Monday 22 June 2009

Album review: Hollywood Undead: 'Swan Songs'

HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD: 'Swan Songs' (Polydor)

Okay, first things first. Hollywood Undead most definitely place their tongues firmly in their collective cheeks. This is irony, ladies and gentlemen; we aren’t supposed to take its shockingly misogynistic and homophobic machismo seriously. The ‘band’ clearly aspire to be six Eminems for the 21st century, rapping about ‘pop[ping] more pussy than Ashton Kutcher’ and taking brass knuckles to all the ‘faggots who hate.’ Hell, they’ve even dubbed their début album ‘Swan Songs’, as if goading every critic from here to the Antipodes into making ‘witty’ quips about how, if there’s any justice in the world, the prophecy will be self-fulfilling.

The problem is, for all this may be a gigantic glob of pre-pubescent sarcasm, the joke just isn’t funny. It’s a tired, one-trick pony that loses any semblance of worth within the first twenty seconds of truly atrocious album opener ‘Undead’, and then proceeds to repeat itself over and over again, ad fucking nauseum, for forty utterly diabolical, excruciatingly painful minutes. Listening to ‘Swan Songs’ all the way through is the equivalent of taking a pneumatic drill to your earlobes, but increasing the size of the drill bit with every passing second. Each track is driven by a mind-numbing trudge of a beat, worked over a set of pointless screams and irritatingly whiny vocals. Oh, and there’s the obligatory helping of aggressive ‘rapping’, included so as to ensure that things stay sufficiently masculine and don’t become, perish the thought, too ‘faggy.’

And whether or not this seemingly bigoted streak is truly a reflection of their attitudes is largely irrelevant. The notion that we’re supposed to laugh at lines like ‘Come on girls, I wanna see you drinking/I wanna see your brain start shrinking…/Drunken pussy’s what I’m thinking’ and ‘From these industry fucks to these faggot ass punks/You don’t know what it takes to get this mother fucking junk’ betrays their transparency. The lyrics read as the pathetic shock tactics that they are, adopted in an effort to give a mediocre band the ‘edge’ that they so desperately need. It’s telling that the first statement that the band make on the album is that they ‘don’t give a fuck what [we] think or say’, and then devote about three quarters of the rest of the thing to telling their ‘haters’ where they can shove it, instructing us to ‘slit [our] wrists, get pissed and go jump off a bridge’ and whining about how they ‘almost died for this music.’ Really? Well, it sure as hell wasn’t worth it, mate.

Of course, Hollywood Undead would probably tell us that they’re being sarcastic here too, that we should take the words with a pinch of salt. But there’s only so much irony we’ll accept, only so many excuses for utterly meritless music that we’ll take before we just call a spade a spade and throw the damn CD in the nearest fiery furnace. Absolutely, unequivocally, awful. (0/10)

Saturday 20 June 2009

Album review: Alexisonfire: 'Old Crows, Young Cardinals'

ALEXISONFIRE: 'Old Crows, Young Cardinals' (Vagrant)

Hear the name ‘Alexisonfire’ and the first image that comes to mind is of a black, bleeding heart, courtesy of 2002 fan favourite ‘.44 Caliber Love Letter.’ Marrying the emotional torture of lost love with an excessive revenge complex, the track single-handedly distils contemporary emo culture, giving the band a great deal to answer for.

In 2009, however, Alexisonfire want to break free of their self-imposed shackles, taking the .44 to both their history and the copycats trailing in their wake. Carrying on from where 2006’s ‘Crisis’ left off, ‘Old Crows, Young Cardinals’ largely abandons the faux-punk stylings of screamo in favour of something more complex, a sort of fusion of the raw energies of post-hardcore and alternative rock. Together, the title tracks make up the best thing they’ve ever done, full of explosive rage and determination. George sings ‘we are not the kids we used to be’ on the terrifyingly heavy ‘Old Crows’ and you don’t dare question him. And then the colossal drums of ‘Young Cardinals’ come crashing down around your head, and the guitars are cranked to ‘ear bleed’, shattering your senses and leaving you almost too weather-beaten to cope with the immensely addictive Deftones-esque chorus.

There are other unexpected excursions too. ‘Song of Privilege’ and ‘Midnight Regulations’ take a more socio-political stance: apparently, George ‘find[s] himself concerned for the common man these days’, and while his proselytising may seem a little tokenist, the band deserve credit for venturing outside of their comfort zone. It’s mid-album slowie ‘The Northern’ that’s the biggest departure though, with the sort of prog undertones that wouldn’t seem out of place on a Tool record. It’s magnificent, managing even to incorporate George’s gravely screams without seeming gratuitous.

Unfortunately, ‘Old Crows, Young Cardinals’ peters out somewhat towards the end, falling back on familiar territory with a string of songs that sound like they’ve been plucked out of Screamo for Dummies. It’s as if the band lost their bottle, chickening out on their daring project before its climax. It’s a great shame, as the first eight tracks raise the bar so far over the genre’s head that it’s barely visible any more. A very brave effort on the whole though, and one that contains some of Alexisonfire’s greatest work to date. They’re certainly not the kids they used to be, and thank our black, bleeding hearts for that. (7/10)

Friday 19 June 2009

Album review: Green Day: '21st Century Breakdown'

GREEN DAY: '21st Century Breakdown' (Reprise)

‘American Idiot’ part two? Well, yeah, pretty much. Green Day’s latest magnum opus, their eighteen track, three act, extravagant rock opera, follows directly on from where their seventh LP left off, taking the state of the globe as its chief concern this time, rather than that of a single nation, and telling it through the eyes of two protagonists, Christian and Gloria, whose antics are not entirely dissimilar to those of our friends St Jimmy, Whatsername and the Jesus of Suburbia. ‘21st Century Breakdown’ is every bit the concept album, telling a story equally as vivid and enticing as the one immortalised by its predecessor. So why, then, does it seem like everyone and their mum is baying for Billie Joe, Mike and Tre’s blood? What have they supposedly done wrong?

Well, there’s that leadoff single for one. The Zeitgeist doesn’t approve of ‘Know Your Enemy’, with its two chord simplicity and generous helping of ‘oh way oh way’s. Somehow, some way, it just isn’t ‘punk’ enough for the purists, crossing the line into the sort of ‘pop’ territory coveted by your Fall Out Boys and your My Chemical Romances, you know, all the big name bands that it is no longer cool to admit to liking. It’s ridiculous really, as Green Day ceased being properly punk around about the release of ‘Warning’ – which, funnily enough, garnered a similar backlash for its ‘softer’ sensibility and, hah, ‘poppy’ comeback single, ‘Minority’ (now considered a classic, by the way) – and even before that, they have always embraced accessibility. 1994’s ‘Dookie’, the yardstick against which all Green Day records shall be judged, annoyingly, is absolutely rife with killer hooks and chart-busting melodies. Just look at ‘When I Come Around’, for God’s sake. Strong contender for catchiest tune on the planet, but because it isn’t bolstered with instruments outside of the standard three-piece guitar-bass-drums set-up, or littered with political references, it gets a pass.

Not so ‘21st Century Breakdown’. No, this album is ‘overblown’; the California boys have betrayed their roots! Bollocks. It may be one or two tracks too long, but the range of stylistic experimentation is what gives the record its edge. Oh sure, it’s hardly The Arcade Fire; Green Day are never going to abandon the three chord thrashathon for good, it’s in their blood after all, but at least they bother to try something different, to not remain perpetually stuck in the past. The piano-led fifty six second intro, ‘Song of the Century’, is a wonderfully melancholic piece that resonates throughout the album, appearing again prior to the blistering, U-turn filled whirlwind of ‘American Eulogy’, haunting the listener with its eerily bleak message. The title track is similarly unusual, building from piano to slow-moving rock behemoth before finally morphing into a head-down, peddle-to-the-metal burst of relentless punk energy. The moment when the pace cranks up twenty notches is absolutely spine tingling, a real adrenalin rush for the senses. And there’s plenty of this elsewhere too, particularly in the riotous third act, in which ‘Horseshoes and Handgrenades’ and ‘Static Age’ duke it out to claim the title of most hyperbolic musical suckerpunch in history. ‘Murder City’, the most traditional Green Day song on the record, is similarly visceral, while ‘Christian’s Inferno’ is punk’s hell spawn, spitting fire and brimstone all over your sorry carcass with the most delectably reckless abandon.

