You just smile and frown in equal measure, boys

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'But it's not fucking NICO!' they all scream as one, ramming B&Q pitchforks into your rear defenses and calling your Mum very rude names. Well, no, it's not Nico, obviously, but it is Debsey. And whether you love it or hate it, you have to admire the sheer audacity and/or bravery and/or stupidity (you can take your pick) for daring to even interpret such a seminal tune as this, way back in 1978 of all times. I absolutely love this Captain-Sensible-Approved version, personally, and would attempt to boldly counter those £34.98 pitchforks with a full bathtub of burning oil and a moderate insult or two about your little brother's girlfriend. She really does have false coloured eyes, by the way. And she tried to snog me that New Year's eve, you know, the one where you collapsed at 11pm because you drank far too much Bacardi and coke (with ice). You need to deal with it, bro. I know she told you all about it the next day, without much spin.

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Dolly Mixture - 'Femme Fatale' (3.04)

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Visit / Buy

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I grew up believing in people who tried

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Your body is your weapon, these days, as your words no longer hurt me. And, so, it's that time at the traintracks. Again. A drunken suit, looks a bit like a younger, more disheveled, Robert Palmer, sprawled over the table. 'Smells like a brewery', as she across the way would say, with a gin-soaked, fuzzy-felt, grin. There are interesting cufflinks on display, Pixies-related merchandise, I foolishly surmise. A clutched Blackberry won't save him, as it has been dropped once too often already. Cracked and worn, like his beaten liver. That's all directly in front of me. Over the aisle, on the left, is Geoffrey Archer's body-double, UGH!, a battered briefcase glued to his lap with a bruised-looking Daily Mail sitting on top. And then up a bit, again over the aisle, is the River Cottage guy, you know, with the name no one can ever recall. Not Specsaver spectacles, Cadbury's curls and a Home Counties accent. He has expensive headphones in, always, and an XL Twix slammed in his mouth in an uber-suggestive manner. The conductor is totally chancing his arm, getting over-familiar with a stick-thin beauty in fading denim shorts and sheer black tights. Housewifes are in this four-by-four too, and they sit and incest-joke about sprawled cufflinks guy whilst trading mobile videos of the grandkids they'll never see who reside on the other side of the world, far-far-away. Technology, you see, it can change everything and nothing. This distance only from ourselves. Uh, anyway, this is a great song. You should buy it. And don't get on a train drunk. Ever. I will only see you with my camera-shy peepers and tell the Stepps-bound tale, I swear.
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Underground Railroad - 'Russian doll' (3.48)
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Off the rails. Buy a ticket. Meh.
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They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past.

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Well, it's another listless Sunday and I am attempting to stick to the hopeful promises - those that were made days and days ago now - of putting together a little compilation tape, in an electronic format, on such a hazy day of the week as this pleasant one. As for the music, well, it's a whole lot of twee once more, I'm afraid, but I hope you won't complain too much. I mean, it really is the kind of stuff I do actually listen to. Like, all of the fucking time. Hard to believe, I know. It's worth pondering: how can one so old, grumpy and cynical endure music so refreshingly simple, fun and somewhat apolitical. It does not compute, this sweet addiction to a naive melody, limp handclaps and ultra-cute lyrics. What is wrong with me? Should I not be listening to Kings of Leon or something? So, anyway, a wee thumbs up if you like it, aye. For I have little else to say right now. I am far too busy being, in general terms, a bit hopeless as well as attempting to be forgetful. About pretty much everything in fact. Furthermore, it is worth stating for the record, I am being a bit clumsy too (just like her, him, them).

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Bunnygrunt - 'Big fake out' (1.45)

Fireflies - 'The dunes' (3.07)

The Besties - 'Sweden song' (3.00)

When I was 12 - 'Kitten I'm smitten' (2.09)

The Sunny Street - 'Blackberries' (2.27)

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And I say, finally, give all your $$$ or £££ to this delightful band. Yes, I was watching this one again. Thus, pictures of land, sea and sky. And meaningful text.

