And so to Day 2 at T, where an abundance of suitably banal pop outfits litter the bill, the Main Stage line-up looking more akin to the soulless Party in the Park than Scotland’s Glastonbury. N-Dubz, Ke$ha, Beyonce, The fucking Script… they’re all here to satiate the masses before Chris Martin’s gigantic, two hour egofest, the event organizers perhaps hoping that a dose of populist chart razzmatazz might fare better with the Mondeo drivers and familial types that typically make up 97% of Coldplay’s audience.
They’re probably right, to be fair, but we don’t care enough to find out, preferring instead to sample some of the less well advertised delights on offer, stopping only to catch Slash play the opening 30 seconds of Sweet Child ‘o’ Mine, dampened somewhat by the onset of a torrential downpour, and the Manic Street Preachers go through the motions in a fairly unremarkable 40 minutes, Nicky Wire less animated than usual, reserved behind unnecessary sunglasses and James Dean Bradfield struggling with a rather hoarse voice. The set’s passable, sure, and all the relevant hits are present, but given that this is the group who were banned from this festival twelve years ago for going batshit crazy during an invigoratingly aggressive headline show, smashing everything to pieces and calling Billy Bragg and Kelly Jones every name under the sun, it feels a little disappointing.
Still, there’s plenty of merit if you look hard enough; case in point, Glasgow’s bloody excellent indie folksters Three Blind Wolves, who draw an impressive crowd to their lunchtime BBC Introducing set, wooing everyone with their luscious vocals and huge choruses. Over in the cavernous King Tut’s Wah Wah Tent - later the site of Ocean Colour Scene’s largest crowd since Britpop collapsed on its arse, all thanks to the rain - Everything Everything finally make their wonderfully intricate, blissfully unique sound translate within an environment larger than the back room of your local, Photoshop Handsome and MY KZ YR BF becoming the indie pop anthems they were always destined to be. And then there’s local heroes Woodenbox whose gritty folk punk stylings are reminiscent of early Against Me!, and the bustling T-Break audience love it.
For ultra victorious, potentially career-changing moments, however, look no further than The Xcerts’ BBC Introducing slot, which sees a visibly stunned Murray, Jordan and Tom drawing quite probably the stage’s largest, most vocal and downright bonkers crowd of the entire weekend. In twenty-five all too short minutes, the Aberdeenians unleash a thrillingly loud, cataclysmically erratic ball of unrelenting, white-hot energy on a dazed, confused and downright delirious crowd, Murray’s primal, gutteral vocals making filthy, aggressive, DANGEROUS love to Jordan and Tom’s distorted guitars and crashing drums. Crowdsurfers fly this way and that, Murray gets in amongst it, Crisis In The Slow Lane elicits a heartfelt singalong… and then the plug’s pulled, the misers backstage complaining that the band have overran, cutting an astonishing set in its prime and eliciting a chorus of embittered boos from a disgruntled, yet probably spent, audience. It’s terrible judgment, although there’s still no doubt in anyone’s minds that they’ve just borne witness to the performance of the weekend.
Thankfully, no such fate befalls New Yorkers The Head and the Heart during their T in the Park debut. They are permitted to deliver their deliciously textured alt-folk-country-indie-whatever amalgam in its entirety and it sounds epic, even within the limited confines of the T-Break Stage. Closer Rivers and Roads is particularly magical and elicits a rapturous response from a crowd notably unfamiliar with their material. Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, find themselves faced with several thousand devotees during their hour long NME Stage showcase, boisterous singalongs accompanying the hit-heavy set as it careers along at breakneck speed, powering through Bleed American and A Praise Chorus, pummeling seven shades of shit out of Pain, Futures and Big Casino and prompting body-slamming and human pyramids during the gigantic closing salvo of The Middle and Sweetness. Expertly crafted and perfectly pitched, this is the work of a band at the very top of their game, absolute masters of their craft. And 23 sounds bloody heartbreaking in the early evening sun.
