Confused? I know i was. It turns out that Kendal Calling 2009 was in fact 5 miles outside of Penrith and nowhere fucking near Kendal itself. Mental note taken i walked the mile from the entrance to the campsite and settled in for a weekend of overpriced vegetarian food, warm lager and supposedly an interview with the Rumble Strips, did they get in touch i hear you ask? Did. They. Fuck. Oh yes, and music! Forgot about that one.

I’ll be honest and say i have been tardy (yes, i’ve become a 1960′s US schoolteacher, shush) with this article, it’s undergone several rewrites where i’ve tried to chronicle every band i saw, but then i realised you probably don’t give a fuck anyway; so i’m going to look at 4 bands i saw that i feel sufficently passionate about that i feel i can write something that could be called a legitimate piece of prose. It’s to this end i’ve gone right back to square one and am writing this in one sitting, publishing it and never looking at it again so apologies if it comes across as an aimless rant.

The King Blues - A Band Lacking Direction?

The first band i’d like to talk about were in fact the last band i saw all weekend, i’m a sucker for mixing things up aren’t i? They were London’s King Blues, now this in itself is a name i was sceptical about revivalist ska is not for me at the best of times let alone when it sounds like B.B. King’s newest album title, however i cast my suspicions aside and dove (not literally) into the sweaty masses filling the tent. What i found were an honest, charismatic band filled with righteous anger and a strong political stance delivered in a terrible way. The thing that really got my goat (all about the archaic phrases today folks, it’s like i’ve had a pint of the dictionary washed down neatly with a Scott F. Fitzgerald chaser) about them was the politics part, now i have absolutely no problem with politics in music, however it has to be done either eloquently with an aim to make a real difference (see Bob Dylan and the voter rallies) or balls out anarchic anger (see every Rage Against the Machine track ever), the problem the King Blues have is they are stradding the fence and accomplish neither.

The highlight was a piece of spoken word performed as a section of the encore called ‘Five Types Of Shampoo‘ or something to that effect, it was a poignant, eloquent piece about womens rights and laddish attitudes towards girls that are more prevalent now than ever, in short it was a direct piece which everyone in the audience could have learnt something from, myself included. On the other hand however was a short speech where they ranted against the BNP, called for ‘human rights for all’ before encouraging people to ‘go to a BNP meeting and turn over the tables, get rid of the fuckers’, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the hypocrisy involved in this statement. Now, i don’t want to delve too deep into politics here, i wholeheartedly agree with combatting the BNP but in democratic ways, it’s impossible to claim human rights and democracy for all whilst encouraging people to ransack a legal meeting of a ‘political’ party, i in no way condone their views but i will fight to the fucking death to defend their right to say it. More to the point, and this pertains to anti-BNP gigs everywhere, it’s simply preaching to the choir, i would be willing to put money on nobody in that audience being a fully paid up BNP member, the King Blues claim they want to ‘save the world’ and i think they should start by getting out there in the faces of those who they claim to oppose, rather than a bunch of 14+ young adults who aren’t likely to hold those views to begin with. The reason the BNP got elected wasn’t that they received more votes (they in fact received less) it’s that apathy against our current political climate was such that nobody got off their arse to vote, this would be a far more productive point to get across and would probably mean their audience’s politics were more informed and mature.

But y’know, barring that rather serious aside, they were actually pretty good, whilst the rhetoric in many of their songs was pretty cringeworthy i couldn’t fault them for sheer effort and commitment (the singer defied doctor’s orders so he could play the gig) and the crowd hopefully repaid them in kind, they were certainly an interesting end to the weekend and sent people away talking which i guess is half the battle.

Jeremey Warmsley, just the right amount of self deprication

Next up was Jeremy Warmsley, playing to a pulsating crowd of, oh i dunno, 25 people? Now i’d always had the impression that Mr Warmsley was a poor mans Patrick Wolf (potentially the worst insult of all time depending on your tastes, i’m tempted to add it to my repetoire as in: ‘Oasis are just a poor mans Patrick Wolf’ or ‘that film was just a poor mans Patrick Wolf’, try it at home!) but it turns out i may well have been wrong. Long ago i had been handed a copy of his debut album The Art Of Fiction and i’m sorry to say it got maybe half a listen before being chucked onto the ‘should probably listen to that again before forming an opinion’ pile, however in true Noel Gallagher fashion i jumped blindly into the matter and formed an opinion anyway resulting in my coming across a fuckwit by criticising a perfectly legitimate and talented headline act with an opinion of rank stupidity, what, wait…that was him?! Ah yes, course it was. the point however is this: I was wrong about Jeremy Warmsley.