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Behind every great fortune there is a great crime

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Balzac said that, apparently. And he was way too uncool for this particular school, that's for sure. And I can also confess, in a self-knowing way, that my life has never been like the film 'Submarine', even during its most dark, "ironic" and failed moments. I am obviously quite glad about this fact though as I can't ever imagine telling a girlfriend, even in hushed tones, 'My mum gave a handjob to a mystic'. I mean, as an excuse for outlandish behaviour it's a bit rubbish really. Having said that, today my life was a lot like this fucking-awesome-and-under-two-minutes song played on repeat for about ten hours and thirty five minutes. And, before you ask, no, I have no idea how long the mystic ('I am a prism') lasted. I wasn't watching and anyway I'd left my chicken-shaped eggtimer at home. Play loud. Leave the quote marks alone. Do, please, continue.
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Mazes - 'Most Days' (1.47)
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Mazes are playing here on April 3 (supporting Dum Dum Girls). Pre-order some great stuff here.
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And there were no bounds

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'Oh, give me this day....'. It's another form of music, with an epic poetic purpose only heard in tears and whispers; and it is captured by a chance meeting, a brief interlude of reassuring clarity that you are not losing your grip on life at all. No. The truth reveals itself with a certain distance offered. And, really, it's exactly the right kind of sound for moments in the wilderness, like these we see before us now. Yes, on a crisp Spring day, a bedsheet of memories tells it's own sorry tale and is enough to send you running over bridges and water, to re-visit the previously known territory of hope and longing... to move it along... and on... there is just something about the sea-cliff drama and the tight-wire tension that exists in this piece of music. It jaggers and shakes and curls itself around you. You are wishing that the single-held note that goes on and on and on would just fade out and tip it's cap as it leaves. To give you some peace, as your ex-lover promised. Yet it continues to a frenzy, literally dripping down the back of your neck, a coldness engulfing your pores as Rupert takes his place in a steel-cased heart. And the 19th Century imagery of the worlds imagined is matched only by the sheer desperation of the way Simon Huw Jones projects himself into the stage production being played out before us, obviously with the lights held low and those white shirt sleeves drooping and swaying in a bathed red light. It's simply stunning. This music. It breaches those false borders between genres, what you might think of as 'post-punk' or 'goth' or 'alternative', and what you always assumed was 'opera' or 'chamber-pop'. I'll take it all on, anyway, this connection to a mood and a desire.
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And Also The Trees - 'Prince Rupert' (studio) (4.38)
And Also The Trees - 'Prince Rupert' (live) (4.53)
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Their glorious non-cuddlecore (and yet hopelessly romantic) album, 'Farewell to the Shade', is near impossible to locate at a reasonable price so this has to be an acceptable alternative, I suppose. And the main event is still to come. Dream on, soulghouls.
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There are times in love that you must be on the right side and lose

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It's true that such obvious words have been said by a few commentators over the years: the one 'Giant' that William Beveridge rather ignored in his famous 1942 Report was cynicism. Not in the original Greek philosophical sense, of course, but, instead, some of the more contemporary interpretations of the term and how the practical manifestations of cynicism came to rule, it seems, the fucking world. You know, 'jaded negativity' and all that FUN DAY jazz. It's quite easy to see why this destructive element should have a large Acme Corporation target written on its Road Runner back. The day-to-day fuck-ups of late-capitalist society, especially in workplace (not to mention global) locations and settings, does kind of ensure that viewing the social world through any other kind of 'lens' is now regarded as being a bit foolish and naive. You are a jackass, get it? I mean, even on a personal level, and I really don't know why, but I have never suffered from jealousy. Ever. Not in a relationship sense at least (and this has caused 'issues' in the past). Ok, so, professionally I might have felt a small prang of it when reading a perfect sentence from someone like her or him. But cynicism? It is the jittery monkey on my itchy back. It's almost a daily battle to try and work around this view of the world; to stop yourself from falling into the emotional traps put out by the baying crowds to try and snag your dragging limbs of hope. To believe in something 'real', anything that makes life slightly more bearable and 'doable'. But, aye, try we must. For it's not judgement that defeats us all. Oh no. It's cynicism. And with that wee footnote about nothing now presented, I give you some (hopefully) uncynical and uplifting pop. The Wham! cover by The Garlands is especially shambolic and silly. Just what you need, sometimes. Aye. Onwards, upwards. Eh?
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Slow Down Tallahassee - 'The beautiful light' (3.13)

Very Truly Yours - 'I'd write you a song' (3.12)

Summer Cats - 'Let's go!' (2.14)

Hari and Aino - 'Your heartache and mine' (4.15)

