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Showing posts from September, 2016


[HEADLINE & STANDFIRST:  TRASHED! We asked NEIL KULKARNI to review the new NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN LP. Instead, he's written one very long sentence, and one very short one. Well, you can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you might get what you need"]
Ned's Atomic Dustbin Brainbloodvolume  (Furtive 478330 11 tks/41 mins/FP)
CHERRY RED doc wearing stupid Bronx hat and shorts combo sidewinding Carter shirt over PWEI long-sleeve stripey-tights pony-owning horse raced drippy please hit me Mazola-haired spotty-sack-of-subservience-girlfriend-having invade your local and share your shallowest thoughts play the juke for two hours worth of shit sit there mouthing the lyrics looking at the door trying to blend call brown ale "Newky Brown" drink it out of plastic glasses pissed on two put 'Glory Box' on to show how hip you are sit near to me and with every word of your cretinous jabber make me wanna rip your face off vegetarians apart from…


Bloody kids. They won't let you do yourself in. They insist instead that you first work yourself to death.  Bloody music. Hate music sometimes, oft-times, most times these days. It won't let you sleep. It insists instead that you listen when all you want is a horizontal surface and oblivion. Nags at you because there's always new music. And because there's some people you trust dammit. If you're a writer or a reader or a lover or a fighter you care about rhythm and words and clarity and Kristin Hersh has been an inspirational teacher to anyone willing to listen for 30 years now. An indupitable genius but that word would neuter her ever-revolutionary power, puts her in a lineage, the habits of mens with pens. She's too unique for that. I know you can't have gradations of uniqueness but somehow Kristin's writing and playing is always just a little bit more unique than unique. To use words to clutch at something both outside and inside yourself, simultane…

Advice 1

Tried to read some new record reviews today. Failed. A note for aspiring pophacks from this failed one: when you're writing about an album, at some point you're going to have to step away from facts, trails of evidence, sales-figures, celebrity-endorsements/tie-ins, biographical regurgitation, what they're saying on Twitter, rubbish jokes, stuff about how great and funny you are, and actually write about how the album makes you feel, about what the experience of listening to it is like. I mean, you don't HAVE to, and seemingly many don't. But that's kind of the point of a review.