{THE PILL BOX } spacer
spacer
spacer
powered by blogger

{Saturday}

 
OK. 10 Messidor. Let's try this again.
Now that I've calmed down.
POST
OK, I will try. . .

OUTSIDE is stars and cats and the seeds of runner beans and pollen bastard
pollen
a merry dance
like a comet with pepper pots
dancing in its tail
and inside oh jesus
INSIDE
will you just look at this

Glastonbury: {which I blurrily scan and murmur inwardly 'an old,
o-l-d
tolling sound we all should bury ...'}
on TV last night, in the slot normally occupied by Jools bastard
Holland {and the only fault I can find with Avid Merriam and Bo Selecta is that he hasn't done a Holland yet - perhaps, the thought springs to mind, a Holland who instead of being all creepily nice to each and every musician on the planet, like some 70s LA groupie, spits contempt and envy and loathing at them - 'And who have we got on the show tonight? OH SHITE! Not fookin Craig fookin' David again? Yer no talent chancer - I thought I loved the sound of me own voice but you - you yer bastard self promotin' networking cooont! I'd imagine that out of "seven days" all yer'd hav left for oother people after yer'd taken out tossin yerself off before a mirror would be half a bastard hour on Tuesday afternooon...' Etc.} {oh but I just have to say: I literally haven't laughed so much, or so loud, as I did last night at the BO SELECTA "Trisha" stopping "members of the public" in broadest patois and doing her "good deed" spiel} as I say vacated by the endless plain of Holland but the spirit of enforced CHUMMINESS and DON'T PANIC WE'RE YOUR MATES! lives on, in all the utterly utterly de trop inbetween song banter and mumble and has there ever been less on air chemistry between two presenters than between John Peel {who I fundamentally have always liked and approved of, on radio, but who on occasions like this scurries mouse-like behind a mask of self deprecating hyper beardy real ale "normality" which does nobody any favours, this is TELEVISION, John, not a snug in a country pub} and Jo Whiley, who, maybe she's actually the ANTI CHRIST, not Holland, becoz she likewise just seems to approve of anything everything IF ITS MUSIC and she'd like us to think she's all down with it and so barefoot fonky and free but she's like some clockwork Japanese doll whose face lights up and head nods at the mere mention of a guitar band good or bad or indifferent she is in the job of SELLING like everyone else these days, here, SELLING the MYTH that THINGS ARE GROOVY, we're all having a GROOVY GROOVY time ...

which brings us to

THE SOUND OF YOUNG 2003

{for girls who're in control of their 2nd year social science degree
AND their whacky t shirted boyfriends!}

this is the SOUND of the underground 2003:

David Gray, Morcheeba, someone else SO dull it only took me five minutes to forget their name, REM’s dullest non-hits (a banjo, a prim piano solo and non-tune just like every non-tune since something like What's The Frequency Kenneth where you can remember the Stipe-franked title but NOTHING about the song and it's one thing for ME to give up and go back to me Blanchot or cat-therapy manual but Stipe himself started to try and dance and then as if in doom looked at the middle aged watercolorist behind the piano and just GAVE UP, shrugged and GAVE UP, as if, 'Even I'm not kidding myself here, this is about as PARTY DOWN a music as Tipper Gore's Greatest Hits} and Primal Scream* doing the clapalonga variety turn of "Loaded" revisited like it was Hello Hello! Good 2 Be Back! or some old chancer doing "My Way" or some Old Git juggling pigeons on The Good Old Days - which, is essentially, what Glastonburied 2003 is: The Good Ole Days.

Which is essentially what it - and Whiley and Peel and Holland - all represent - music not as ongoing process, monumental surprise, worry, Blanchot's "interruption of the incessant", but... a nice home cooked meal. A WELCOME mat. A big hug: don't WORRY! Music as something whose history has ENDED, reached its point, its home, its destiny.

Yes this is serious shit.
Jools Holland = the Absolute Spirit of music in 2003.
{And, hang on, doesn't that HONOUR from Buckingham Palace make you wonder about, uh, conspiracies uh-an' an' an' ... LIZARD people and secret handshakes an' ...}

Is this REALLY the ‘counterculture’ in 2003? Only if the counter is in Virgin obviously… {Everything you need in one place: mobile phone, train ticket, credit card, copy of HEAT, David Gray CD ...}

Then again maybe its just me - because I have NEVER understood the concpet of seeing music in a big muddy field. I mean - someone explain to me. Why would anyone want to see Suede in broad daylight in a field? In any year? Even {or especially!} if you still liked Suede. (Although I had to say it looked an uncommonly depressing sight - a sweaty Brettny trying to goad an unshocked unrocked stock still crowd (you could almost hear the mass murmur 'Didn't they used to be the Next Big Thing once?') Brettny all in eldritch black w/ with his faux cockney yodel going YER! COME ON! while a load of people in whacky post-Surfer Ts look for the nearest cider seller and stare at Suede as if they were someone way down the bill from the man who juggles pigeons, which, in effect, they are, I mean, Suede in a field in broad daylight, why, why would ... jeez. This is all about as radical as a George Bush speech.

*{It pains me to say it and I say it thru gritted teeth but Primal Scream actually came the nearest to FLIGHT take-off protest punch with a tight transformed "Swastika Eyes" which took on a POINT performed live and anthemic and kudos at least to Bobby G who - even if he still looks like the biggest twit on the planet at least TRIED to get some Jim Morrison type action going, except, problem, when he tries to improvise something "spontaneous" you can literally see the cogs moving painfully slowly behind the faux stoned eyes so that I don't think even Bobby (late thirties, married, kid) even knows the difference anymore between "real" Bobby and The Mask of Bobby {"C'mon bay-bee! C'mon bay-bee. . ." he kept ejaculating, as if it were some Golden Dawn formula which would turn Glasto 2003 into Altamont.

"C'mon bay-bee. . . Take yer DRESS off! Ah'm {WARNING! WARNING! Cringe making Bobby Moment coming!} gonna FUCK ya!"
Well, it's not exactly a 20 minute "The End" or the MC5 jamming with Sun Ra or Iggy covered in the blood of his own existential sadness and wrath and want, but it's what passes for WOW factor 25 in the muddy chummy beery blurry UK unter ground in 2003. . .

The only problem is, Bobby is so praying mantis stick thin, that he looks as if a real good fuck from a real bad woman could snap him in three like dry wood on a dry plain in a dry season . . . which is, really, what this was: a heap of dry dry dry stony nothingness, waiting for the sparks thrown off by some bad KALI, fucking with music's head.
Suggestions on a post card to:

Jools Oliver Hollington OOOB B-E-z
Later With That Innovative Shit Daddy-o
British Bumkissing Corporation
Londinium
Oh Oh Oh

- ---- +

{OK. OK. Blogger seems to be working a lot better this morning. But I'm still holding my breath. I lost two hours and quite a bit of work last night... and yes, I was stone cold sober, actually.}


posted by Ian 6/28/2003 11:00:00 AM

Comments: Post a Comment
spacer