There’s time for shameless fun too: ‘Peacemaker’ and ‘¡Viva La Gloria!’ are sister songs, united by their Spanishness. They share the same irresistibly skankalicious beat, begging you to start flailing around your room like a maniac. And then we have ’21 Guns’ and ‘Last Night on Earth’, the album’s ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ and ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’, rock ballads so over-the-top, they’d even give Whitesnake goose bumps. The former is the next single and is the better of the two, conveying a sort of embittered defeatism with luscious extravagance, while the latter veers a little too far into the realm of the cheesy, sounding like it wouldn’t be out of place as the crescendo to an 80s teen romance movie, but, to be honest, it makes complete sense. This is hardly an album of restraint; it’s as over-the-top a piece of theatre as you can possibly get, and if they’d made a ‘Good Riddance’ instead, it would’ve seemed completely out of the place, out of context with its surroundings.

Rather than shouting “sell outs!” and berating the supposed loss of their ‘punk roots’, we should be commending Green Day for refusing to stick to their guns. Yes, ‘21st Century Breakdown’ borrows from ‘American Idiot’ but hell, it borrows from many of their other albums too, with a whiff of ‘Misery’ here and a dash of ‘When I Come Around’ there. The band can’t escape their past, and they shouldn’t try to; instead, they should embrace it and see where it takes them now, as thirtysomethings who have come a long way from writing songs about masturbation. To expect another ‘Dookie’ or ‘Insomniac’ is naïve and pointless; what we have instead is the sound of a band willing to push the boat out, to be playful and experimental, while still retaining the essence of what makes them great. This is a daft, over-the-top, camp-as-fuck, practically insane piece of pop, rock and punk indulgence that worms its way into your skull and sets up home, refusing to leave until you acknowledge its brilliance. At times, yes, there are missteps but, on the whole, ‘21st Century Breakdown’ is a valiant effort. Unashamedly entryist, fabulously adolescent and thrilling as fuck. (8.5/10)

Saturday 13 June 2009

49 reasons to stay fucking depressed

NME recently published a list of '49 reasons to stay cheerful' in the coming months, since the recession has apparently sent us all hunting for the razorblades. Well, just to be contrary, and because their reasons are agonisingly shit, here are 49 reasons to make you want to crawl under a rock and not come out until Armageddon’s over.

1. Voter apathy
Did Rock Against Bush teach you people nothing? Were you all asleep during the 'American Idiot' era? Haven't you heard '21st Century Breakdown'? Or do you just think that, because all that happened so far overseas, it doesn't apply to you? Well think again busters. Your refusal to cast your state-given right to vote either out of sheer laziness or disillusionment with politics has resulted in one of the most depressing European political climates EVER. Look at that EU parliament, for Christ's sake! Centre right parties everywhere, fucking conservative central. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. And that isn't even taking UKIP, or worse, the fucking BNP's two seats into consideration. It's all right though, cos Paul McCartney didn't vote either. He's too 'fed up.' Well, boo fucking hoo. Apathy is all it takes for the cuntweasels to shoehorn their way into power. Before you know it, we'll have proportional representation, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in itself, but if people keep refusing to cast their vote, it'll be all the better for Nick Griffin and his band of fascistic cronies and all the worse for us actual sane folk. Bloody frightening.

2. The BNP
Sticking with the political angle for a bit, we have elected two representatives of this bunch of bigoted arseholes into the European Parliament. Congratulations Great Britain, you've really done us all proud. And now we're going to have to put up with Griffin's shit-spewing carcass bleating all over the news, telling us how bad we 'proper' Brits all have it and how we need to get rid of all the dirty foreigners. Oh, and hide the homos away. And restore the traditional family unit. Yay. Problem is, well-minded, rational thinking people seem to lose all sense of dignity when they see him and start throwing things either at their television sets (fair enough) or, if he's out in the streets, at his actual person (amusing, though counter productive.) It's asinine, frankly, and only strengthens the party's 'we're misunderstood! It's a smear campaign!', um, campaign. Freedom of speech is a two way street. Let the man speak... and then shout down everything he says.

3. English Democrats
Yup, there's so much to be fucking depressed about in British politics these days, it's a surprise we haven't all headed for the boats and started sailing to the nearest deserted island, ready to establish our own independent republics. Not only do we have the British National Party to contend with, but now Doncaster have a mayor who represents this bunch of ignorant fuckwits, pledging to get rid of the town's translators because he doesn't like multiculturalism (um, that's actually illegal) and cut the council's funding of gay pride because he doesn't believe we should 'parade [our] sexuality around the streets.' He's the 'Boris Johnson of the north', apparently. Let's hope he falls down a ditch and IS NEVER SEEN AGAIN.

4. The Tories
Don't kid yourselves, guys and gals, the Conservatives are not the friendly alternative. They aren't going to make the situation any better for anyone other than the top 3% of earners in the country; in fact, they're going to make our lives a whole hell of a lot worse. Their policies are as depressingly right wing as ever, and David Cameron is a smarmy twat. Fact. Stop voting for them, you know what they did the last time. It won't be any different. Rich get richer, poor get poorer. Is that really how you want it?

5. The expenses scandal
Still it trundles on, like a fucking Metallica record, revealing more and more corruption and giving the Tories, the BNP and just about anyone who isn't Labour a leg up in the opinion polls. Of course, the Conservatives aren't exactly innocent in the whole thing but that doesn't seem to matter to the people who actually bother to vote. Never mind, we'll all just continue to point and laugh at poor Gordon as he tries to pick up the pieces and they just continue to crumble in his hands. A lot of what has been revealed is shocking, of course, but come on guys. The collective high horse everyone seems to have climbed onto since this started is just laughable. Can anyone seriously tell me they haven't fiddled their expenses at one point or another, at however small a level? Or that they wouldn't have done the same thing when given a position of power? It isn't right, and something should be done about it, but this moral high ground we've all assumed is just as fucking nauseating.

6. June Sarpong is a political commentator for The Sun
Yeah, you shouldn't be reading the worthless rag anyway, but come on. June Sarpong?! The bewildered, witless one from T4? 'Political commentator?' Do me a lemon.

7. Swine Flu
Yes, as if being credit crunched and made to suffer Nick Griffin wasn't enough, we're all going to die of H1N1, the first official global pandemic in over forty years. We've got an upsurge in cases to look forward to in the autumn and winter, according to the WHO, and it just might mutate into something more sinister. Just, mind. That's the worse case scenario. Fact is, it's actually quite mild at the moment and most cases don't even require treatment. Good to know. You don't get that from the news, though. They report the 'could do's and possibilities as headline-grabbing facts, with shocking sentences like ONE IN THREE WILL CATCH SWINE FLU adorning front pages, when actually, what the article says is, "this scientist bloke reckons that the absolute worst that can happen is that one in three will catch swine flu." Fuckers.

8. North Korea wants to nuke is neighbours
...and probably the rest of us, come to that. Kim Jong Il, the 'ronery' one, is at it again, rubbing the South Koreans' noses in his military might by launching a nuclear missile, 'doing some tests', on the day that his neighbours were mourning the death of their president. My money's on THIS being the thing that succeeds, out of the million contenders, in annihilating the human race pretty soon.

9. Sir Alan Sugar is given a peerage
This trumped up fanny fart is set to advise the government on business issues, undoubtedly in much the same way as he 'advises' the poor suckers on The Apprentice... by shouting at them. Loudly. And firing everyone. If you still had any hope for Gordon Brown's administration after the expenses scandal, you might as well kiss it all goodbye now.

10. Ann Widdecombe throws her hat into the ring to become the Speaker of the Commons
Really, the last thing we need is this God-awfully unpleasant woman bouncing off the walls of the House of Commons, shrieking at everything with those horribly shrill pipes of hers, and generally acting like a power-mad schoolmistress. I know the place needs order but that's why the good Lord gave us Margaret Beckett. Get this harpy out of the political arena pronto. Oh, and confiscate all of her writing implements too; the last thing we need is another one of her fucking stuck up sermons.

11. Big Brother 10
10? Fucking ten??!! How this most vacuous and worthless of television experiments has managed to last an entire decade is absolutely beyond me. But you can bet your bottom dollar it'll be all anyone talks about for the next three months, consigning those who don't care for its never-ending conveyor belt of ill-mannered, self-serving arseholes to the far end of the office or, worse still, to the table at the back of the canteen, alone, with only a copy of The Guardian for company. "Ooooo, did you see what Kris did last night?" "Oh my God, how much of a bitch is Angel?" "Eeeee, the blonde one stuck a champagne bottle up her ar..." I DON'T FUCKING CARE, ALL RIGHT?!