Heartbreaking is very much the name of the game over on the Red Bull Stage, meanwhile, as Villagers set about making the hundred or so ardent fans and drunken stragglers cry into each other’s drinks with a set heavy on the crushing introspection of Becoming a Jackal. Sadly, they’re pitted against The Strokes and Beyonce and as a result, don’t attract anywhere near the numbers that they deserve but the few who are in attendance are well aware that their choice is undoubtedly the right one, even if the ridiculous decision to pitch the tent next to the Dance Stage results in a thumping beat constantly intruding on the delicacy of the band’s sound. Fortunately, an amping up of the instrumentation by the rest of the band sees them through, and by the end, those present are buzzing with excitement, reminded of exactly why Villagers were the band on everyone’s lips around this time last year.
And so, finally, it’s down to Bright Eyes to round off the day for us, the execrable Swedish House Mafia, dull-as-dishwater Coldplay and frankly past it Primal Scream paling in comparison. From the moment Conor Oberst strolls nonchalantly onto the stage, dressed in wellies and rain-mack, swigging from a bottle of wine and sporting delightfully painted nails (“they’re the same colour as Beyonce’s!”, he notes), it’s apparent that we’re in for something of a treat. Oberst is in fine spirits, lively and talkative, witty and invective. He throws shapes, gets down in the front row, ‘enacts’ his lyrics and fires barbs at his rivals, adding an out-of-tune, sarcastic snippet of Sex on Fire to a sprawling, electrifying Road to Joy because Beyonce did it earlier and dedicating a tremendous Lover I Don’t Have to Love to “the time Chris Martin tried to suck my dick”, all the while remarking that he’s scoring “double points” for this evening’s performance… and he’s not wrong. As headline shows go, this is an absolute blinder, sounding massive and intimate in equal measure and far surpassing anything any of the other stage closers could even dream of. And yes, that definitely does include Coldplay covering Travis. Obviously.
Showing posts with label Manic Street Preachers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Manic Street Preachers. Show all posts
Friday, 29 July 2011
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Album review: Manic Street Preachers: 'Journal for Plague Lovers'
MANIC STREET PREACHERS: 'Journal for Plague Lovers' (Columbia)
When news first broke that the 2008 incarnation of Manic Street Preachers were about to put former band member and cultural icon Richey Edwards’s unused lyrics to music, and release said project as their ninth studio album, an entire nation took a sudden gasp of air. For a split second, there was a palpable apprehension in the glorious world of indie-rock; Edwards’s place in the pantheon of British rock history is assured and the reverence bestowed upon his lyrical works is almost unprecedented. The last thing any of us needed was to have this iconoclastic pedestal demolished from within by a band whose past four or five years have been patchy at best. Sure, ‘Send Away the Tigers’ was a solid effort, but it was a retread, a largely successful attempt to recapture the success of 1996’s ‘Everything Must Go’, the one sublime (mostly) non-Richey album. When they’ve attempted to channel their ‘former glories’ this decade, as in 2001’s ‘Know Your Enemy’, the results have been somewhat lacking. A similar effort in 2009 would’ve been catastrophic for everyone. And then, of course, there was the risk that Edwards’s final words simply wouldn’t be good enough, that they’d tarnish his legacy through their ‘rambling’ nature, something that Sean Moore had hinted at in interviews in the aftermath of his disappearance. The stakes were high, the pressure most definitely on… could this most maligned of trios really succeed?
We needn’t have worried. The Manics have clearly approached ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’ with the clarity needed to do its litany of masterful and beguiling lyrics every justice in the world. This is as faithful a record as we could possibly have hoped for, perfectly capturing the essence of Richey’s words while managing to avoid stylistic repetition or, worse, musical nostalgia. A great number of critics expected this project to be ‘The Holy Bible, part 2’ and while there are similarities, this is less of a sequel and more of a sister record, reflecting some of the thematic concerns of its predecessor but taking them in new directions, finding some solutions to the problems and quandaries posed within its palate. This is the sound of a more resigned Edwards, a man who has drawn his own conclusions about his issues, made decisions about how best to deal with them and while they may not always be the most positive or pleasing, they are nevertheless his. Ultimately, however, it proves somewhat fruitless to fixate on the lyrics – as fantastically evocative as they are (‘Riderless horses on Chomsky’s Camelot’, ‘transgenic milk containing human protein’, ‘this beauty here dripping neophobia’ – where else do you get such vivid imagery? Certainly not in Pigeon Detectives albums, that’s for sure) – because their author isn’t around to clarify them. We can only speculate, and at times be completely baffled (just what is ‘Jackie Collins’ Existential Question Time’ actually about, huh?!), which is why the music arguably takes such a central role. And boy, what music.