On a stage so small that his bass player had to duck his head just to play, he performed a set marked by accomplished songs, pithy asides and one drunk man dancing at the front of the stage. Warmsley has clearly had the raw end of the deal, if he dressed as a glam-rock paedophile (don’t you dare tell me you wouldn’t jump to conclusions if you saw him near a real merry-go-round) he might now be ensconced in a love affair with the NME and popular music press. As it is he’s left playing to a Cumbrian audience who i’m reasonably sure had never heard of him, and left with self-depreciating utterances to tiny audiences: ‘this is a song from my second album which was roundly ignored by the music media, but was a fucking masterpiece’. A masterpiece might be slightly strong, but tracks such as ‘Lose My Cool’ are enough to make a case for serious talent, and a Maps-esque groove on ‘How We became’ assured i left suitably imrpessed. There are far less deserving people garnering masses of media attention right now and it seems a waste that somebody with such drive (he met people afterwards to sell customised cd’s which i am sorry to say i didn’t have the cash to buy) and obvious talent languishes as a relative unknown. It just hardly seems fair when at roughly the same time Twisted Wheel were pedalling their turgid Britpop revival-by-numbers garbage to a crowd of thousands on the Main Stage, y’know? Maybe you don’t, but either way i suggest you go out and purchase a copy of his second album ‘How We Became‘ at somepoint in the near future, as it’s pretty fucking good.

Fight Like Apes! Britain's second best primate related band.

The headline act i saw on the first day were Ireland’s finest Fight Like Apes!, at this stage of proceedings i was what could fairly be called ‘reasonably inebriated’, had befriended a random bloke in the audience and was accepting free drinks from him. In short i was about one more Red Stripe away from a date rape, it is then understandable that i thought that this band were fucking blinding, and even more understandable that i was sceptical about this view when i returned home (i had after all just consumed by body weight in Rufalin, i had also just seen Goldie Lookin’ Chain, so anything was gonna be pretty good wasn’t it?). Thankfully this wasn’t the case, at the risk of sounding like a staff writer for the NME, Fight Like Apes! are the musical equivalent of my dog. Yes folks, we’ve entered the ‘pretty shit metaphor’ section of the article, what i mean by this is from the outside they’re cute, fluffy and pretty adorable, but upon closer inspection you’ll find them to be a nasty bastard with a tendancy to bite you, y’dig? At the time i likened their live performance to ‘Enter Shikari covering Blondie’ and i still feel it’s a reasonably apt comparison, their music spits and snarls but at all times maintains a slightly twee-pop demeanour that allows them to flit between genre’s pretty effortlessly. Singer MayKay’s Bellatrix Lestrange hair aside (a Harry Potter reference! And you thought we were pretentious!) i couldn’t find anything about them, or their album, the amusingly titled ‘And The Mystery of The Golden Medallion‘. ‘Something Global’ is an articulate swipe at the hype engendered by the music press on anyone who might shift clothes in Topman, see the line:

And hooks are for wimps, and choruses for gays.
So give me my hook, they call out to the stage.
You’re running like a preacher’s hand caressing, feeling up, all the cleavage in town.

Magazines are so over-rated yeah
And then try to tell you, try to to sell you,
What’s new and what’s now obsolete,
And they like their garage friends and yeah, they like those indie gems and yeah,
They like what ever cool new trends gonna take those copies off the shelf so.

I realise that’s a large amount of lyrics, but they summed up pretty much the point of this blog in 3 shorts stanzas, should possibly call it a day.

