace Live
Thanks Beau. You helped to create all this. It made me very happy. It will again.
Download MP3: The Death Set - Negative Thinking (courtesy of trashmenagerie.com)
They came on with facemasks. They left with a bang. "Are you going to dance with us?" the groovy girls asked.
Didn't everyone? Could it be helped?
If I'd have known in advance, I'd have jumped and down shouting "Yes. Yes. Yes." Instead, I yawned. Perhaps I blinked 'maybe'. I hope I showed an inkling of optimism. I blame the support act, the waiting and the toilets. Having a piss at the Freebutt is like signing up to a step aerobics class in a dirty gym. Up the stairs, down the stairs, to the flushable bowl of hell.
I want a black and white mask of my own face. I would wear permanent optimism. It would say "Yes!" for me. It would say "I like DISCO!" It would say "I like to DANCE!" "I like ‘WAVE MACHINES!"
Wave Machines do disco like an intelligent, introverted Scissor Sisters. Shy boys wear masks. Extroverts wear rubber wrestling singlets. One by one, they peel them off. The enticement works. The focus on real flesh, real wrinkles and real hair, has me spellbound. I'm glad of four faces. Eight eyes look back. They look happy.
The nightclub boogieman that is Carl Brown is amazing. You'd pass him on a supermarket and never know. He has the moves. He has the grooves. He's on fire.
Tim Bruzon should sing every song, every backing vocal and every accidental cough. What a voice: tamed, unstrained and achingly perfect, even the fragile falsetto.
A band of such talent should share. Of course, they should share. The Fab Four did. I, for one, love 'Yellow Submarine'. It's an uplifting joy of a number. In Wave Machines, even with four talented vocalists, Tim should sing every song. That's my live opinion. He's bloody brilliant.
"Did you like them?" their Manager asked, as I passed him £10 for a CD. "Oh yeah", I replied. "I’ve been loving the album since I stole it."
I got extra thanks for buying it. It pays to be a thief.
Fabpants Recommends:
The album 'Wave if You’re Really There', on which the above live show was based, is stunning. At The Freebutt the sound system automatically cuts out when ripples form in nearby cups of tea. It cut out during the encore for Wave Machines. That night, it heard music for the first time. Shock makes us all shut down.
Download MP3: Wave Machines – Punk Spirit (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Download MP3: Wave Machines – You Say the Stupidest Things (courtesy of tsururadio.com)
RIP Beau Velasco, a founding member of the Death Set. He co-wrote all those tracks I went rabid for in 2008.
Emily Fabpants Predicts The Motherfucking Death Set will be Ace Live
Emily Fabpants says Listen to The Death Set
Beau wasn't there, but The Death Set WERE Ace Live
Thanks Beau. You helped to create all this. It made me very happy. It will again.
Download MP3: The Death Set - Negative Thinking (courtesy of trashmenagerie.com)
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Here by Omission: We Don’t Need to be the Same
I'm not on Facebook. Briefly - for 3 months - I was. It was 2007. You know, back then, when the weather was different.
The ice caps were bigger and no one caught colds. And, do you remember this? We were all rich. We were rolling in it. Just rolling in it. I owned a house, a spaceship and ate out every night.
Those were the days. I used to throw money at the ocean. I'd never heard of Swine Flu, let alone pretended to have it. A week off work, no questions asked. Thank you very much. That's progress.
I existed on Facebook under my pseudonym. No one could find me. My blog didn't exist. You didn't stand a chance. Fabpants rocked in private. She rocked hard. You better believe. Yeah, right.
I asked two friends to be my Facebook friends. They lived far away. One said, 'no'. The other joined, then promptly forgot. Facebook was an ever-spreading adolescent sneeze. It had yet to tickle the toes of parents, grandparents and suckling babes. It would though. It would.
Email invitations came and went. Two months in, I had about thirteen Facebook friends. That was fine by me. I liked the way they looked out at me, from my 27-inch monitor. The random person, from work, who I'd spoken to twice, got a 'no'. She wasn't allowed to be my friend. What the fuck? First, you gotta make friends - for real - bee-atch.
"Life is what happens when you’re not on Facebook." That was my parting message. I stand by my parting message.
I'm not a technophobe. I design and create real websites, for real businesses. I know. By the state of this blog, that's a toughie, but it's true. This is my 'minimal' approach. Enjoy.