‘The Holy Bible’ may be one of the most accomplished records of the last two decades, but it certainly cannot boast the diversity of sound on display here. Its monolithic, unrelenting brusqueness, the abrasion of its taut, clipped guitars and militaristic, gothic production gives it the cohesion it needs to work as an essay on all the most horrific of man’s creations and proclivities. It perfectly reflects the prose, the motifs. ‘Journal’ does the same; its range of sounds and styles capture the scattershot nature of the lyrics, allowing the listener to experience the range of emotions they depict, from the bittersweet resignation of ‘William’s Last Words’, with its quiet collision of unusual orchestral parts and uncomfortable vocals from a Mark E Smith-esque Nicky Wire, to the wonderfully celebratory ‘Marlon J.D.’, with a dance backbeat that’s so rhythmic, it would be a crime if it never cropped up in the nation’s indie clubs. It’s a fantastic move, putting Richey’s hero-worshipping prose to such catchy noise, peppered with quotes from its namesake.
‘Jackie Collins’ is similarly jaunty, a delightfully oblique lyric asking questions about what constitutes fidelity, worked around the most addictive guitar riff of the decade. The moment when the guitars crank up a notch mid-song and James screams about ‘situationist sisterhoods’ (whatever they are) is so exciting, you practically shit your pants with glee. ‘All Is Vanity’s irresistible punchline – ‘it’s the facts of life, sunshine!’ – is probably the only thing that comes close to matching it for sheer, reckless enjoyment. That isn’t to say that the other tracks are at all lacking, mind. ‘Facing Page: Top Left’ is the Manics’ best acoustic moment in years, James managing to weave something sonically beautiful around an incredibly ungainly lyric. ‘She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach’, despite a rather clunky title, is a wonderfully punchy number; ‘Pretension/Repulsion’s blizzard of guitar riffs are practically orgasmic (and as is the Ingres-referencing chorus); ‘Me and Stephen Hawking’ jerks, jitters and jolts so much it feels like you’re being given a series of electric shocks while on LSD: yes, you will most certainly do a double take when you hear that opening couplet (‘Herman the bull and Tracey the sheep?’ What?); and ‘Peeled Apples’, the opening track, is just fucking sinister, sneering out of the starting block like the sow-faced behemoth that it is. That bass line, man… just, wow.
It seems almost clichéd to suggest it, and doubtless there will be those who claim that it’s just a load of smoke being blown further up the arse of a man who has practically achieved God-like status in the fourteen years since his disappearance, but fuck me, ‘Journal for Plague lovers’ is fantastic. Somehow, some way, James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore have done their lost friend all the justice they could, and then some. The music matches the lyrics so wonderfully, evoking exactly what the oft-beguiling words seem to suggest, that it appears almost effortless, as if they were intrinsically aware of what was needed without having to consciously think about it, like the interpretation just tumbled out of them, ready made and bloody marvellous. ‘Journal’ works both as a testament to a hugely talented man and as a thrill-packed rock record, full of beautiful melodies, gorgeous guitar wizardry and air-punching intensity. At times, it feels prudent to cast aside all thoughts of Richey altogether; as Christian Bale says in the first ten seconds of the album, ‘we know so little about [him]’, after all. But it doesn’t matter; Manic Street Preachers have made a record that surpasses these concerns, cutting past the distractions in trying to seem authentic and simply allowing the words to stand on their own.
For ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’, MSP are musicians first and foremost and it’s given them a clarity that has perhaps been lacking in their other releases this decade. We really couldn’t have asked for anything more; for now, once again, Wire, Bradfield, Moore and Edwards are the most important fucking band in the world. (9.5/10)
When news first broke that the 2008 incarnation of Manic Street Preachers were about to put former band member and cultural icon Richey Edwards’s unused lyrics to music, and release said project as their ninth studio album, an entire nation took a sudden gasp of air. For a split second, there was a palpable apprehension in the glorious world of indie-rock; Edwards’s place in the pantheon of British rock history is assured and the reverence bestowed upon his lyrical works is almost unprecedented. The last thing any of us needed was to have this iconoclastic pedestal demolished from within by a band whose past four or five years have been patchy at best. Sure, ‘Send Away the Tigers’ was a solid effort, but it was a retread, a largely successful attempt to recapture the success of 1996’s ‘Everything Must Go’, the one sublime (mostly) non-Richey album. When they’ve attempted to channel their ‘former glories’ this decade, as in 2001’s ‘Know Your Enemy’, the results have been somewhat lacking. A similar effort in 2009 would’ve been catastrophic for everyone. And then, of course, there was the risk that Edwards’s final words simply wouldn’t be good enough, that they’d tarnish his legacy through their ‘rambling’ nature, something that Sean Moore had hinted at in interviews in the aftermath of his disappearance. The stakes were high, the pressure most definitely on… could this most maligned of trios really succeed?
We needn’t have worried. The Manics have clearly approached ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’ with the clarity needed to do its litany of masterful and beguiling lyrics every justice in the world. This is as faithful a record as we could possibly have hoped for, perfectly capturing the essence of Richey’s words while managing to avoid stylistic repetition or, worse, musical nostalgia. A great number of critics expected this project to be ‘The Holy Bible, part 2’ and while there are similarities, this is less of a sequel and more of a sister record, reflecting some of the thematic concerns of its predecessor but taking them in new directions, finding some solutions to the problems and quandaries posed within its palate. This is the sound of a more resigned Edwards, a man who has drawn his own conclusions about his issues, made decisions about how best to deal with them and while they may not always be the most positive or pleasing, they are nevertheless his. Ultimately, however, it proves somewhat fruitless to fixate on the lyrics – as fantastically evocative as they are (‘Riderless horses on Chomsky’s Camelot’, ‘transgenic milk containing human protein’, ‘this beauty here dripping neophobia’ – where else do you get such vivid imagery? Certainly not in Pigeon Detectives albums, that’s for sure) – because their author isn’t around to clarify them. We can only speculate, and at times be completely baffled (just what is ‘Jackie Collins’ Existential Question Time’ actually about, huh?!), which is why the music arguably takes such a central role. And boy, what music.
‘The Holy Bible’ may be one of the most accomplished records of the last two decades, but it certainly cannot boast the diversity of sound on display here. Its monolithic, unrelenting brusqueness, the abrasion of its taut, clipped guitars and militaristic, gothic production gives it the cohesion it needs to work as an essay on all the most horrific of man’s creations and proclivities. It perfectly reflects the prose, the motifs. ‘Journal’ does the same; its range of sounds and styles capture the scattershot nature of the lyrics, allowing the listener to experience the range of emotions they depict, from the bittersweet resignation of ‘William’s Last Words’, with its quiet collision of unusual orchestral parts and uncomfortable vocals from a Mark E Smith-esque Nicky Wire, to the wonderfully celebratory ‘Marlon J.D.’, with a dance backbeat that’s so rhythmic, it would be a crime if it never cropped up in the nation’s indie clubs. It’s a fantastic move, putting Richey’s hero-worshipping prose to such catchy noise, peppered with quotes from its namesake.
‘Jackie Collins’ is similarly jaunty, a delightfully oblique lyric asking questions about what constitutes fidelity, worked around the most addictive guitar riff of the decade. The moment when the guitars crank up a notch mid-song and James screams about ‘situationist sisterhoods’ (whatever they are) is so exciting, you practically shit your pants with glee. ‘All Is Vanity’s irresistible punchline – ‘it’s the facts of life, sunshine!’ – is probably the only thing that comes close to matching it for sheer, reckless enjoyment. That isn’t to say that the other tracks are at all lacking, mind. ‘Facing Page: Top Left’ is the Manics’ best acoustic moment in years, James managing to weave something sonically beautiful around an incredibly ungainly lyric. ‘She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach’, despite a rather clunky title, is a wonderfully punchy number; ‘Pretension/Repulsion’s blizzard of guitar riffs are practically orgasmic (and as is the Ingres-referencing chorus); ‘Me and Stephen Hawking’ jerks, jitters and jolts so much it feels like you’re being given a series of electric shocks while on LSD: yes, you will most certainly do a double take when you hear that opening couplet (‘Herman the bull and Tracey the sheep?’ What?); and ‘Peeled Apples’, the opening track, is just fucking sinister, sneering out of the starting block like the sow-faced behemoth that it is. That bass line, man… just, wow.