But then again, if i did i wouldn’t be able to tell you about the ludicrously catchy ‘Lend Me Your Face’, or the Los Campesinos-meets-We Start Fires stomp of ‘Do You Karate?’. I wouldn’t be able to mention the wistful groove of ‘Lumpy Dough’, nor would i be able to inform you of the exquisitely titled ‘I’m Beginning To Think You Prefer Beverley Hills 90210 To Me’, or of it’s exuberant delivery, electro-shimmer, nursery rhyme quoting and shouty chorus of ‘Suplex, Suplex, Backbreaker!‘. Anyone that references wrestling moves in a chorus is bound to get my attention, and since returning i’ve had their album pretty much on repeat.

It's hard not to be swept off your feet by Frank turner

I left Frank Turner until last for a reason; because he was by far the best act i saw all weekend, if i was to make a table of the top bands i saw it would look something like this:

1. Frank Turner
2. Fresh Air
3. Fight Like Apes!

Such was my admiration for his performance. Before i begin this adoring little review i’d like to make it clear that i was a huge fan of his previous band Million Dead so that probably helps, i’ve also had the luck to chat to him on a couple of occasions and a nicer bloke you couldn’t ask to meet, so that probably helps too. However this weekend nobody could beat him for sheer joy, interaction and fists in the air singalong; not bad for just a man and a guitar. In fact his set didn’t even begin with a guitar, the first 5 minutes were beleaguered by technical problems, this was slightly offset by Frank performing an A-Capella version of a Chris TT track, what it was i’m not sure, but i’m pretty certain it was the only time this weekend people were bouncing to a guy speaking. Guitar finally fixed we were treated to a runthrough of what can only be described as punk-folk (which sounds like the greatest thing ever, lets be fair), every member of the crowd screaming back the words to an obviously overjoyed Turner. His honesty, simplicity and turn of phrase conjoured the image of Billy Bragg in my mind, only there’s none of the bitterness or unfocused anger i’ve associated with the former’s music for so long, he manages to make every song uplifting, every song makes you crack a smile, it is as he put it so eloquently ‘Campfire Punkrock’.

Lyrically Turner flits between the sadness and longing in ‘Long Live The Queen’ (about the last moments with a dying friend) to hungover revelations in ‘The Real Damage’, and he accomplished it all with the wit, charm and vigour of a songwriter twice his age. His lyrics occasionally border on the asinine, which is perhaps not the greatest word, better would perhaps be i dunno, optimistic? Optimistic to the point where it makes you cringe, but you can’t help but get caught up in the delivery and the sheer brashness of it all, the King Blues would do well to pay attention to how to get ideals across in a non-preachy way. The standout track for me was without doubt ‘Try This At Home’, a up-tempo ballad urging people to get out and write their own songs, perfectly summed up by the line:

There’s no such thing as rockstars, there’s just people who play music
and some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks

I realise i am gushing over this performance but i’ve rarely been to a gig where everyone has been so united, nor where so many people have paid attention to the lyrics in quite the same way. I’d urge you to go and see him, i defy you not to leave grinning like a cheshire cat. 2500 words is far too much to commit to one train of thought, but there y’go my thoughts on Kendal Calling 2009 in one go.

Soft Skeleton

Fleetwood Mac – Greatest Hits 1968-1971

Now, i’m going to make it clear before we begin this brief review, i love Fleetwood Mac, you could see that coming right, no point reviewing stuff i hate otherwise this would be about every Oasis album ever created. Now most will know the Mac from albums such as the classic Rumours or the Formula 1 coverage theme tune, this isn’t from that band, it’s from the group who were part of the ‘blues boom’ in the late 60′s, and the group who wrote ‘Black Magic Woman’ later to be made a mega-hit by mexican-virtuoso type Carlos Santana. Many of the songs are written by founder member and blues legend Peter Green, barring two (written by Elmore James and Little Willie John, what more do you need to know about how good those two tracks are?) and each track is killer blues instrumental or a more traditional 60′s pop-style. It’s a period of Fleetwood Mac that’s vastly under-rated and largely forgotten about, but this collection is a great introduction to their blues roots and considering it’s currently out of print you’ll be owning just a little piece of history.

There is little attention paid to film posters these days. Those rectangular signs that excite and enthrall us before we’ve seen a single clip of action. It doesn’t take long to recall the classics – coincidentally, great film posters tend to accompany great films – like ‘Jaws’ and ‘Apocalypse Now.’ They manage to convey the very essence of the film in one fell swoop and I put it to you that the above, one of the posters for Tarantino’s newest release, ‘Inglourious Basterds,’ is in similar, if not the same company as the Spielberg and Coppola classics.