I don't watch television. I download so much, I could set up a virtual raffle and you'd all get a prize. Any day now, I'm going to install Windows 7. I eat technology for breakfast. It tastes good.
I'm not a loner. I have many wonderful friends. More than thirteen in fact. I'm a lucky gal. Watch me go.
Facebook is a relatively new phenomenon. Yet, choosing not to be a part of it makes me an outsider.
Friends have to make exceptions for me.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm having a party and I want you to come." Hooray, I get my very own invite.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm sending you this link to my Facebook photos." Hooray, I get to see our funny times.
That's what friends do. They accept you, eccentricities an' all. We're not rivals. We just walk different paths. Some eat meat. Some don't. Some own cars. Some don't. Some are Christians. I'm not. Some are atheists. I don't care. Two have told me that they liked, actually LIKED, Margaret Thatcher. We enjoy the debate.
So, why did I leave Facebook?:
Firstly, I didn't have the self-control required. If Facebook begged me to login, I did. It was like Facebook was telling me that the world was about to blow up. That, if I didn't hit 'refresh' every other second, I might miss my chance to hitch a ride outta here. Alpha Centauri, Betelgeuse Five and Milliways would never see my 'Wow... what the fuck?... this is amazing!' face. In reality, Paul was 'Picking his Bum' and Steve had uploaded a photograph of his pillow.
Secondly, I hate the way that people collect friends on Facebook. 'Look at me. I’m so fucking popular, I have 3000 friends.' Yeah, like you ever talk to them, help them out when their life is shit, or hug them just because you can. 'Bah humbug', says I.
Thirdly, I had to keep 'untagging' unflattering photographs of myself. Why does no one else delete all the unflattering photographs of their friends? It's not like I’m so vain. I mean, really.
Fourthly, and the best reason of all, I'd never lost a game of Facebook Scrabble. Think about it. How long could my luck last?
I've never found a good reason to rejoin. I might not be on Facebook, but - quite surprisingly - I still have friends.
One of them, I see very briefly, about every ten years or so. Nothing too heavy. You could join his Group Writing Project. I just did. I'd say it was fun.
Fabpants Recommends:
“...you know I have this 'language-handycap' ;-)”, wrote my friend. She's from Munich. She'll never admit it, but her English is amazing. She's as unique and charming as the 'y' implies.
When I tried to find out more about Rockettothesky, I echoed the words of my friend. "You know, I have this 'language handycap'". The Norwegian text that filled the page didn't care. It didn't care one bit. Where's a Babel Fish when you need one?
This lovely track has been around for a year now. It's as enchanting as ever. It's today's tasty treat.
Download MP3: Rockettothesky - Grizzly Man (courtesy of mineorecords.com)
The ice caps were bigger and no one caught colds. And, do you remember this? We were all rich. We were rolling in it. Just rolling in it. I owned a house, a spaceship and ate out every night.
Those were the days. I used to throw money at the ocean. I'd never heard of Swine Flu, let alone pretended to have it. A week off work, no questions asked. Thank you very much. That's progress.
I existed on Facebook under my pseudonym. No one could find me. My blog didn't exist. You didn't stand a chance. Fabpants rocked in private. She rocked hard. You better believe. Yeah, right.
I asked two friends to be my Facebook friends. They lived far away. One said, 'no'. The other joined, then promptly forgot. Facebook was an ever-spreading adolescent sneeze. It had yet to tickle the toes of parents, grandparents and suckling babes. It would though. It would.
Email invitations came and went. Two months in, I had about thirteen Facebook friends. That was fine by me. I liked the way they looked out at me, from my 27-inch monitor. The random person, from work, who I'd spoken to twice, got a 'no'. She wasn't allowed to be my friend. What the fuck? First, you gotta make friends - for real - bee-atch.
"Life is what happens when you’re not on Facebook." That was my parting message. I stand by my parting message.
I'm not a technophobe. I design and create real websites, for real businesses. I know. By the state of this blog, that's a toughie, but it's true. This is my 'minimal' approach. Enjoy.
I don't watch television. I download so much, I could set up a virtual raffle and you'd all get a prize. Any day now, I'm going to install Windows 7. I eat technology for breakfast. It tastes good.
I'm not a loner. I have many wonderful friends. More than thirteen in fact. I'm a lucky gal. Watch me go.
