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.

The Review: Florence & The Machine – Lungs

This was originally going to be a piece on the triumvirate of hyped female artists currently doing the rounds on airwaves and iPods the world over, until I realised La Roux looks like a Final Fantasy villain and Little Boots is not only not very good, but also has the severe drawback of sounding like a petrol station convenience store. Florence Welch on the other hand, has a half decent album under her belt and also the larger advantage of looking like a girl I once knew quite well, so naturally I was more likely to focus on her.

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.

Our Week In Music 03/08/2009

With Soft Skeleton AWOL in some muddy field, surrounded by some muddy people and the shit-stink of sheep, I become your DJ for the week, taking charge of the Spotify beast and force-feeding you the tunes that’re buzzing around my head. My taste is more diverse than Julio Eglasias covering traditional Inuit  songs, so you can expect some genre-bending tracks to jolt you into life on yet another bloody Monday. So shut your door, kick your feet up and immerse yourself my Week In Music.

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.

The Feature: Runaway Dorothy

David Parnell, the creative force behind Runaway Dorothy, spent his youth harbouring lofty dreams of basketball stardom. That Carolina kid is now a band man in New York City, in possession of one album with plans for a follow-up. I was going to jump on a plane to meet him personally, but then I remembered I wasn’t being bankrolled and that I tend to get homesick within 3 hours of leaving my house. Thankfully, that great, invisible information stream in the sky bailed me out, so here it is. Post Acid Youth’s first Feature: Runaway Dorothy.

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.

It’s Not A House It’s Home

Up until season five of the medical drama, House, I had watched it religiously. Memorised some of the lines, and stolen some of the better jokes. I had first heard it mentioned on Steve Wright’s Radio 2 programme, when Hugh Laurie was a guest. From that sole interview, I was hooked through approximately ninety episodes (or whatever the first 4 seasons tally is). With a cast culled from season 1 of ‘The West Wing’ (Edelstein), ‘Dead Poet’s Society’ (R.S. Leonard) and the countless projects which Laurie had starred in, it was a certified hit from the very first episode. That was channel 5, this is Sky.

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.