But this isn’t about film posters, this is about a film I’ve been waiting my whole life for, without even knowing it. This is about my sheer spastic excitement for a new Tarantino picture. This is going to be near-enough to one-thousand words of  unadulterated, fawning praise for one of the few iconic film directors left out there. So suck it up, and, if necessary, hand the sick bags out but I’m not going to make a single apology.

I don’t recall if I saw ‘Reservoir Dogs’ or ‘Pulp Fiction’ first, but whichever one it was, had me hooked from the opening lines. The story was told with a fresh voice that had been broken by a life of movie-watching, the plot, revealed with original technique and undoubted mastery. It was a Donnie Brasco moment, as sure as any Donnie Brasco moment that has, or ever will occur. His assembled casts from those first two pictures lends credence to the argument that he got a reputation, quickly.

From there to here, Tarantino has spanned the genres that many of us had simply forgotten about. ‘Kill Bill’ brought The Bride to our screens in a quest for bloody vengenace. Stuntman Mike terrified the women of Nowheresville, USA, in ‘Death Proof’, the Grindhouse homage that just slightly missed the mark (thank you Messrs Weinstein.) Using his silver tongue born of a thousand cool predecessors and his unique golden touch, Tarantino now stands behind his latest project which will soon hit the UK’s shores and fortify itself, surely, as one of my favourites.

I can’t pinpoint why my hopes are so high for this film. It’s new Tarantino, so obviously, it’s something to be excited about. But things run deeper than that. Wary of the subject matter, and of his scope for violence and dark, prose-like dialogue, it’s entirely possible that I’m giddy at the prospect of pure overkill, like Augustus Gloop who is granted entry to Willy Wonker’s factory. Don’t make me link it, you all must have seen it.

He has dragged legendary performances out of Kurt Russell, Robert Forster and Harvey Keitel, and that’s without mentioning the body of work which Samual L. Jackson has contributed so adroitly to Tarantino’s movies. Now, armed with an eclectic cast ranging from all-around egalitarian and star of ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’s Bastardisation’ Brad Pitt, to Mike ‘Lemon Sherbert’ Myers. My mind, free of doubt, is prepared for ‘Inglourious Basterds’ to be the best movie ever.

I have heard many reviews and many opinions, some of which I refuse to believe simply out of grounds of loyalty, and some of which have only baited my keen, calendar-watching eyes. I have seen snippets here and there that have appropriately whetted my appetite like any good film advertisement should. So it seems that I’m destined to sit in the velvet splendour of some run-down cinema with a tub of popcorn that dwarfs my head, a drink with eighteen times the volume my bladder can safely take and follow, wide-eyed,  the Diane Kruger goodness, Eli Roth’s (barely) acceptable acting and all the moustache-action there is to be had.

Certificated 18, I can rest assured that no youths who will attack me with bleach. What I don’t get is, why were a group of youths, willing to injure a woman in such a horrifying way, were sat watching Harry Potter of all films!

Inglourious Basterds is released on the 19th of August and has a provisional Four Stars from me. Stay tuned for the post in which I, in all liklihood, give it its Fifth Star.

Big Muff. Those are the first words that come to mind when i think of NYC’s A Place To Bury Strangers. No i’m not being rude i am of course referring to the guitar pedal, and by the sounds of things a bass and drum pedal aswell. Much hyped during 2007′s noise rock revival i have always been fond of, if not wildly impressed by their self titled debut album, it came to me across to me as a band with a goal but very different ideas of executing it, almost a collection of My Bloody Valentine B-sides; this has changed however.