Facebook is a relatively new phenomenon. Yet, choosing not to be a part of it makes me an outsider.
Friends have to make exceptions for me.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm having a party and I want you to come." Hooray, I get my very own invite.
"For you, the non-Facebook member, I am writing this email especially. I'm sending you this link to my Facebook photos." Hooray, I get to see our funny times.
That's what friends do. They accept you, eccentricities an' all. We're not rivals. We just walk different paths. Some eat meat. Some don't. Some own cars. Some don't. Some are Christians. I'm not. Some are atheists. I don't care. Two have told me that they liked, actually LIKED, Margaret Thatcher. We enjoy the debate.
So, why did I leave Facebook?:
Firstly, I didn't have the self-control required. If Facebook begged me to login, I did. It was like Facebook was telling me that the world was about to blow up. That, if I didn't hit 'refresh' every other second, I might miss my chance to hitch a ride outta here. Alpha Centauri, Betelgeuse Five and Milliways would never see my 'Wow... what the fuck?... this is amazing!' face. In reality, Paul was 'Picking his Bum' and Steve had uploaded a photograph of his pillow.
Secondly, I hate the way that people collect friends on Facebook. 'Look at me. I’m so fucking popular, I have 3000 friends.' Yeah, like you ever talk to them, help them out when their life is shit, or hug them just because you can. 'Bah humbug', says I.
Thirdly, I had to keep 'untagging' unflattering photographs of myself. Why does no one else delete all the unflattering photographs of their friends? It's not like I’m so vain. I mean, really.
Fourthly, and the best reason of all, I'd never lost a game of Facebook Scrabble. Think about it. How long could my luck last?
I've never found a good reason to rejoin. I might not be on Facebook, but - quite surprisingly - I still have friends.
One of them, I see very briefly, about every ten years or so. Nothing too heavy. You could join his Group Writing Project. I just did. I'd say it was fun.
Fabpants Recommends:
“...you know I have this 'language-handycap' ;-)”, wrote my friend. She's from Munich. She'll never admit it, but her English is amazing. She's as unique and charming as the 'y' implies.
When I tried to find out more about Rockettothesky, I echoed the words of my friend. "You know, I have this 'language handycap'". The Norwegian text that filled the page didn't care. It didn't care one bit. Where's a Babel Fish when you need one?
This lovely track has been around for a year now. It's as enchanting as ever. It's today's tasty treat.
Download MP3: Rockettothesky - Grizzly Man (courtesy of mineorecords.com)
Gig Review: Damn Knobs
Fuck Buttons, at Brighton Audio, September 27th 2009
I admit it. Sometimes during a live performance, my mind drifts. It adventures into distant lands. I lose all focus on the show before me. It happens quite a lot. It's a trance that I have to mentally fling myself out of.
"Where’d you go to Emily?"
"I dunno". Shrugs shoulders.
When I accidently stumbled across Fuck Buttons at Truck Festival in 2007, I was blown so far away they had to look for me in another field. When I saw that they were playing at Bestival 2008, I bought a ticket. I was probably the only person who was inspired to buy a ticket for Bestival to see a band that wasn’t even on the final line-up. As for my undergraduate degree, false advertising drew me in.
I saw Fuck Buttons this September, two years after my original airing. Two years is a long time. Two years older, and a little more jaded, would Fuck Buttons reconnect the broken circuits in my brain?
Last night, I decided three things.
1. Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds should be remade using a Fuck Buttons soundtrack, particularly with lots of inaudible and scary nonsense emanating from a child's toy microphone. It would be ace.
2. I would love to watch Zombie Zombie and Fuck Buttons jamming together. I would pay big money to.
3. The drum machine was too loud and too unvaried.
I was completely entranced. My jaw hung in childlike wonder. I drifted to distant lands once only, for about 30 seconds. Then returned to transfixed.
So, what was missing? Why did I come away titillated to exasperation, clutching slightly sore parts? Where was the final climax?
I expected a big ballsy kick in the face. I anticipated it at every turn. Instead, I got bored of loops. I would go again though. I'm sure the climax will come. It's just around the corner.
I highly recommend taking a gander at the support act: Zun Zun Egui. It would be wrong to use words at this juncture. Just check out El Chuppakabra. It's like going insane.