12. The lack of any good new American television until September
Welcome, one and all, to the barren months; the 120 days in which American television rests on its laurels and trumps out a load of cack-handed soaps, piss poor reality shows and frankly rather dismal repeats. All the really good stuff runs from either September to May or January to May, leaving us with a horribly long period of abject boredom. There's True Blood, of course, but it's hardly 24, Lost or Supernatural, is it?

13. Michael Bay gets to keep on making movies
Why? WHY?! Matt Stone and Trey Parker had it right in Team America when they railed on this guy's unfathomable ability to royally fuck up everything he touches... and look! There's a Transformers sequel out this year! And it'll suck, just as much as every other film Michael Bay has ever produced! He'll suck the life and soul out of the plot, sacrificing such important things as character development and interesting storylines in favour of a few pointless explosions and gratuitous CGI sequences. But wait! There's more! He's signed on to produce A Nightmare on Elm Street in 2010! Whoopee! Why don't we just give him the keys to all the classics and get him to whip his dick out, piss on 'em, rape them and then take a gigantic dump on their faces? After severing their heads. With a chainsaw.

14. Britain's STILL Got Talent
The latest series of the show may have ended, thank the Lord, but you certainly wouldn't know it from all the coverage it's somehow still managing to garner. Well, you see, the bastards are on the road, on a huge UK tour, and BBC News 24 obviously wouldn't have its finger on the pulse of the nation if it didn't bring you as much coverage as it could, speculating every night about whether or not poor old Susan Boyle's going to be fit enough to make an appearance; 'she had a good one last in Crewe, but will her overnight hotel antics jeopardise her performance in Swansea?' 'A stage-hand has confirmed that, yes, Boyle did actually fart during her set at the 02 last night. "Silent but deadly" was his somewhat graphic description.' Euck, who gives a fuck? This is not news. It's only interesting to the fuckwits who've paid upwards of an arm and a leg to see the buggers. Get it off my television NOW.

15. Susan Boyle and reality TV
A depressing 'article' in the Metro has suggested that Boyle might 'become the next Oprah' and have her own chat show, thereby ensuring that she will never, ever be off our television screens, joy of fucking joys. However, the notion WAS put forward by '1980s pop singer Sinitta', famous only for being an ex-girlfriend of Simon Cowell's. Yeah, I bet you have no fucking idea who Sinitta is either. Why is she being interviewed? Who really gives a flying fuck what she thinks? Hmm. Perhaps this point should've been 'Z-list celebrities continually given a soapbox.'

16. There'll be yet more Twilight
Lifted straight from NME's list, this one. They seem to think the appearance of another lacklustre adaptation of a dull-as-shit novel by Stephenie Meyer is reason to start dancing in the streets. Um, no, all it's going to do is provide a bunch of irritating fan girls - and boys - with the opportunity to cream over Robert Pattinson's torso again and again and again, filling every cinema from here to Timbuktu with gallons and gallons of geek spunk. Which will be a sight to behold, I'll give you that.

17. Hollywood Undead
The frankly unfathomable popularity of this bunch of worthless bigots continues to grow and grow, giving a clear indication to all and sundry that the apocalypse is most certainly imminent. The fact that 'teh youth' are actively feeding the wallets of the Slipknot-masked cuntweasels is enough to make anyone want to 'slit their wrists, get pissed and go jump off a bridge.' Except you wouldn't lower yourself to enacting a single sodding line from any of Hollywood Undead's truly abominable lyrics, so you'd just do the old fashioned thing and blow your brains out with a shotgun instead.

18. Brokencyde
As if Hollywood Undead weren't enough of an offence to common decency, now we have this bunch of maladjusted middle class mommy's boys playing at misogyny, homophobia and plain old cuntishness. The very idea of a 'screamo crunk' band is enough to make you regurgitate your internal organs, never mind having to actually listen to them. But listen you undoubtedly will as, yet again, the boys and girls of the nation crank 'em up to max on their home PCs, delighting in the 'daring', 'edgy' nature of lines like 'I got these bitches all tipsy trying to sex me/I know they want it, alcoholics are some sex freaks’ and 'if you like me girl then fill me in/Cos I don't waste my time with lesbians'. Quite possibly the single worst band the world has ever seen. Maybe the single worst THING the world has ever seen. Enough to make you want to lobotomise yourself. Ten times over.

19. There's a new iPhone...
...but everyone's too busy tightening their belts or being jobless to be able to afford one. Talk about terrible timing.

20. The Download line up
Oh, just look at it. Half of these fuckers should be shot with their own shit. Hollywood Undead, Staind (they're still going?!), Dragonforce, Pendulum, You Me At Six, Motley Crue, Trivium, Black Stone Cherry, Limp Bizkit... the list goes on and on. Perhaps the worst offender, however, is the Sunday main stage line up of Def Leppard, Whitesnake, ZZ Top and Journey which promises to send Donnington Park back through time to 1986 where, frankly, we hope that this arse-explosion of a festival fucking stays.

21. Fred Durst
The world's worst human being returns, bringing his cabaret act with him; you know, the ones who made it possible for a band like Hollywood Undead to exist. Don't kid yourselves guys, this music isn't 'fun', it's just plain abysmal. And the fact that there are people like this in existence really doesn't help matters. Fred Durst clone? You fail at life Sir, please reboot and start again.

22. Everyone is reforming: from Madness to Terrorvision, Shed Seven to The Specials
Is nothing sacred any more? Does the sovereignty of a band's back catalogue really matter so little? Or has the credit crunch got so bad that the millions of pounds and dollars (and every other currency under the sun that we threw at our favourite bands) have been lost, along with all the little people's jobs? Whatever the situation, it's a bloody depressing thing to see so many washed up has beens doing the rounds of the universities one last time for the dough. They're never as good as they were in their heyday, especially when you consider most of them really don't have their heart and soul in it. And, unfortunately, that they all seem to be the arse-end bands of yesteryear too. Terrorvision? Shed Seven? Limp fucking Bizkit? Who really wants to see these bastards again? They were bad enough the first time around. *shudders*

23. The Blink 182 reunion
Yeah, don't think this one escapes our ire either. The Blink reunion is so fraught with potential problems, it's a surprise it ever got off the ground. First, Tom DeLonge is a prick and no amount of self-realisation or flagellating following Travis' brush with death is going to shake off that fact. Second, there's no way that the three can just resort to being the juvenile delinquents they were when they released 'Dude Ranch' and 'Enema of the State'. There's nothing more embarrassing than watching thirty year olds try to act like teenagers. Third, unfortunately, it was the music that Blink made when they WERE making fart gags and pretending to fuck dogs that was their most memorable and enjoyable. When they started to go all maudlin and serious on their final self-titled LP, it was bloody horrible... and the next logical step proved to be Angels and Airwaves, one of the most appalling things mankind has ever created. So, they need NOT to attempt to replicate their 'better' years, but still avoid the sound of 'Blink 182', and actually gel together again for the first time in ages and not fall out within three or four weeks. Riiiight. One look at sample videos of their reunion tour on Youtube indicates that they're as atrocious a live band as ever, which is at least a start, but it doesn't exactly fill you with confidence. Still, at least they don't charge you your soul to gain entry.

24. Michael Jackson
Christ, where to begin. 50 dates at the same venue. With the same setlist. Oh, but wait! He only wanted to do 10 dates. Someone hit the wrong button on the keyboard. I like to imagine it as a sort of seetickets order form, with a gigantic 'enter quantity' box in the middle of the screen, where Michael's decrepit hand proved too much to move all the way along to the '1' and so just gave in and collapsed on the nearest digit instead. Still, he's going ahead with the 50, bless him... oh wait, he's not. He's postponed the first five or so due to... something vague and meaningless. Not being prepared enough, or some such nonsense. And now Akon reckons he's going to mime. Well, erm, duh! What else can he really do? HAVE YOU SEEN THE MAN? He looks like he's got the Grim Reaper rapping at his door every half an hour. Make him exercise his vocal chords and they'll probably disintegrate. Is he even going to move? Will they wheel him out onstage, a la Rod Stewart in South Park, and have him move his mouth randomly in time to the backing track, while it undoubtedly fucks up and starts looping, causing endless embarrassment to Jacko, endless annoyance to his seriously cash strapped fans (£50+ for a ticket? Not on your nelly!) and endless hilarity for the rest of us on Youtube? This has all the hallmarks of a record-breaking disaster and you can bet your bottom dollar he won't do all 50. By date 6, he'll have a stand in. Mark my words.