Today i was supposed to be posting a review of a festival i had recently visited yet this album has blown me away more than anything i’ve listened to this past year, all drone-rock noisescapes, Psychocandy-esque melodies and pounding rhythm section it could scarcely have been better designed to distract me from what i should otherwise have been doing. ‘It Is Nothing’ is a signal of intent from the off, sounding like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club if they’d shredded a few strings and found themselves a decent drummer, i LOVE it and it’s one of the weaker tracks on the album. Follow up track ‘In Your Heart’ comes across as New Order if Peter Hook had spent less time bitching about stuff and encouraged his bandmates to write something good for the first time since Joy Division, and ‘Ego Death’ is potentially the best track i have heard this year building slowly to an ear-shredding crescendo; with a riff that’s equal parts Jesus and Mary Chain’s ‘Blues From A Gun’ and Marilyn Mansons ‘Fight Song’, it’s a 6 minute opus that nearly ripped my fucking face off.

I could happily sit and wax lyrical about every track on this album, other highlights include ‘I Lived My Life In The Shadow Of Your Heart’ and the Teardrop Explodes-meets-a-road-gritter epic ‘Exploding Head’, but i fear i’ve gushed enough over it. For those of you not interested in the noisier side of post-punk i’d imagine it could potentially get quite samey, but i’ve not found this to be a problem for my own tastes. I can’t recommend it enough, it’s far and away the best album i have heard this year, and probably my favourite new release since The Walkmen’s ‘You & Me’ from late last year. My copy is on pre-order, just go out and buy it on October 6th, i promise you won’t be disappointed.

A+

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.

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.

Comparisons, I’m finding, are impossible to avoid in this business. I first heard Florence on Steve Lamacq’s BBC 6 Music show as part of a judging panel of emerging new music. She was full of the petulance that festers in the sweaty conditions of constant praise, rating something or other (that wasn’t half-bad) as 2.5/10, that put me off her, not that I was ever on her. I next encountered her when she performed at this year’s Glastonbury festival, dressed in some gothic attire that lent to her the appearance of a bat or a moth or some horrifying mixture of the two. The explosion of her amber hair was matched in the exhilaration of her intentionally wavering voice, faultless and ambivalent to the expectations of the hundreds, if not thousands that were concentrating on her and her absent Machine.

My now infamous trip to Scotland was to be the final nail in the coffin as the intermittent Radio 2 signal died and resurrected a thousand times a minute, that was that, Radio 1 was the last resort, the same Radio 1 who boast as varied a playlist as Linsday Lohan does in her choice of leggings, or leggings, or…leggings. I am now then fully paid up, a card-carrying member to Florence’s fan-club (not literally.) Forgive my reticent enthusiasm but I’m not yet entirely acclimatised to the paralyzing stigma of the Radio 1 zeitgeist. But, anyway, back to comparisons…

I find it difficult to listen to Florence and not consider the fact that she is a poor man’s Kate Bush. I can’t dwell too much on the likeness because, in all honesty, I’ve never really given Bush the time that she deserves (for one reason or another.) However, the vocal eccentricities that exist within the confines of the 13 or 19 tracks (depending on your wallet and your desire for the deluxe edition) of ‘Lungs‘ are certainly comparable to those of hay-day Bush – so that’s got to count for something. Doesn’t it?

It is always nice when new things come along, note my hesitance in using the word ‘unique’, for every fifty bands that tend to sound the same as one another, there are the breakthrough few who expose the bored frustration of others by injecting their own specialty, their own magic touch, into the world. Case in point: Arctic Monkeys who don’t sound quite like any one else I’ve ever listened to, I don’t think.

And that stands as a solid pillar of a reason why Florence trumps the terrifyingly young-lookin’ La Roux and Little Boots, who, in all honesty, I can’t hear at all in my head. I can at least hum a few bars of La Roux’s ‘Bulletproof.‘ But, I suppose I should actually focus on ‘Lungs‘ and the impression that it has made on me. It strikes me as being an eclectic collection that will appease Disco-junkies (‘Howl‘) and rock-freaks (‘Kiss With a Fist‘ & ‘Girl With One Eye‘) alike. For the pioneering savants among you, there is of course ‘Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)‘ for you to get your jollies over, which for me, is the stand-out track which appeared on the earlier, eponymous EP.

I would say that ‘Lungs‘ is the album of the year, and it is more than likely that others will and have already done so. While it is thoroughly enjoyable and a true musical adventure through genres and tastes, I don’t trust my memory enough to give it that judgement from which there can be no backing down. It has been nominated for the Mercury Music Prize and stands as a true heavy-weight contender in the field that features both artists I’ve never heard of, and bands which I thoroughly despise, mentioning no-names, Kasabian.