It seems almost clichéd to suggest it, and doubtless there will be those who claim that it’s just a load of smoke being blown further up the arse of a man who has practically achieved God-like status in the fourteen years since his disappearance, but fuck me, ‘Journal for Plague lovers’ is fantastic. Somehow, some way, James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore have done their lost friend all the justice they could, and then some. The music matches the lyrics so wonderfully, evoking exactly what the oft-beguiling words seem to suggest, that it appears almost effortless, as if they were intrinsically aware of what was needed without having to consciously think about it, like the interpretation just tumbled out of them, ready made and bloody marvellous. ‘Journal’ works both as a testament to a hugely talented man and as a thrill-packed rock record, full of beautiful melodies, gorgeous guitar wizardry and air-punching intensity. At times, it feels prudent to cast aside all thoughts of Richey altogether; as Christian Bale says in the first ten seconds of the album, ‘we know so little about [him]’, after all. But it doesn’t matter; Manic Street Preachers have made a record that surpasses these concerns, cutting past the distractions in trying to seem authentic and simply allowing the words to stand on their own.
For ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’, MSP are musicians first and foremost and it’s given them a clarity that has perhaps been lacking in their other releases this decade. We really couldn’t have asked for anything more; for now, once again, Wire, Bradfield, Moore and Edwards are the most important fucking band in the world. (9.5/10)
Monday, 4 May 2009
It's #musicmonday! Wah-hey!
Inspired by the 'trending topic' of the same name on Twitter, here's a new feature designed to tickle your earlobes. I post links to ten songs wot I fink r gud. You listen. And probably want to hit me repeatedly over the head with a hammer for exposing you to such garbage. Oh well.
1. ANTI-FLAG: "Sodom, Gomorrah, Washington D.C. (Sheep in Shepherd's Clothing)"
Nice and angry new single from the perpetually politicised ones. This gives me a chance to show off my lovely new blip.fm account too. God, there's just too many websites to give my precious time to these days.
2. CONOR OBERST AND THE MYSTIC VALLEY BAND: "Nicorette"
A lovely live performance of a lovely song from Oberst's lovely new album 'Outer Sight', released this lovely week. Altogether now, 'I'm just trying to be a human being/Sitting in the sun eating ice cream'.
3. BILLY TALENT: "Devil on My Shoulder"
Bootlegged from a live show in Sydney, a sample of the sort of delights we are in for from Billy Talent III. Not the single, it should be noted, which is called 'Rusted From The Rain' and is out on May 25th.
4. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: "All Is Vanity"
Managed to get my hands on a copy of Journal for Plague Lovers and, pleasingly, it's a bit of a beaut. This is one of my favourites from it, set to an excellent montage of scenes from the movie Equilibrium. I really can't wait for the end of May...
5. THE KING BLUES: "I Got Love"
It's a little cheesy, I'll grant you, and it's far from the best song on recent album Save the World, Get the Girl, but I love it all the same. And it's all over Radio 1, which can only be a good thing.
6. MAXIMO PARK: "The Kids Are Sick Again"
Sounds delightfully sinister this one. Lucas's weird keyboard parts make it for me, and it certainly helps that he's as mad as ever in the video. Not quite as immediate as 'Our Velocity', but it packs a good punch nonethless.
7. FAKE PROBLEMS: "The Dream Team"
From 'It's Great To Be Alive', one of the few albums released this year that I've been struck by, 'The Dream Team' is a top class pop song and a fine, fine representation of the band. Playing the Lock Up stage at Reading and Leeds and supporting Frank Turner on his October tour, these guys are not to be missed.
8. NEW END ORIGINAL: "14-41"
Been listening to the one and only album from Jonah Matranga's best band (controversial that; I know I should be bleating on about how nothing'll ever surpass Far but meh, that's just not me) since his solo show at Trillian's a few weeks back and I can't get enough of this song. The amateur nature of the video footage that this is underscoring quite suits both the feel of the track and Matranga's very inclusivist attitude to his music.