25. Booking fees! Transaction fees! Staring at your screen fees!
Despite the fact that we're in a recession, bands, promoters and, most frustratingly of all, fucking Internet ticket websites still see nothing wrong in causing you to repossess your house in order to attend a gig by your favourite band or artist. Muse are charging £41.50 (inclusive of booking fee) for their November tour, which is bad enough, and then Seetickets whack on an additional £4.80 for 'transaction fees'. Now, I realise these guys need to make money somehow but come the fuck on. £46?! We just don't have that kind of cash lying around. Oh, but according to NME, we should all celebrate because apparently, 'gigs have gone free.' 'Venues across the country have started booking top artists in the hope that we’ll leave the house for a free gig.' Um, where and when? Eh? Free, my arse. Most things worth seeing keep you out of pocket for a bloody lifetime. Grrr.

26. The big-bearded drummer has left Against Me!
A sad, sad day for us all.

27. Only one more season of ABC's Lost
We all knew the end had to come some day but it barely feels like two minutes since Jack Sheppard woke up in the middle of a forest and all hell broke loose. It is most certainly a good thing that show creators Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse are sticking to their guns and finishing the show after year six, telling all the story they need to tell and no more, but given that it's the best damn thing on television (you can bleat on about The Wire all you like, but I'm yet to be convinced), the prospect of only seventeen more episodes is almost too bleak to bear. This is the last chance we'll have to spend eight months speculating about a season finale too... sob sob sob.

28. Pepsi Raw
'Natural born cola' is the tag line for Pepsi's newest, and most pointless, commercial endeavour. Natural cola? Really? There's nothing fucking natural about it, it comes in a pissing can for God's sake. Oh, you mean 'natural ingredients', right. 'No artificial flavourings, sweeteners, colourings or preservatives.' Gotcha. That's all well and good guys, but have even the tiniest swig of the damn thing, and you'll feel like you've just had a thousand cola bottles shoved in your mouth and your gag reflex is refusing to work. The stuff's fucking revolting and it certainly isn't helped by a marketing campaign that features 'shit' as its predominant colour. I'll give it about the lifespan of Virgin Cola. But then, I thought Coke Zero would have died a death by now, but the idiotic males of the world still can't seem to fathom that it's just Diet Coke, rebranded to accommodate their insecurities with their masculinity. Oh, but wait! The Venezuelan government has banned the drink due to "health risks." Yeah, if too many fuckers drink it, the country will be awash with unwarranted machismo. Send it packing now!

29. Ahmadfailejad
Despite it being the closest election you're likely to see for a decade or so (you'll get no equivalent in Britain... hah, Labour?! Winning votes? Don't be ridiculous!), it looks like Iran is about to re-elect tiresome prick Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as President of their glorious nation. Well, that's just great. I'm not entirely sure how much better Mirhossein Mousavi would have been, but surely anything's preferable over the man who claims that "there's no such thing as homosexuals in Iran", right after his country's murdered a few of them just for daring to exist. Oh, and that speaks at a United Nations anti-racism conference about how Israel should be "wiped off the pages of history." Yes, let's keep him in the powerful position in the country, yeah...

30. Introducing Cocaine: The Drink
Right. Allow me to lift NME's fourth 'reason to be cheerful' this summer straight from its pages: 'New spirit Agwa De Bolivia is set to make its debut at Glasto this year, and we’re intrigued. Made from the same substance as a certain white powder, apparently it mixes quite well with Red Bull, so you’ll find us at the all night Silent Disco.' Yay! Because Agwa De Bolivia contains cocaine derivatives, we can all get bladdered on it and feel the same effects as the oh so fantastic and not at all harmful or deadly 'certain white powder', in a totally legal, thoroughly safe fashion! Whoopee! You fucking cunts, NME. There's nothing like shamelessly celebrating the joys of drugs is there, oh no. A few years ago, it was MDMA that we were all going to be 'shoving up our arses' in a 'new Summer of Love.' And while I credit its readership with being more than just mindless automatons, treating everything they say as gospel, it's still a little worrying when you consider things like, oh I dunno, the Arctic Monkeys' ridiculous level of popularity on the back of the magazine's incessant hype. And anyway, there's nothing more boring than a bunch of inebriated/'blissed out' revellers thinking they're having some sort of out of body experience. Get out of my fucking way you twats; I need to get to the burger van. Euck.

31. Festival food
Speaking of the burger van, NME also reckons we should be cheerful because 'festival food is going to be really good for a change. Bestival’s kid sister festival, Camp Bestival, has got a lot going for it - but what’s really won us over is the fact that TV chef Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall will be cooking up some home grown treats and dishing out nettle beer. Rather!' Well, forgetting for a moment that Fearnley-Wittingstall is a 'bit of an arse', festival food is only going to be good, NME, if you go to fucking Bestival. And no one in their right mind really wants to do that. The rest of us, the ones who want to see some actual good music and not dress up as astronauts, Martians or space ships (yes, the fucking thing has a fancy dress theme! It's Outer Space this year! Christ, it's like going to your mate's awful house party) while being forced to endure Grace Jones, Madness or The Specials, will head off to T in the Park, V or Reading and Leeds where, you can be sure, everything will cost about £7 and you'll run the risk of dissolving your insides with every bite. Yummy.

32. Facebook. Fucking Facebook
As good as it is in theory, Facebook has devolved somewhat over the past year into an amalgamation of all the worst features of Myspace and some desperately transparent attempts to piggyback on the success of Twitter. It's now rife with terribly self-indulgent 'all about me' questionnaires, utterly pointless 'top 5's (no, I don't care what your five favourite Klingon adverbs are, fuck off!) and bloody irritating 'become a fan' groups. 'Hey! I've become a fan of morning sex! Oooo, I'm so naughty! How about you? Do YOU like morning sex? If so, why don't you become a fan too? Seriously, why don't you? Are you a boring fucker who does it with the lights off? Or are you not getting any sex at all, you sad, lonely, useless wank stain?!' Sigh. Facebook's now offering everyone the chance to 'have a username' so that 'family and friends can easily find you' which, I suppose, is a novel idea if you're someone like John Smith or something, but for a great number of its users, much of the appeal is that you don't have to be easy to locate. And in any case, having a username is just like 'having a Myspace' or 'having a Twitter account', so what's the point in any of them? As Conan O’Brien said recently on The Late Show, 'by the year 3000, “YouTube, Twitter & Facebook will merge into one super time wasting website called YouTwitFace.” And there is a site already. Ready and waiting. It just doesn't have anything on it yet. Shame.

33. Twitter 'experts'
Now, I'm far from a Twitskeptic. I have a profile, I tweet on a semi-regular basis and hell, I actually enjoy it. But even I've had enough of the media's constant obsession with the thing. More specifically, I'm sick of seeing Stephen Fry, and a host of other celebrities, featured in news reports about things that have absolutely nothing to do with them, but because they have an opinion on the issue that they've expressed in 140 characters or less on their Twitter profile, journalists seem to think they are justified in filling out their pieces by quoting them, ad verbatim. Jade Goody's untimely death? Within the first paragraph of text, you can guarantee you'll find Stephen Fry calling her a "Princess Di from the wrong side of the tracks." Huh? WTF, mate? Is Fry a God now? Must we look to him for 'most sage and honourable wisdom', refresh his profile page as every news story breaks in the hopes that he might provide some juicy copy? Actually, I bet there's someone being hired to do just that, right now, but not only with Fry's page, with Jonathan Ross's and Alan Carr's and just about every other A, B, C and Z-list celeb under the sun too. Jesus, what IS the world coming to?

34. Everyone's love of MGMT
It's enough to make you want to smash your brains in with a sledgehammer. Do doo do do do do do. Do do doo do do doo do. Or... do do do do doo doo doo doo dooooooooo do. Do do do do doo doo doo doo doooooooo. Yeah, genius. MGMT produce the absolute worst kind of overblown prog-influenced musical diarrhoea and they need to be stopped, right now. But instead of doing the sane thing, the world actually keeps pushing 'Time To Pretend', 'Kids' and the abomination that is 'Electric Feel' down our throats until we choke to death on them. Paul McCartney wants to work with the fuckers now (although he didn't vote so he's a worthless piece of shit) and, most worryingly of all, Rivers Cuomo seems to think they're a bit of all right since Weezer have taken to covering 'Kids' in their Blink 182 support slots. And it isn't as if they're actually doing anything different with the song, oh no. IT SOUNDS EXACTLY THE FUCKING SAME. Kill me, kill me now.