The Garlands - 'Freedom' (cover) (2.10)
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I'd suggest doing the right thing by this band. It's a cracking album. I do heart twee records with a lot of swearing in them, I've decided.
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For they get the better even of their blunders

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So you went out to an unfamiliar Montauk searching for something other than yourself. But what did you hope to find in that particular wilderness... aside from an empty beach in February and a girl with ever-changing coloured hair? Her footprints spiral in the sand, yes, and they will happen to dissolve in a lost time as suddenly as they once appeared. This is the just way of it, as you all know, and those memories - those itemised Durkheimian totemic entities that you scrunch up your bleeding eyes so harshly for - well, they should just be put away for another time, I fear. And was there anything else to find out East, at the end of the forgotten line? This is not some game, you know, it's just a beginning and an ending wrapped into a drunken message where she screams at you, in a confusing, silent, apathetic rage, 'I've moved on, and so must you'.
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David Sylvian - 'Brilliant Trees' (acoustic and live, Berlin, 03-09-95) (3.49)
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Hard won wisdom. Over three years. Just erase me. Aye.
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An enemy always equals an adorer

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And so it all started, in our little town, as it meant to go on; in hushed reverential tones. I do remember the need, the urgency, to get to this place, to 'break for the border', some 176 miles or so away in a place called Leeds, England. It was a spontaneous round-trip to pay my respects to the esteemed visitors from over the water, some ten thousand miles away. It was a low-key affair. Not a sell-out. There was minimal fuss on a stage that seemed to be looking ahead to a peaceful retirement. Around the venue, it was men, mostly men, just like me, who had seen their better years come and go in a fell, badly-timed, swoop. Their ancient cotton trophies, with a few holes here and there, a dusky black colour now a washed-up grey, pulled over swollen torsos and inflated bellys, and hair a little lacking where it matters most. Notebooks in hand. Glasses twitching. Beards stroked. Just waiting for the beginning. And these men, just like me, who had grown-up with Oceanic sounds in their ears, were fading backwards, for at least an evening, to a time when a simple chord from MWP's instrument and a deepened, story-told, lyric from SK could make your tiny heart shiver, quake, explode. That night of magical numbers, the Twenty-First of February Two Thousand and Two, they opened with this song and it was met with open mouths and held-in breaths. Drinks put to the floor. And the quietness... there was a respectful quietness that I have never heard at any concert before or since. So hush now, all youse, and dare to listen to this beauty.
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The Church - 'Radiance' (live) (6.00)
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After everything. Now this. Something to buy.
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Setlist: The Church @ 'Break for the Border', Leeds, England, 21-02-02: Radiance, Comedown, Song for the Asking, Buffalo, Under the Milky Way, After Everything, Chromium, Myrrh, A New Season, Numbers, Night Friends, Electric Lash, Swan Lake, Metropolis, Encore: Magician Among the Spirits Encore 2: Hotel Womb, Constant in Opal.
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A structure that serves to support something

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So, I am thinking, in a between the bars waiting-in-for-a-new-fridge-freezer-to-be-delivered kind of way, that every Sunday will now see a five song mini-mix being presented in these here parts. It'll be a slightly more coherent and 'low-fat' version of what happens every now and then, when I can be fussed, over at 8tracks. I hope this is considered to be acceptable? And I promise the mixes won't all be so terribly twee. You sometimes have little choice in the kind of music you love though, eh? <3
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Tiger Trap - 'Prettiest boy' (3.16)
Go Sailor - 'I'm still crying' (2.33)
Fat Tulips - 'Take me back to heaven' (1.07)
Free Loan Investments - 'Ronan Keating' (2.47)
Strawberry Story - 'Made of stone' (cover) (3.44)
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I'd actively encourage you to buy anything and/or everything recorded by this great band. Alas, they were only around for a year or so but, woah, just the best sound. Really.
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All the guys out there, trying to act like Al Green