It has been a tremendously successful year for Florence Welch and there are still five more months of it left. In our books she is a keeper and truly one to watch over the coming months and, inevitably, years.

Florence & The Machine – ‘Lungs’ - B+

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

Elliott Smith – Waltz #2 (XO)

Yes sir, it’s entirely possible that, by the end of this column you will have hanged yourself, but what you do in the comfort of your own home is none of my business. (I don’t think.) With one of the most melancholic voices I’ve ever heard, Smith managed to twist his tale around sublime musicianship, with painfully frank lyrics and through classical forms, best exemplified by this and other waltzes he recorded during his time. Bouncing from drugs to love, to drugs again, Smith attained cult status with songs that we can all relate to, in one way or another. Aside from the fact his songs appear in two of my favourite films of all-time, he is easily one of my top five favourite artists, either living or dead.

Belle & Sebastian – Piazza, New York Catcher

Finding this song in the depths of my sister’s iPod whilst on our recent jaunt around Scotland was a tremendously pleasant surprise. It is another simple song, a rainy day song to crack a smile on the most stern of faces. I’m terrible at deriving song meanings, and often-times, the messages behind them, so I’m going to steer clear of the ‘is it about baseball?’ or ‘is it a love song?’ debate, all I know is that it’s a song to get lost in, in the voice and in the guitar. Lovely, lovely.

Regina Spektor – Chemo Limo

Soft Skeleton stole my thunder last week, and rightly so. Spektor’s work prances the high-wire of quirky pop music with faultless ease, and it is quite likely that ‘Far’ will not leave my CD player for quite some time. But this? Lengthy and with more mood swings than a pop diva it’s not a hit or as easy to listen to as the vast majority of her work. I would also be lying if I didn’t say that, a great deal of affection I have for this song relies on the recurring line: ‘Crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin.’ It’s out of left-field, and it’s great, so give it time.

Slayer – War Ensemble

Firstly, I warned you. Secondly, I’m the least stereotypical Slayer (I hesitate to use the word fan) fan imaginable. I drum when I have nothing better to do, and have a fancy penchant for the clean-cut guitar sound that died out sometime in the early 1990s (thank you, Kurt Cobain), so don’t pool me with the bearded Hells Angels, just yet.  This song, in its unrelenting run-time gets my feet tapping like nothing else and is a veritable classic in the Air Drumming department. And for those of you who’re still drowsy: if this doesn’t wake you up, you can have your money back. Just get in touch with my colleague for details.

Rodrigo y Gabriela – Tamacun

I know as much about this song, as I do about the pronunciation required to do the title justice. It sounds like some sanitary product to me, but what do I know. I remember watching these two do a set at Glastonbury (don’t worry folks, I was good, warm and comfortable on my sofa) and it astounded me, as much as two acoustic guitar playing people can, at any rate. A perfect accompaniment, if nothing else, to a fine cup of Peruvian coffee…or a Cuban cigar…or any other Latin American product one can enjoy.

Suicide – Ghost Rider

This song, when I heard it for the first time, sat me bolt upright in my chair. My ears pricked like an attentive dog; the combo of Rev and Vega had me. It’s hypnotic and captivating, and another of their songs provided me with my Spotify username. An important, under-rated act which flies under the radar of many people’s lists of influential artists who affected both the rock world, but also the emerging hip-hop scene. ‘Johnny’, a song by Suicide, also is the backing to one of my favourite YouTube videos…which I now see is no longer there. Oh well, nice low point to finish on.

50 Cent (& Justin Timberlake) – Ayo Technology

I can feel Soft Skeleton spontaneously combusting. But this is my show and your tunes, so turn it up. As I may or may not have said, I’m in no way a hip-hop savant – heck – I don’t even capitalise it. However, attentive basketball fans out there will recognise this as the introduction music to the pre-game ritual which the Boston Celtics indulged in during their Championship-winning run the season before last. Personally? 50 Cent’s work is entirely chauvinistic, horrifying and frankly, ear-killing, however, I’m willing to subdue the feminist in me in favour of including this track for your enjoyment. So do the robot or whatever it is that is done these days. Wikki-wild!