Fabpants Recommends:
A friend has gained a new nickname. It's Captain Scarlett. Oh, me, oh my, what a theme tune. This is for Captain Scarlet of Hove.
Download MP3: Captain Scarlett Theme (courtesy of space1999.net)
I admit it. Sometimes during a live performance, my mind drifts. It adventures into distant lands. I lose all focus on the show before me. It happens quite a lot. It's a trance that I have to mentally fling myself out of.
"Where’d you go to Emily?"
"I dunno". Shrugs shoulders.
When I accidently stumbled across Fuck Buttons at Truck Festival in 2007, I was blown so far away they had to look for me in another field. When I saw that they were playing at Bestival 2008, I bought a ticket. I was probably the only person who was inspired to buy a ticket for Bestival to see a band that wasn’t even on the final line-up. As for my undergraduate degree, false advertising drew me in.
I saw Fuck Buttons this September, two years after my original airing. Two years is a long time. Two years older, and a little more jaded, would Fuck Buttons reconnect the broken circuits in my brain?
Last night, I decided three things.
1. Alfred Hitchcock's film The Birds should be remade using a Fuck Buttons soundtrack, particularly with lots of inaudible and scary nonsense emanating from a child's toy microphone. It would be ace.
2. I would love to watch Zombie Zombie and Fuck Buttons jamming together. I would pay big money to.
3. The drum machine was too loud and too unvaried.
I was completely entranced. My jaw hung in childlike wonder. I drifted to distant lands once only, for about 30 seconds. Then returned to transfixed.
So, what was missing? Why did I come away titillated to exasperation, clutching slightly sore parts? Where was the final climax?
I expected a big ballsy kick in the face. I anticipated it at every turn. Instead, I got bored of loops. I would go again though. I'm sure the climax will come. It's just around the corner.
I highly recommend taking a gander at the support act: Zun Zun Egui. It would be wrong to use words at this juncture. Just check out El Chuppakabra. It's like going insane.
Fabpants Recommends:
A friend has gained a new nickname. It's Captain Scarlett. Oh, me, oh my, what a theme tune. This is for Captain Scarlet of Hove.
Download MP3: Captain Scarlett Theme (courtesy of space1999.net)
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Gig Review: No More Apologies
Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern, at Brighton Freebutt, September 8th 2009
A few years ago, Kate Fox, a social anthropologist, undertook an experiment to find out more about the English. She spent several days in train stations, shopping centres, and public places, bumping into people. She deliberately gave people a bit of a barge. Eighty percent of those she bumped into said "sorry". That's Englishness.
We English have a fear of direct confrontation and have to pacify immediately. We also have a terrible fear that EVERYTHING might be our fault. I guess she didn't choose pubs, clubs or extremely drunk people for her research. That's a different story. The English without their inhibitions. We won't go there today.
"Sorry" he said, as I arrived by bicycle and he happened to cross my path.
"Sorry" he said, as he stood on the thin stairs coming down, when I wanted to go up.
"That's the second time I've said sorry to you isn't it? Tonight: no more apologies."
What difference does it make? It makes all the difference.
No need for apologies, but I have to love him for them. Darren Hayman is the epitome of Englishness.
I am a rabid fan his two most recent albums, 'Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern' and 'Pram Town'. They knock the socks off Hefner. How delighted was I that they played so many tracks off Pram Town, only recently released? I was absolutely over the moon. The songs are so brilliant, that even after one or two listens they have the familiarity of old favourites. In my mind, I sang along with the emotional intensity of a music junky. I was shooting up.
Then the Hefner tracks, for the fans that collect b-sides. I accept their place and it was fun.
The final track, 'When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines', gave me earworm for two weeks. It was bloody marvellous. When a portion of a song repeats within one's mind, it can be as irritating as fuck, but sometimes it's the zest of life itself.
'Let me, let you, let me down again.'
Perfect.
Fabpants Recommends:
A little bit of ear worm.
Download MP3: Hefner - When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines (courtesy of epitonic.com)
A few years ago, Kate Fox, a social anthropologist, undertook an experiment to find out more about the English. She spent several days in train stations, shopping centres, and public places, bumping into people. She deliberately gave people a bit of a barge. Eighty percent of those she bumped into said "sorry". That's Englishness.