35. 'Wonky pop'/'math rock'
Meaningless buzz phrases generated by the achingly mundane indie zeitgeist, appropriated by sodding NME. Regrettably, it's now got to the point where 'wonky pop' is being listed as a genre on flyers for a certain Newcastle-based club night. I'm gonna walk in next week to the sound of Lady GaGa being pumped out of the sound system, walk over to the DJ and declare that 'this pop isn't wonky enough!' before turning his pissing turntable on its side and spinning the record around so fast that 'Poker Face' sounds like an Add N to X record. And then I'm going to go to a Foals gig and insist that they solve quadratic equations from my GCSE A/A* Maths textbook while playing 'Two Steps Twice.' Really. I'll do it.

36. Little sodding Boots and the proliferation of indie electronica
Everywhere you go, it seems 'indie' is being taken over by the spectre of electronica. Which would be okay if there wasn't so much utter and complete shit mincing around, pretending it's avant garde and 'daring' when really it's just a load of old cack. Crystal Castles, WE MEAN YOU. The Knife, you're in the firing line too. Simian Mobile Disco, The Klaxons, CSS, the list is practically endless. And then there's Little Boots who is just unavoidable. Her face is on every billboard poster from here to kingdom come, apparently having broken through to the 'mainstream.' Which, I'm sure, she won't be thrilled about and will start complaining that casual Radio 1 listeners 'just don't get' her truly deep, multi-layered music. Frankly, it's the right place for you, love. They'll rape your singles to death until the general public just can't stand to hear them any more and you'll be forced to go into hiding for the next ten years. Oh, we can only hope.

37. The Horrors. The Horrors. The Horrors.
Faris Rotter, fuck off now. You're a pretentious cunt. Look at you, with your absolutely ridiculous hair, your endless reams of mummy and daddy's cash spilling out of the holes in your bollock-constricting jeans and your tiresome eight-minute dirges. Everyone's blowing so much smoke up The Horrors' arses, it's a surprise we're still able to actually see them. 'The new album is a ground-breaking experiment in psychedelia and wonky...' I've read enough, kill them all.

38. "Chillax, man!"
Oh go screw yourself with your pathetic tautological compounds. You'll be offering me a "free gift" next, as an "added bonus." Or something.

39. The misuse of 'your' and 'you're'
This is becoming so commonplace, it won't be much of a surprise if the Oxford English Dictionary decides that they're interchangeable or just drops 'you're' altogether. How difficult is it, people? 'You're' is the correct abbreviation of 'you are' and should therefore be what you use in sentences like 'you're a knobhead'. If you write 'your a knobhead', you most certainly ARE a knobhead. 'Your' is correct for any other use, ANY OTHER. 'Your coat is over there', 'this is the last I want to see of your kind around here' etc. etc. It's the easiest thing in the world to grasp, get it fucking right. God.

40. Remixes in indie clubs
Look, as much as I tend to dislike all remixes of, well, just about anything, I accept their right to exist and the right for irritating balls of smug like 2ManyDJs and Simian Mobile Disco to shit on anything decent that might be produced by the nation's guitar-based alt groups. What really boils my piss, however, is the way in which indie clubs, those joyous purveyors of all things jangly and, well, INDIE, have taken to doing away with original tracks altogether and have started pumping out the HIGH NRG Underworld version of 'There She Goes'. Or the CSS dub mix of tracks from Bloc Party's latest, heavily electro-influenced, LP. What IS the fucking point? I go to an indie club to dance to indie music, not some half-arsed dance track. Most of these things are produced for the sole purpose of giving somewhere like Wax:On or Shindig a decent song, with actual lyrics, to play. And it's not like you can't have a good dance to something just because, shock, it doesn't contain any keyboard parts. You can dance to just about anything if you try, you've just got to be creative. Be honest with your genres, alternative clubs of the nation, else you all end up sounding exactly the bloody same. Oh wait, you already do. Ho hum.

41. The iPhone 'gets funky'
Another of NME's 'reasons to be cheerful', this: 'with Take That’s support act Gary Go planning to use his iPhone as a backing band at Wembley Stadium, now it looks like all secret rave mash-ups could be done on the Apple gadget.' Um, what? Hold on a minute. Back up there, Toto. Gary Go is going to use his iPhone instead of a band? So he's going to sing on stage and just have the gadget perched on a stool, say, behind him, playing the instrumental versions of his hits? Well, call me old fashioned, or a bit of a stick in the mud, but if I saw that, I'd demand my fucking money back. Depressingly, many others are resorting to this sort of 'trickery' and we're letting them get away with it. Middlesbrough-based band Skint and Demoralised, The Noisettes, The Ting Tings... all guilty of using backing tracks when on stage, of not bothering to bring along the musicians who originally played the parts, or even have someone else do them. Christ, The Noisettes even used a sample of the chorus to their hit single 'Go Baby Go' when they supported Maximo Park and the singer, who was there, prancing around the stage, didn't even bother singing it! Huh?! What's next? Bands fail to show up at all and live sets consist of an Apple Mac in the middle of the stage with Spotify switched on?

42. Gig venues closing in London
First it was Hammersmith Palais, and then it was the Astoria, a fantastically dingy old theatre with blistering noise levels and an ace atmosphere, God only knows where the plague of the London music venues will strike next. The Scala? Kentish Town, sorry, HMV Forum? Brixton bloody Academy? It seems like they're dropping at a rate of knots, especially with the death of countless clubs around the Tottenham Court Road area thanks to the Over/Underground redevelopments. Yes, we'll abolish a venue for the arts and replace it with... some escalators! It's obviously the most sensible and productive thing to do. Still, at least they aren't building an equivalent of The Gate over it. That fucking monstrosity still rankles with me today.

43. O2
You bastards. You absolute cunting bastards. After having invested in the nation's Academy venues once Carling pulled the plug, which is a suspicious enough move in itself, - it really makes me feel somewhat uneasy that a mobile phone company are the sponsors of a music venue. At least Carling had some purpose, given that people tend to drink at them and all - O2 have now decided to offer priority tickets to anyone on their network, which means that, two days before they go on sale to the general public, if you happen to have an O2 phone, you can bag yourself a Blur, Arctic Monkeys or Maximo Park ticket before the mad rush begins, usually at 9am on a Friday morning. The mad rush that results in most devoted fans being unable to actually get to see their idols. Now, I'm sorry, I refuse to switch network providers just because of this 'perk.' It's a fucking disgrace, as far as I'm concerned. The only justification I can see in releasing tickets prior to their official on sale date is for those who are fans of the band, as evidenced say, by their membership of a fan club or participation in street teams and so on. This is just an unnecessary privilege for a bunch of phone users and a transparent marketing campaign for the team of tosspots behind it all. Makes me bloody mad, it does.

44. Saw: The Ride
Really? Do you fall into a pit of syringes? Is a bomb strapped to your chest while you ride the roller coaster, and if you don't push your friend off, it explodes? No, I don't fucking think so. Shameless fucking cash in. And someone's got to die on the hellish drop of the bloody thing, surely.

45. Pride remains a stereotype parade
This year's North Eastern leg of LGBT Pride is called 'The Pink Picnic' and while I will be there for reasons best explained in another post on this blog, it looks about as inviting as a lorry load of dog faeces. Ophelia Balls will be there, as usual, camping it up along with a bevy of other beautiful, sorry, bitchy drag acts, rehashing the same comedy routines, there'll be a street party on the scene which will undoubtedly descend into an orgy in the back alleys behind the dustbins, and Scooch and Nicki French will be playing a song each on the 'main stage.' There's a MAIN stage? Where are the other ones? What else are they going to fill it with? More Eurovision has beens? KARAOKE? What? Oh wait, there actually IS karaoke. Well, it just wouldn't be a gay event without some tone deaf lesbians singing 'Kiss The Rain.' Can't we do better than this?

46. Desperate Housewives gets a sixth season... and a seventh... and an eighth... and a ninth
Marc Cherry, the show's creator, has recently gone on record stating that he'd gladly carry on until season nine and judging by the gargantuan ratings that the programme regularly acquires, there's no reason why it can't. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing if it had managed to retain some of the quality it exhibited in earlier seasons. But no, year five drew to a close with some of the worst storylines in Desperate Housewives history, regurgitating old plots, throwing characters together who have zero chemistry and throwing in the ballad of bloody Mike and Susan AGAIN. In the place the show is at right now, it looks like year six is going to be an absolute car wreck. Let's just hope the bloody public realises it and changes the channel.