Kate Bush – Wuthering Heights

Mostly because I don’t want to like Florence & The Machine, I’m putting this in to show the world how it should be done, wavering voice and all. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard before, it defies genre and is thoroughly enjoyable. More quirks than Spektor, more jaunty than Scottish roads and better than 99.9% of the songs out there. I feel this is a perfectly fitting time to shut up, so you can enjoy all of my selections with the peace and the quiet which they deserve.

As ever, the playlist can be found here unless my computer is being a bitch, in which case, this has been a staggering waste of time.

I have been Horace Blackspur, your resident DJ for the day, and you have been brilliant.

Parnell’s musical education began in the backseat of his parent’s Thunderbird (a rock ‘n’ roll car, if ever there was one.) Through the radio, the fingers of folk clawed while the quarrels of country brawled in Parnell’s psyche, percolating within him with the experience which vaunted songs and legendary stories bring.  At home, his father played a constant barrage of Bob Dylan records; arguably the best music teacher any student could ask for, it afforded him endless hours of lessons, Parnell recalls that: “one of the very first memories of singing I have, is singing ‘Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream’.” from Dylan’s legendary cross-over album ‘Bringing It All Back Home’.

There’s a casual air to Parnell’s admission, as though the 115th Dream is a three-minute blast of la-la-la’s and a-ha-ha’s, but you get the idea that he is all too aware of his talents. ‘Takes a Lot of Love’ from the 2008 release, ‘The Arc’, is a heartfelt indictment, an anti-love song in which, Parnell’s voice rides undercurrent to the anarchic harmonica explosions that leaves a rusty scrawl of a signature by the song’s end. There have been comparisons between his voice and that of Bob Dylan, and they’re not totally unfounded. However, I would liken his voice to another artist, exactly who, I will reveal further down the page.

Adolescence brought with it, as always, rebellion. Forsaking the traditions which had been a mainstay in his music diet, Parnell turned instead, to European bands from the other side of the Atlantic who subscribed to the Indie movement of the mid 1990s. The Gallagher-fueled Oasis, Richard Ashcroft’s Verve and Radiohead provided him with fresh inspiration and the desire to see what he could achieve with the slow progress from self-taught guitar to complete, handwritten songs. From there, Parnell grew as an artist. He gained confidence behind the guise of a guitar player in a band he didn’t write the songs for, where the pressure to live up to his idols did not exist.

Where there was no control on one front, there was plenty on another. In private, he was compiling songs laced with the Country influence of nostalgia (see the banjo part in ‘Hard Way Home’), acquiring personal commendations and support to the point that he quit one band to form another: Runaway Dorothy. “Runaway Dorothy I like to think,” Parnell said, “is a product of my songwriting coming from riding around in a Ford Thunderbird on Sundays and wanting to be in Oasis and U2.” The backlog of influences on RD is extensive and like all of us, eclectic, from the aforementioned U2 and Oasis, Parnell cites the Jayhawks as a past and present love but also Dean Martin as someone who lends momentary snaps of genius and instantaneous crackles of inspiration – if inspiration crackles, that is.

Continuing my war against the NME, I’m tempted to say Parnell’s voice is a tracer-round of vulnerability, a shot in the dark that bursts before disappearing again in a blinding streak of dying light. No, in fact, I’m going to say that, because I’m quite taken by the ‘tracer-round’ comparison. For the most part, I feel as vulnerable as a lion armed with a hefty machete, so I’m perhaps not best placed to consider the many facets of Parnell’s voice and the vocals within RD in general. Those vocals, which, as I said, have described as Dylan-esque (both Bob and Jakob), are honest and to me, recall primetime Ryan Adams sans the half-garbled enunciation that can sometimes spoil some of his better lines. Horace’s tip: if you like Ryan Adams, purchase RD’s The Arc, you won’t be disappointed.

It is clear that Parnell has found his niche, and that the enthusiasm he exudes is more than likely shared by his bandmates. “I would say the biggest kick for me is playing live,” Parnell began, frothing at the mouth at the life he has made for himself, “I love going to cities I have never been before…getting nervous before we go on stage…It’s the greatest thing.”