We English have a fear of direct confrontation and have to pacify immediately. We also have a terrible fear that EVERYTHING might be our fault. I guess she didn't choose pubs, clubs or extremely drunk people for her research. That's a different story. The English without their inhibitions. We won't go there today.
"Sorry" he said, as I arrived by bicycle and he happened to cross my path.
"Sorry" he said, as he stood on the thin stairs coming down, when I wanted to go up.
"That's the second time I've said sorry to you isn't it? Tonight: no more apologies."
What difference does it make? It makes all the difference.
No need for apologies, but I have to love him for them. Darren Hayman is the epitome of Englishness.
I am a rabid fan his two most recent albums, 'Darren Hayman and the Secondary Modern' and 'Pram Town'. They knock the socks off Hefner. How delighted was I that they played so many tracks off Pram Town, only recently released? I was absolutely over the moon. The songs are so brilliant, that even after one or two listens they have the familiarity of old favourites. In my mind, I sang along with the emotional intensity of a music junky. I was shooting up.
Then the Hefner tracks, for the fans that collect b-sides. I accept their place and it was fun.
The final track, 'When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines', gave me earworm for two weeks. It was bloody marvellous. When a portion of a song repeats within one's mind, it can be as irritating as fuck, but sometimes it's the zest of life itself.
'Let me, let you, let me down again.'
Perfect.
Fabpants Recommends:
A little bit of ear worm.
Download MP3: Hefner - When the Angels Play Their Drum Machines (courtesy of epitonic.com)
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Gig Review: Love Will Come...
M83, at Brighton Concorde, 2 July 6th 2009
I thought that seeing M83 live might help me to reach a conclusion; am I an M83 fan or not? Having listened to a drunken student’s poor, and very loud, analysis of why people like myself taking the front row is all about economics and a ultimately benefit to everyone, I stood on that front row confused. His diatribe was not the cause.
M83 confound me. There were moments of rich, warm and pure brilliance. As the bass travelled though me and caressed my ageing innards, a heavy blanket of sound held me. This beautiful, safe place. This safe intro.
Then, discomfort. It came and it remained. The drummer sat in his own glass cage. Did he feel the same?
Silhouetted in the stage lights, the standing band looked striking. Truly. A band as a view. The female vocals were wondrously impressive. At times.
Was I enjoying myself?
At home, and away, M83 confuse me. Do I like them or not?
Maps’ rendition of 'Love Will Come' was most certainly pleasing. I wish I had caught the whole Maps set. If only I had checked the internet for the support act. I caught about seven tracks and weaved my way through a transfixed crowd. Love will come... It felt like it had. It's the support act that lives on best in my mind. MAPS MAPS MAPS.
Fabpants Recommends:
I recommend Maps - Love Will Come. The new Maps album 'Turning The Mind' is on the receiving end of a press panning. The BBC, NME and Drowned in Sound agree. The Independent likes it. Me? I'm still listening. These things take time.
Download MP3: Maps - Love Will Come (sorry, this link has died)
I thought that seeing M83 live might help me to reach a conclusion; am I an M83 fan or not? Having listened to a drunken student’s poor, and very loud, analysis of why people like myself taking the front row is all about economics and a ultimately benefit to everyone, I stood on that front row confused. His diatribe was not the cause.
M83 confound me. There were moments of rich, warm and pure brilliance. As the bass travelled though me and caressed my ageing innards, a heavy blanket of sound held me. This beautiful, safe place. This safe intro.
Then, discomfort. It came and it remained. The drummer sat in his own glass cage. Did he feel the same?
Silhouetted in the stage lights, the standing band looked striking. Truly. A band as a view. The female vocals were wondrously impressive. At times.
Was I enjoying myself?
At home, and away, M83 confuse me. Do I like them or not?
Maps’ rendition of 'Love Will Come' was most certainly pleasing. I wish I had caught the whole Maps set. If only I had checked the internet for the support act. I caught about seven tracks and weaved my way through a transfixed crowd. Love will come... It felt like it had. It's the support act that lives on best in my mind. MAPS MAPS MAPS.
Fabpants Recommends:
I recommend Maps - Love Will Come. The new Maps album 'Turning The Mind' is on the receiving end of a press panning. The BBC, NME and Drowned in Sound agree. The Independent likes it. Me? I'm still listening. These things take time.
Download MP3: Maps - Love Will Come (sorry, this link has died)