47. Java updates
There's one every 3.4 seconds and when you go to install it, your computer tells you Java is already installed. So you uninstall, hoping that this will allow you to acquire that absolutely unmissable upgrade. And then, when you try to install the new Java, it won't let you. Repeat ad nauseum for the next twenty years of your life. It's enough to make grown men cry, it really is. That and its fucking Facebook photo upload application, which is too horrible to even think about.

48. The 'cassingle' revival
NME's at it again, telling us to be happy because 'the humble cassette is making a comeback -Sky Larkin have already given new single ‘Antibodies’ a limited edition cassette release and Dirty Projectors are set to do the same with new album ‘Bitte Orca’. Time to dust down that bulky old Walkman.' Oh great, so now I'm going to have go buy a walkman again after the last one I had, about ten years ago, died of old age and I didn't think I'd need to replace the thing since they're about as redundant as a Betamax. There's nothing wrong with moving forward, guys and gals, progression is a natural aspect of life. Don't be afraid of it. Stop being reactionary. Embrace your mp3s, wmas and oggs, whatever the hell they are. Stop with the revivals already.

49. Newcastle United are in the Championship
And for our final reason to be depressed... one that's probably front and centre of a great number of minds in the North East but it's here for a rather different reason. I couldn't give a toss what league the Magpies lace up their boots in to be quite honest; it's everyone else's reactions that bother me. We're going to have to endure a year of 'woe is me' self-pitying from Newcastle fans, which we've already seen in droves in the immediate aftermath of the 08/09 Premiership season, which is bad enough, but then we also have to contend with the self-satisfied smugness of many Sunderland fans who think it's cool and 'a bit of a laugh' to rub the Newcastle fans' faces in it, making snide remarks every five seconds and acting superior. It's enough to make you want to run away to Middlesbrough... at least they're so apathetic about everything that they barely even notice which league they're in.

Thursday 11 June 2009

Live review: Billy Talent (Newcastle 02 Academy 2, 10/06/09)

By all rights, this shouldn’t be happening. Never before in the history of the poor, forgotten North East has a band chosen Newcastle as the site of one of only two festival warm-up gigs. And never before has such a big name punk rock group picked the claustrophobic pressure cooker of Academy 2 as the venue… which perhaps explains the air of uncontrollable excitement emanating from this most jam-packed of audiences. The kids genuinely can’t believe their luck. Their favourite weird-haired Canadian riffmeisters, right here, right now, so close to their sweat-drenched brows that they’re practically getting jiggy with ‘em.

Billy Talent clearly relish this intimacy. “Welcome to our living room!”, declares lead singer Ben Kowalewicz, “It’s high five time!” As the hands of every punter in the first three rows connect with his, a metaphorical barrier is broken down between band and audience, giving everything an even more personal feel. Kowalewicz is quite literally all over the place, almost falling into the delirious throng during a rip-roaring ‘Devil in a Midnight Mass’, screaming his heart out with reckless abandon. There’s an extra level of oomph to the band’s sound too, and that’s no small feat when you consider how Earth-shatteringly immense Ian D’Sa’s guitar parts are on record. ‘The Ex’ and ‘Line and Sinker’ sound absolutely gigantic, while ‘This Is How It Goes’ is just about as brutal as they come, Ben’s squeals and Ian’s riff wizardry coming together in deliciously abrasive harmony.

It’s a mesmerising spectacle, and one that successfully paints over the slightly lacklustre nature of the new material. The four tracks from Billy Talent III – of which Anti-Flag duet ‘Turn Your Back’ is the highlight – seem to lack the band’s usual urgency. There are a couple of faux pas in the setlist too – ‘The Navy Song’ and ‘Perfect World’, weaker tracks from the last record, are retained at the loss of classics such as ‘Cut the Curtains’ and ‘Worker Bees’ – but we don’t realise this until we’re all stumbling out of the doors at the end, having almost been trampled to death in the unforgiving mosh pit to phenomenal set closers ‘Fallen Leaves’ and ‘Red Flag’, and by that point, it doesn’t seem to matter. The inexorable intensity of Billy Talent’s performance paints over any minor cracks and makes you want to do it all over again. “Maybe we’ll just stay here,” Kowalewicz suggests, “We’ll play every Wednesday night… for a free pitcher of beer and some chicken wings.” You’re on mate. Best deal ever. (8.5/10)

On Pride.

Pride. It's a funny old word. There are many definitions offered by the glorious dictionary.com, but the most useful for our purposes is 'pleasure or satisfaction taken in something done by or belonging to oneself or believed to reflect credit upon oneself.' Now, I've never had any problem understanding the concept of pride in achievement, since there's skill, dedication, hard work and all sorts of other challenging, and therefore praiseworthy, factors involved. Where I start to struggle, however, is with the use of the term in relation to elements of our lives over which we have little or no control. National pride, for example, has always been a bit of a mystery to me. Of course, before we go on, I should clarify my position: I can grasp the idea of people taking 'pleasure or satisfaction' in the area in which they live, especially if they have chosen it as their locale. What truly baffles me is 'pride in one's place of birth', something none of us have any say in whatsoever. I don't feel preference for the UK over anywhere else in the world just because I happened to pop out of my mother there; I had just as much chance of being born in Japan, and if I had, I'd feel no less apathetic about the fact.

Unfortunately, it's this concept that often forms the basis of the rhetoric of the world's nationalists, as they attempt to justify the rejection of multiculturalism. All too often, they wheel it out in support of their horrifically reactionary and dangerously right wing politicking. It's 'pride' that forms the backbone of the manifestos of groups like the English Democrats, UKIP, No2EU and, most troubling of all, the truly abhorrent British National Party, as they attempt to drum up the supposed importance of the sanctity of one's country and its populace, and disregard the rest of the world. Never mind that the British Isles have been part of Europe for hundreds of years, that we live on a continent; no, sever ties, close the borders, erect the fifty-foot thick steel walls around the country, we need to look after ourselves! Oh, and before we do that, chuck out those that 'aren't really British', the 'illegal' immigrants we're apparently awash with, we only want white, UK-born people walking the streets of our nation! We're proud to be born here, to be Caucasian Brits and if you can't say the same buster, you're out. Frankly, such attitudes scare the living daylights out of me. The fact that anyone would actually consider voting for any of these blinkered, bigoted idiots sends shivers down my spine. And then, when I see BNP vans with their British flags sticking out of every corner, stopped outside my local church and hear couples talking about 'how they'd sort the country out', saying they'll vote for them, my heart sinks even deeper into a cesspool of despair, and my resentment of 'national pride' reaches bursting point.

Of course, there are other areas of our lives that we have no control over that become subjects of 'pride'; most notably, ethnicity and sexuality (you can add physical ability, sex and age to that list too.) Unlike 'national pride', in contemporary Western society, these don't tend to become tied up with forms of discrimination; they aren't used by any of their proponents to justify the mistreatment of or prejudice towards others. This is because their key component is their requirement in the face of bigotry; they are born as a result of the determination of a white, male-dominated, heterosexist hegemony to make invisible those that don't fit its stringent pattern; the 'others', if you will. Now, I will concede that there have been, and there will continue to be, instances in which nationality, where one lives or is born, has been the target of the prejudicial, and therefore 'national pride' becomes at least understandable. However, in this country at least, we are far beyond this in the 21st century - even the formation of Welsh and Scottish parliamentary assemblies occurred more out of necessity than anything else, since the governmental system simply did not represent the interests of these nations. They were not created because the laws of the land discriminated against the Welsh, or there was an uprising in anti-Scottish violence from the English.

The problem is, such things have taken place, and still do, in the service of racism and homophobia. This is why we have a Black History Month; this is why we have gay pride... because society seeks to discriminate against those it doesn't normalise. It treats the LGBT community as second class citizens. Sure, we've had much progression in recent years, from the repeal of Section 28 to the introduction of specific anti-discrimination laws, but there's plenty road to travel yet. We still aren't afforded marital status. Civil partnerships are our alternative and yes, they're nice but they're still different - it sends the message that we can't be equal to our heterosexual brothers and sisters, regardless of who we love. It defines us as something other. We still have a culture in which people are considered straight until otherwise indicated, that requires a painful and bizarre process of 'coming out', to be repeated ad nauseum throughout one's life. We still synonymise the word 'gay' with 'bad', bandying it about in every day conversation, making comments like 'euw, that's so gay' when what we really mean is 'euw, that's so rubbish.' And we still foster an environment in which gay people fear to be themselves: homophobic bullying is common in the workplace as well as the classroom; 'queer bashing' remains a regrettably popular pastime for many and, aside from in more conventionally gay friendly cities like Manchester or London, when was the last time you saw two men walking down the street holding hands? Or kissing on a park bench? When was the last time you saw that and no one batted an eyelid?