Runaway Dorothy are themselves currently steeped in plans for a second album; Parnell has begun working on demos. Having said that, work is far from complete from the era marked by The Arc. The band have a tour lined up, as well as “big plans” for two music videos for ‘Abilene’ and for ‘Takes a Lot of Love’ what he describes will be a “monster undertaking” .

They are then, a fusion of stern influences and teenage rebellion, their songs yield feelings which would be lost on many bands in this modern era. Driven by tight musicianship, meaningful lyrics and Parnell himself, Runaway Dorothy are primed to step up to the plate and deliver on the promise inherent in their music. They have burrowed themselves deep into the affections of us here at PostAcidYouth with bluesy rock ‘n’ roll and the honest stories of Average Joe: stories that everybody can, and should, invest in.

I would like to offer my thanks to David Parnell, and by extension, to his Runaway Dorothy bandmates for the work they have, and hopefully will continue to produce, with passion, with gusto and verve.

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

For none-UK readers, channel 5 is a channel which, can be viewed by everyone with ownership of a television. It was once renowned for its… late night…films, but is now much more high-brow; showcasing the best in Australian soap-operas, second-rate car shows and historically inaccurate historical exposes. Sky television, or in particular, Sky One is famous for endless runs of The Simpsons, some classic Futurama episodes and tasteful shows like “When Essex Gals Hit Ibiza.” (For none-UK readers once again, “When Promiscuous Women With Bleached Hair & Fake Tans Act Accordingly In A Foreign Country Much To The Nation’s Shame.”)

As Sky One does with the vast majority of its shows, it purchases the rights to them after they’ve proven to be popular. (Case in point: After the first season of ‘Prison Break’ proved to be a fantastic hit, Sky One bought the rights, and proceeded to show Seasons two and three in varying time slots to an audience which, at best, could be described as non-existent.

So, imagine my face when I heard back in March of this year, that the same Sky One had bought ‘House’ and would be showing it in the coming month in the 9pm slot on Sunday evenings. It was contorted into a mixture of Gerard Depardieu and Shrek, less green and less wide, but the similarities were apparent, I’m sure. That was before God struck down my Sky box with a precise flick of his lightning tongue. Kaput. And Season 5 was all of two weeks away.

Now, Sky must have a tremendous marketing team, as I wasn’t aware of their woeful reputation vis a vis customer services. Of course now it doesn’t surprise me one bit. I was re-assured I would be given an upgraded box as soon as was possible, at a reasonable price of £109, and an e-mail confirmation of the delivery and installation date. As Johnny Depp so succinctly says in ‘Donnie Brasco’: fuhgettaboutit.

Two months later and there is a distinct lack of a functioning Sky box, the price has increased by £50 – presumably to cover costs on the funky ‘hold’ music – and most iritatatingly of all, no episodes of House have been watched!

Given I have the morals of Richard Dawkins in reverse, I’m stringently opposed to the suspect downloading of music, something which my technically-savvy colleague, Soft Skeleton, may or may not agree with. I have, therefore, been reduced to making educated guesses about all things House, picking up from the Season 4 cliff-hanger, and playing the scenes out in the theatre of my mind. This then, is your ticket to the show, a backstage pass to Horace’s condensed matineé of House: Season 5.

1. Number 13 and Dr. Cameron clearly start their own chic waist-coat manufacturing company. C’mon, as well as the staff writers lazily creatively sharing lines between the two characters, it seems they also share the same wardrobe as there is never a waist-coat far away in half of all scenes in any given episode.
2. Wilson clearly goes on a rampage with a mixture of the following objects and/or people: a chainsaw, oodles of morphine (that’s surprising, the automatic spell-checker is fond of ‘oodles’), a Mexican pig-farmer named Lorenzo and finally, Cuddy’s father who turns out to be a Presbyterian minister whose parish is situated on some remote, volcano-strewn island. Don’t ask me why, but I think Lorenzo is the front-runner.
3. House & Cuddy get it onnn.

I’m not picky, I’d be a happy chappy if just two of those actually occur, but it’ll be a while until I find out. (So keep schtum!) My crystal ball is busy collecting dust so determining the boxset release date is actually impossible. Until then, I’ll keep changing reels in the projection room of my skull, with the excited anticipation of a kid at Christmas time.

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