Fake Plastic Books #3

Satire has always been a part of my life, my dad has had a subscription to Private Eye and shows like Spitting Image/Not The 9 O Clock News were regular viewing when i was growing up, so it seems slightly bizarre that barring the odd youtube comedy sketch this is my first foray into true satire of that strange strange word of US Politics.

For those of you who don’t know Rush Limbaugh is a conservative commentator on his own nationally syndicated radio show, i must confess to only knowing snippets of information about him until i read this book, and even then only his more controversial moves (a few of which are summed up quite succinctly at that bastion of knowledge wikipedia). Now, being a well-meaning vaguely liberal type i went into this book expecting to not only agree with the majority Franken’s motives and opinions but to laugh at them aswell, and frankly i wasn’t disappointed. It covers much of the Clinton years and the aftermath/elections to come after him in typically American ways, i’m not entirely sure how to explain why i think this, only that the humour does seem to me to be very American, somewhat over the top at times, punctuated by cartoons and large doses of hyperbole. Chapter titles such as ‘Phil Gramm: Everyone’s Favourite Bastard’ and ‘Bob Dole’s Nightmare Of Depravity’ should give you a pretty good idea of what you’re in for.

It’s a pretty excellent introduction to American political satire, something which i am by no means an expert on (except Barack! Yes We Can! *ahem*) but any comedian who can go on to hold major political office (Franken is currently Senator for Minnesota) on the back of a career on Saturday Night Live and a book constantly sending up the political system is alright in my book.

Here Comes The Pain

I have been thinking for some time that both myself and Soft Skeleton have been far too nice. Far too welcoming to the egos of those that we have covered and far too flattering to those who may be, but most likely aren’t, reading this. Don’t get me wrong, in the case of Runaway Dorothy, the praise is genuine and not remotely overstated, however, upon reviewing some of the work that I myself have produced, I wonder with concern at the volume that was written on a whim, on the fanciful instant when I was hearing, instead of really listening. Let it be known that I’ve not listened to Chester French since I (perhaps erroneously) compared to, and indeed claimed their superiority over, Vampire Weekend. That’s right, I’m man enough to admit to a shot that missed the mark. But now is the time to set the record straight.

I have set myself in front of my television, that portal to everything that is ever necessary, ever, and I intend to write until the balance is restored. Editing out the incessant insurance adverts and the MTV promotions for cool kids in stripey shirts to win a BMX or a caseload of methamphetamine. And I can no think of a better place to start than Friendly Fires, thank you MTV2: you beautiful purveyor of all-things alternative.

These over-adolescent dancey-dancey disco-dandies have one thing going for them, as far as I can see: there is not a pair of skinny, bone-hugging jeans in sight. Whilst I have three pairs in the deep and dark caverns of my wardrobe, they rarely make an outing such is their over-exposure (thank you Julian Casablancas.) However, they sound as fresh as cruise-ship singing and look just as tasteless. Deck-shoes and Caribbean percussionists detract my attention from the relatively indecipherable lyrics of ‘Kiss of Life’ and that, is that.

YouMeAtSix – I think – is the correct spelling of their name; not as bad as some band names I’ve ever come across, but let’s be honest, it is rather pointless. I missed the title as I was busy trying to be witty, but it must all sound the same, surely. No doubt some kids with longer fringes than a horse’s penis fully understand it and the thought behind the name and its fairly abstract nature, but what the hell, “what’s in a name?” – Right? My ears, accustom to all sorts of noise aren’t particularly enjoying whatever concoction of genres this happens to be, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t get the word ‘emo’ in here somewhere. 3 minutes of unenjoyable poppy-rock cliches which sadly, are too far over my head.

Iglu & Hartly – ‘In This City’ – isn’t bad but I was busy editing that last paragraph so I’ve only started writing this at the second chorus. I can’t really linger though, because it occupies that no man’s land of ambiguous qualities that render it neither good or bad. Certainly not groundbreaking, but it is far from ear-bleedingly bad, so it is safe from the stern criticism I’m dishing out in callous ladles of loathing. So, for all the Iglu & Hartly haters out there, forgive me, but I have no disgust to dish up.

Eminem – ‘Beautiful’. Sobriety can rack up another victim, another straight sod to add to the ever-growing list. I’m all in favour of healthy living, but when that lifestyle creeps up on artistic integrity with the silent footsteps of ruination, that is where I draw the line. I didn’t much care for Eminem when he was biblically popular, when I was younger, but the discrepancy between his impressive archive of incisive social awareness and celebrity observation, and the records he is producing now, is truly staggering. At least it is to me, an unashamed rap neophyte. The humour in his lyrics remains but the delivery lacks the passion and the cutting-edge which drove Eminem to universal recognition and undoubted super-stardom in the late 1990s and the early part of this century.

The ticker at the foot of the screen has kindly informed me that Kings of Leon are up next, after Jay-Z’s video for ‘D.O.A.‘, which features a cameo appearance by Harvey Keitel. Given my self-appointed position and self-created title of: Scribe of all Things Current and Cool, I suppose I should know why he appears, crafted in with a surgeon’s skill into the the video’s lull around halfway, but I don’t, so you will have to find out for yourself.

Kings of Leon – ‘Notion‘. There came a time, believe it or not, when I listened to Kings of Leon constantly, almost religiously. When they had their Credence Clearwater Revival beards and the music to match.Since then though, they somehow evolved devolved into the world’s greatest – or worst (depending on your slant) power-ballad band. Now, sporting the hair of a runway model and the stubble of…a runway model…(I’m fallible after all) they produce anthems of simple repetition, dull musicianship and lyrics that once used to flow with a Redneck, Southern charm but which now, are rendered impossible at the hand of tortured screaming and mangled pronunciation. Their steep curve into the welcoming breast of popularity is entirely lost on me, to whom they have only gotten worse since their second album, they are presently occupying the doldrums and the gutters of my affections, with one or two other outfits whose names I shan’t show the light of day.

So, there you have it. I am, and we are, capable of being unkind, exhibited with educated reasoning and the usual, generous helping of wit. However, be sure to stay tuned for things to get back to normal, for me to recover my faultless fumbling praise of those who just about deserve it.

I have been Horace Blackspur, and you have been brilliant.