These realities are what make gay pride so important. It's not so much about taking pleasure or satisfaction in something one cannot control as it is in telling the world that we exist, that we have rights and that they should be upheld. I will confess to being a little disillusioned with 'pride', to rolling my eyes when I first read the advertisement for the North Eastern leg of this year's celebrations. The stereotypical conception of the event is of a bunch of queens, drag artists and bears dressing up, making prats of themselves and parading their junk up and down Northumberland Street (yes, topless and trouser-less is a popular style choice.) And while this element will undoubtedly be present and correct, and the media will represent the event as consisting only of them like it always does, there will be hundreds of fairly sane average Joes and Janes in T-shirt and jeans too, silently celebrating the fact that, despite whatever discriminatory diction, legislation or anything else the world might throw their way, they can still stand up for their rights as plain old human beings. Sure, the line-up is so depressing it's untrue: tents full of cabaret and drag, rehashing the same bitchy comedy routines, a 'main stage' that consists of Eurovision entrants Scooch and Nicki French playing, um, one song each, but these are mere window dressing. It's the people that attend that make the day; their presence that says far more about what it is to be queer in the 21st century than any stereotype-reinforcing live act. (And in any case, what's stopping any of us from organising an alternative pride celebration on another night, eh? Something a little more low key and less gaudy? Think I might look into this...)

I do still have concerns, of course. I still believe that the program of events will end up reinforcing the heterosexist equation of queer with sex, that there will be as much bad as good done to our 'reputation'. This article was originally going to be about these fears but then, I turned on BBC News 24. Then I saw that the English Democrats have come to power in Doncaster, with its mayor being a member of the party. And I saw him, Mr. Peter Davies, pledging to cut funding to the town's gay pride event because he 'doesn't think councils should be spending money on [us] parading through town, advertising our sexuality.' He was quick to clarify his position, of course, assuring us all that he has 'nothing whatsoever against gays and lesbians, what they do in their private lives is absolutely fine. But I don't see why councils should be spending money on that sort of thing.' It's the same sort of 'I'm not homophobic, but...' rhetoric that fills the BNP's manifesto. They have no problem with us really; what goes behind closed doors is apparently our business. Take it outside, however, and things are a different story. As we 'can't produce children', the party doesn't believe we should be 'promoting' ourselves, especially to impressionable kids who, they reckon, might suddenly start fancying members of their own sex if they so much as get a whiff of a gay person. They'd like to ensure schools shut up about the issue, advocating the same policies as produced the horrendous backwards step that was Section 28, and that allowed tripe like this and this to be broadcast on American television.

They also want to dissolve all the civil partnerships that have already been ordained and 'restore' marriage as an institution between a man and a woman. On their website, in answer to a question about their suggested homophobia, they even state that they are advocates of 'don't ask, don't tell', the American archaism that makes sure the queens keep themselves to themselves and 'don't bother the rest of us.' It might seem like a justifiable position - hell, everyone's entitled to their opinion, you don't have to like us - but it's problematic and, above all, highly dangerous. This sort of language is the politics of invisibility: it creates a binary between the heterosexuals and the non, 'othering' those that don't fit the bill of straightdom, packing us away in a safe little box where the rest of the world doesn't have to look at us. It's shaming; it suggests that, because of our differences, we are somehow lesser, and is the kind of institutional bigotry that strengthens both internalised homophobia, and more worryingly, externalised too. It's straightforward social economics: 'other' something and people will fear it, turn on it, scapegoat it. If it's alien, certain sectors of humanity will vilify it. Schools have just begun to make some progress in the stamping out of homophobic bullying and rhetoric by being able to talk openly about it. Now the English Democrats, the BNP and more than likely the bloody Tories if they get into power, want to take it all back and reintroduce ignorance and fear? It's a truly, truly frightening prospect.

The argument that Doncaster's mayor will undoubtedly trudge out of the dirt in an attempt to justify his actions (which, by the way, include promising to cut the number of translators or non-English speaking folk in the town because he doesn't believe in multiculturalism) is the whole 'well, what about a 'straight pride' or a 'white history month'? malarkey. Already, Nick Griffin, in his new position as an MEP, has been bleating on about how terrible it is that there are groups that represent the interests of black police officers and not white ones. This sort of tit-for-tat reactionism is blind to the reasons behind the creation of these groups in the first place. The exist because we live in a society that perpetuates a cultural norm of one sexuality, one ethnicity; one persuasion, one colour. This monolithic set-up disenfranchises those that do not fit its very rigid bill (and there are many) and so, those people set up interest groups to represent them. History and literature events are introduced so that everyone can share in cultures that they would otherwise never be exposed to. Children learn 'straight', 'white' ideologies/values/histories in the classroom, in their homes, in every facet of their every day lives. Why shouldn't they have the opportunity to be exposed to other, equally as valid, concepts as well? There is little need for a 'White History Month' or a 'Straight Pride' because society already provides it in its teachings and its legislation. But hell, if you really want to have such things guys, we won't stop you, as long as you let us have our share too.

So, what can be done about this sorry state of affairs? Well, it's truly an abomination that the BNP has managed to acquire two seats in the European Parliament and we're all very angry about it, and at those who either didn't vote or voted for the party simply to 'stir things up' - imbiciles - but does it really pay to kick Nick Griffin's van or hurl eggs at him? Democracy requires that we let him have his say... and then shoot him down vociferously with counter argument. These kind of knee-jerk, petty acts make his opposition seem childish and only add more fuel to his 'woe is me' fire. Griffin has built a campaign out of his supposed vilification by the mainstream parties and the British media, drumming up sympathy because he's apparently been 'misrepresented.' 'A campaign of lies', he calls it, the politics of besmirchment. 'Don't believe the press!', he bleats, 'They just want to shut us up because we speak to truth, we represent the common man!' And look, a bunch of people prevent him from being able to get into Manchester Town Hall. Another load of idiots chuck eggs at him during an interview, cutting it short. I appreciate that we're all incensed but freedom of speech is a two way street, guys. He needs to be able to start talking about his policies because then they'll be exposed for the glorified claptrap that they are. Then we can set about rigorously revealing just how frighteningly fascistic the BNP really is.

As for 'pride', well, Doncaster's gay scene has vowed to go on, irrespective of the mayor's withdrawal of funding and, frankly, good on them. While it's tempting to look on this rather prototypical celebration of gay culture as little more than tokenistic and a little counter productive, to have it taken away from us would be the most harmful result of all. Sure, Newcastle's 'Pink Picnic' might be as appealing as the latest Brokencyde album but in these troubled times, we need to give it all the support we can. We need to stand up and tell the English Democrats, BNP, the Tories and UKIP even, that we will not be forced to hide who we are, that we will not accept legislation that makes us invisible and tells us to be ashamed,, that we will never accept the abhorrence of 'don't ask, don't tell.' It's not about feeling 'pleasure or satisfaction' because it happens that our genes decided we'd be homos, black, Asian, disabled, whatever. It's about holding firm in the belief that we are all equal, that we deserve the same rights and treatment as all of our neighbours, that, at the end of the day, all we are is human, with differences that make us kinda wonderful. That, my friends, is all the justification that pride really needs.

Wednesday 10 June 2009

Beat the recession! Watch Susan Boyle!

This overblown rant was written on Sunday May 31st, which explains the references to 'this morning' and 'yesterday' that would otherwise seem a little ridiculous.

Supplementing Gordon Brown's hasty appearance on breakfast television this morning, in which he assured us all that something 'will be done' about the expenses scandal ('drastic reform! DRASTIC REFORM!'), was the 'news' that Diversity, that ragtag collective of robotic dancers and superhero wannabes, have come out victorious in the 2009 final of the UK's most record-breakingly irritating 'star-maker' show Britain's Got Shitting Talent. Putting aside the fact that this is not actual news for the moment - in fact, it's about as newsworthy as my mother's latest ingrowing toenail - the most objectionable element of the whole report was undoubtedly the commentary that appended it, in which a clearly bewildered BBC reporter was forced to listen the abhorrently insipid ramblings of a pair of self-professed media dahlings, desperately trying to justify the show's existence; to validate it as being somehow 'culturally significant'.