9. EELS: "Elizabeth on the Bathroom Floor"
The opening track from one of my favourite albums of all time, 1998's 'Electro-Shock Blues', 'Elizabeth on the Bathroom Floor' is probably the most haunting piece of music you will ever hear. The animated video that accompanies it was created by the Youtube user responsible for the upload and it's superb.
10. FRANK TURNER: "Try This At Home"
An excellent live performance of the utterly ace 'Try This At Home' at this year's SXSW. The track will feature on Frank's third album 'Poetry of the Deed', which is out in September. Further proof, as if any were needed, that he can do no wrong.
And that's that. More next Monday!
1. ANTI-FLAG: "Sodom, Gomorrah, Washington D.C. (Sheep in Shepherd's Clothing)"
Nice and angry new single from the perpetually politicised ones. This gives me a chance to show off my lovely new blip.fm account too. God, there's just too many websites to give my precious time to these days.
2. CONOR OBERST AND THE MYSTIC VALLEY BAND: "Nicorette"
A lovely live performance of a lovely song from Oberst's lovely new album 'Outer Sight', released this lovely week. Altogether now, 'I'm just trying to be a human being/Sitting in the sun eating ice cream'.
3. BILLY TALENT: "Devil on My Shoulder"
Bootlegged from a live show in Sydney, a sample of the sort of delights we are in for from Billy Talent III. Not the single, it should be noted, which is called 'Rusted From The Rain' and is out on May 25th.
4. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: "All Is Vanity"
Managed to get my hands on a copy of Journal for Plague Lovers and, pleasingly, it's a bit of a beaut. This is one of my favourites from it, set to an excellent montage of scenes from the movie Equilibrium. I really can't wait for the end of May...
5. THE KING BLUES: "I Got Love"
It's a little cheesy, I'll grant you, and it's far from the best song on recent album Save the World, Get the Girl, but I love it all the same. And it's all over Radio 1, which can only be a good thing.
6. MAXIMO PARK: "The Kids Are Sick Again"
Sounds delightfully sinister this one. Lucas's weird keyboard parts make it for me, and it certainly helps that he's as mad as ever in the video. Not quite as immediate as 'Our Velocity', but it packs a good punch nonethless.
7. FAKE PROBLEMS: "The Dream Team"
From 'It's Great To Be Alive', one of the few albums released this year that I've been struck by, 'The Dream Team' is a top class pop song and a fine, fine representation of the band. Playing the Lock Up stage at Reading and Leeds and supporting Frank Turner on his October tour, these guys are not to be missed.
8. NEW END ORIGINAL: "14-41"
Been listening to the one and only album from Jonah Matranga's best band (controversial that; I know I should be bleating on about how nothing'll ever surpass Far but meh, that's just not me) since his solo show at Trillian's a few weeks back and I can't get enough of this song. The amateur nature of the video footage that this is underscoring quite suits both the feel of the track and Matranga's very inclusivist attitude to his music.
9. EELS: "Elizabeth on the Bathroom Floor"
The opening track from one of my favourite albums of all time, 1998's 'Electro-Shock Blues', 'Elizabeth on the Bathroom Floor' is probably the most haunting piece of music you will ever hear. The animated video that accompanies it was created by the Youtube user responsible for the upload and it's superb.
10. FRANK TURNER: "Try This At Home"
An excellent live performance of the utterly ace 'Try This At Home' at this year's SXSW. The track will feature on Frank's third album 'Poetry of the Deed', which is out in September. Further proof, as if any were needed, that he can do no wrong.
And that's that. More next Monday!
Sunday, 19 April 2009
'Jackie Collins' Existential Question Time' is a Summer only event!
So much for a December tour.
According to this interview for a German magazine, the Manics will only play the smattering of dates they've already announced for Journal for Plague Lovers and begin recording a new, regular album in the Autumn. Glad I decided to pay the Roundhouse a visit now...
Speculation on what effort number ten will sound like is rife on the Foreverdelayed forums and this little nugget from 'Porco' made me lol:
According to this interview for a German magazine, the Manics will only play the smattering of dates they've already announced for Journal for Plague Lovers and begin recording a new, regular album in the Autumn. Glad I decided to pay the Roundhouse a visit now...
Speculation on what effort number ten will sound like is rife on the Foreverdelayed forums and this little nugget from 'Porco' made me lol:
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