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Random thoughts, leaving most work issues to the side for a moment.
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Not really trying, are you? / When I was 16, and saw this film, I wanted to be just like him. Including the shoes. He was my favourite, for sure. / I'm thinking that the opening line to this song might just be the best opening line to any song ever. Don't you think? / This book, I swear, is like air and water. You can breath it. You can swim in it. Honestly. It will change your mind on a few things. / Why do people in front of me never seem to stay around, even for 0.5 seconds, to hold the door open? Am I so quiet they don't even notice me? / Today, at the big lecture, I mentioned at the end that it was my penultimate class. They awwwwww'd. I nearly wept I was so grateful to hear that sound. It had been a wee while. / This is just beyond awesome. BUY. / A very perfunctory posting with second-class stamp attitude, I know, but there you have it. / Next.
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The Arrogants - 'Shellshock' (cover) (3.14)
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The proper one, likesay.
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These are the riches of the poor

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These days. You look around and it's everywhere. The £££ meltdown misery, making whoring junkies of us all. It's skulking about, up and in your face. It's an industry that knows its time and place, like the scheming vulture circling it's thirsty prey on barren lands. The franchises that profit from effectively stealing and then recycling the possessions of the cash-poor and hard-up. From ten stores in Scotland to sixty, coming soon. I truly fucking weep. And the supermarket stores, around the city centre, that feel the need to security tag their meat, let alone their booze, to ward off the skint and needy, to great applause from the bastards up on high. As Cal might say, whilst munching on his beans on toast and intimidating his daughter, the permanently wide-eyed Emily, 'fuck this for a game of soldiers'. Enough. Enough now.
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Shoestrings - 'Yesterday's advice' (3.51)
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Some fools thought they were mere Field Mice wannabes. Sigh. I mean, I can hear the similarities but would still beg to differ. They were just themselves, as my dear old Mum might say. Oh, Shoestrings are now known as Invisible Twin, btw.
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Hope they'll have a better understanding

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I don't know about you, whoever you are reading these contrived and hopeless words and listening to these melody-driven soft rock songs, but I can usually tell the kind of week I've had by what CDs I've had on the stereo or what songs I've not shuffled past on the Ipod. And this week has been a trying one, for various confusing and emotional car-crash reasons, and I won't get into them here for fear of alienating the very few readers I do somehow manage to keep with me. Suffice to say when the going gets tough I tend to fall back on the songs of my youth, and not always the cool ones. In fact, rarely the 'cool' ones. But you need to look yourself in the mirror, occasionally, as hard as that might be, and whisper to the quiet auidence of 'self'... 'I still really like these sounds, and the memories they bring back, from a time when I was so young and before I ever got involved with her'. These songs, examples of which you can find below, are the musical equivalent of junk food to me. They define a kind of easy, comfort listening that doesn't challenge or confront - and they just wash over you, through you, in a few moments of guilt-ridden bliss. And I'm not being pejorative here, in comparing these songs to junk food, I really do mean this in the best possible sense - they give a warmth, a comfort... and there is a familiarity to them, you know? They just make you feel a little more alive and human and remind you of who you used to be, a long time ago. Well, that's my excuse anyway. You can judge away, of course, though be aware it's not just dizzy heights that can give you a bloody nose.
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John Mellencamp - 'Check it out' (4.21)
Don Henley - 'The boys of summer' (4.51)
Tom Petty - 'A face in the crowd' (3.59)
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I'd deny it, officially, but I still have a massive crush for this album, and John, even now. It's so very 1987 of me, I know. Sigh. Hang me good, people.
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I saw his ghost the other day, I swear

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Yesterday, whilst walking the streets of Glasgow from one appointment to the next, I walked past GOMA and saw Adrian Borland. Just like that. He swept past me, dressed in black and a bit taller than I remember, but it was him. He looked good, a bit like he was in this picture. I did that thing, you know, where you stop in your tracks and your head swings back over your shoulder to steal a second and third glance. You risk it, in the name of confirmation. It was him. Except, of course, it wasn't. For I'm not losing the plot, I swear, I know it wasn't really Adrian, for reasons that are well known, but it was uncanny, the likeness. For someone to look so like him, to be his double... it made me both smile and flinch. It was a clutch of strange, contradictory emotions. I felt compelled, upon returning home, to dig out some old CDs of his criminally underrated band, The Sound, and remember him as he rasped and bellowed those cutting lyrics, as well as how he looked. That will be twelve years in April, an untimely and tragic event at Wimbledon railway station. He was just 41 years old when he decided it was time to say goodbye. Adrian be.
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The Sound - 'Winning' (BBC live version) (4.10)
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This is the place of endings, a kind of Brittle Heaven. But where is a useful place to begin?
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