On and on they went, repeatedly emphasising how 'fun' it all is and, most depressingly of all, how we 'need the show in these dark times.' Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Britain's Got Talent is saving the UK from the recession by making everyone forget about their redundancies, unemployment and inability to pay the bills for an hour, and letting us concentrate on a bunch of horrendously manipulated, shockingly manufactured individuals instead. And before you start, yes, they are manufactured. Don't deny it. However genuine Susan Boyle's vocal talents may be, they've made the bloody woman over for God's sake! And that sob story vignette aired before her first performance? A master class of viewer manipulation, designed to paint her as the underdog and get every whimperingly empathetic viewer rallying behind her.

Mind, at least this narrative (uh huh, that's what it is, don't kid yourselves) played on our positive emotions. For about three quarters of the programme's duration, we're encouraged to point and laugh at many of those who put themselves forward for an audition. The production crew know exactly what's walking out onto that stage; nine times out of ten they know just how horrible some of the 'talent' on display actually is. And yet, these poor unfortunate souls are allowed to make complete tits of themselves on national television... and we're encouraged to ridicule them! We're supposed to think it's a jolly old hoot seeing four washed up has-beens with as much cultural worth as my left armpit, tearing members of the general public apart on live television, belittling them so much that it often drives them to tears. I'm sorry, but just where, exactly, is the pleasure in all of this? Huh? What is so fucking fun about it?

If this is the 'solution' to these 'dark times', then frankly, I'll take the credit crunch any day. I'd rather worry about how I'm going to get a job than either be vindictive about my fellow man or cheer on a bunch of cleverly orchestrated stories with a few talented, but manipulated, members of the public at their core. According to one of the 'experts' on the BBC's report, a Mr. Iain Aitch, this makes me something of an alien. Aitch, you see, is an 'expert on being British' - it even says so under his name at the bottom of the screen.. you know, the place where they usually put job titles, where you'd see 'Prime Minister' under Gordon Brown or 'trumped up little squirt', sorry, 'TV presenter/columnist' under Jeremy Clarkson. He seems to think that the show reflects us as a society, that all of us properly 'British' people take great delight and joy in watching every sorry, torrid minute of it. Well, I'm sorry, but what makes this guy so qualified to talk about the feelings of an entire nation? Exactly how is he an 'expert' on Britishness? Did he attend Britishness School? Does he have a PhD in it? And what exactly does his job entail? Sitting at home, dreaming up worthless comparatives about how everything reflects 'us' as a society? Wandering the streets of Great Britain, asking people how 'British' they feel? How much is this man being paid for this hopelessly pointless role? Where did the BBC pluck him from? And why should we listen to a single word that comes out of his foetid, shit-spewing little mouth?

See, all of this just depresses me. Instead of taking my mind off the catastrophic financial climate, Britain's Got Talent (and the BBC) is just sending me further and further into a pit of agonising despair, in which there appears to be absolutely no hope whatsoever for this vindictive, vacuous nation. And then I remind myself that no, it isn't all doom and gloom. There is at least some light at the end of the tunnel: Britain does have talent, it just isn't to be found on some sorry excuse for a programme. Instead of sitting at home on a Saturday night and ogling the buffoons, creaming yourselves about just how vicious that redundant fuckwit Simon Cowell is going to be on this week's episode, how about popping down to your local, or the town centre, where a bunch of real people, real talented people, are working their arses off, expressing their artistry? The local bands doing the rounds of the various pubs, the artists displaying their work in the tiniest of galleries, the poets giving readings to one man and his dog. These are the people you should be supporting, not just the latest underdog story on prime time ITV. It's not such a shock that Britain's got talent; it's everywhere. It's in your town, it's on your streets, it's in your kids and, most probably, it's in yourselves. And surely you don't need some pretentious arseholes on the Beeb, or Piers fucking Morgan, to tell you that.

Tuesday 9 June 2009

Album review: Dance Gavin Dance: 'Happiness'

DANCE GAVIN DANCE: 'Happiness' (Rise)

Nowadays, it seems that every two-bit scenester with a FSAS T-shirt and a few star tattoos wants to be in a post-hardcore band. Look around, everybody's doing it: from Saosin to Silverstein, A Day to Remember to Atreyu, the landscape's littered with coiffured noisenik groups, usually with about seventy-five vocalists, half of whom get paid to growl incoherently into their microphones while the others try to claw together some sort of melody over the two-chord trudge of the music.

Fortunately, despite being tagged with the ‘post-hardcore’ label, there's a lot more to Dance Gavin Dance than meets the eye. Far from exhibiting the usual limitations of the genre, 'Happiness' is as colourful a palette of audible delights as you could possibly hope for, veering schizophrenically around a series of equally delectable sounds. The band experiment with a range of unusual song structures and it works wonders: 'Carl Barker' changes pace with all the gusto of a System of a Down album, making it thrillingly unpredictable, while 'Don't Tell Dave' manages to channel the spirits of both Head Automatica and Refused simultaneously, producing an irresistibly funky hybridisation of hardcore and dance. And then there’s the sultry swing of ‘Strawberry Swisher Part 1’, which is so damn sexy it’s practically criminal.

When they stop being mischievous and get down to brass tacks, proudly displaying their rougher edges, things are equally as sophisticated. The archaic ear-batterings offered by ‘Self-Trepanation’ and ‘NASA’ are fuelled by the kind of extravagant riffery that’s usually the preserve of the world’s most experienced metal acts. The vocals are so much more than your average round of ‘scream vs. sing’ too: Jonathan’s growls are used only sparingly and are never allowed to overshadow Kurt’s melodies, so instead of seeming like a fight to be heard, they work in tandem, complementing one another.

Dance Gavin Dance’s saving grace is the depth of their talent. In a scene that’s awash with bandwagon jumpers who think the ability to tear apart their vocal chords, and their guitar strings, is all they need to ‘make it big’, it’s refreshing to see a group who are passionate enough about what they do to be willing to rip up the rulebook and start again. ‘Happiness’ is a playfully experimental piece of work that is as memorable as it is thrilling, and that, my friends, is something we could do with a whole lot more of. (8/10)

Friday 5 June 2009

Album review: Rancid: 'Let The Dominoes Fall'

RANCID: 'Let The Dominoes Fall' (Hellcat)

‘Let the Dominoes Fall’ has been a long time coming. Rancid have been on an extended hiatus since 2003’s lacklustre ‘Indestructible’, but now, after six years, the East Bay foursome have returned with an LP that acts as a melting pot of their previous recordings. There are very few roads less travelled here; the nineteen tracks fall into one of two camps: the reggae orientated sounds of the last album and the territorial punk moments of their early material.

This technique produces mixed results. Armstrong channels the laid back spirit of his 2007 solo effort, ‘A Poet’s Life’, on the record’s more political tracks: Specials-style keyboards abound on ‘Liberty and Freedom’ and ‘That’s Just The Way It Is Now’, while ‘Civilian Ways’, a soldier’s lament, features a banjo as its central instrument. These distract somewhat from the message and make the pace painfully slow, threatening to send the listener to sleep rather than to the streets in protest.

When the band crank up the guitars, they tend to drop their polemical streak, favouring self-reflective storytelling instead. This has been the feather in their cap in years past, and when it works, it works damn well. Armstrong and Fredericksen are masters at painting a picture with words: ‘New Orleans’ is a perfect depiction of the city, and a cracking tune to boot. The best moment, however, is the acoustic ‘The Highway’, in which Tim discusses the experiences of the past eighteen years with a world-weary lyric designed to tug the heartstrings of even the most die-hard punk idealist.

Unfortunately, the other attempts at self-examination are rather less successful. Leadoff single ‘Last One To Die’ is a horrible mess of clichés, with a chorus so desperate to justify the band’s existence that it ends up doing the opposite. The title track, meanwhile, attempts to portray defeatism with the rather useless refrain ‘No no no no no no no/Na na na, I ain’t got control.’ And then there are songs like ‘LA River’, which indulge in embarrassingly meaningless frivolity, with lyrics like ‘Boom shackalackalackalackalackaalacka boom/ Shimmy shimmy shake shimmy shake shimmy shimmy shimmy’.

In trying to recapture prior glories, ‘Let The Dominoes Fall’ fails to create many of its own. When Rancid get it right, boy, do they get it right, but when they get it wrong, it leaves them seeming tired, desperate and irrelevant. Buy ‘…And Out Come The Wolves’ instead. (5/10)