I'm not sure I like this

Who does the Lexus one again?
Commercial breaks - the UK television advert music database. 'There are currently 1385 entries in the database.'

Meltin' Pot - seventies jazz-funk, soul-jazz and funky fusion (via Stevie Nixed via Dubbel mono.) 'Een complete mix-CD, inclusief hoesje en inlay ter download aangeboden.'

Five Best Uses of "Fuck" in a Song @ RockCritics.com.

p2p
Searching for alternatives to Audiogalaxy, I tried Limewire, one of the few file sharing services that work on a Mac. Apart from the neat interface it's no damn good, suffering from limited users and their crappy mp3 collections. I had been enjoying an Audiogalaxy rebirth thanks to the latest, much improved version of MacSatellite when everything went X-shaped a few days ago.

Because of the news below I have a revulsion towards downloading anything today, an uncontrollable salivating of the bank account is triggered by the mere sight of certain desktop aliases.

Universal cosmic groove
The first day of a new job can be stressful and the last time I faced all that, a couple of years ago, I resorted to the Internet to find some soothing music (it was one of them rare jobs where it was acceptable to plug your headphones into your PC, hurrah). After a quick search, I ended up at Weirdsville. And, having forgotten about it for ages, I'm pleased to see it's still there. So, after this morning's bowel shaking news (see below) my synapses are in desperate need of soothing, possibly in the form of a general anaesthetic, and I am back listening to Weirdsville. They have five Real Audio webcasts to choose from: Exotica, Moog, Noise, Psych and Weirdos, with artists including (pastes)...

Sun Ra-Throbbing Gristle-Martin Denny-Paradise Camp 23-Butthole Surfers-Count Five-Psychic TV-Magma-John Coltrane-Pharoah Sanders-Cabaret Voltaire-Gong-DJ Spooky-Inner Dialogue-Hawkwind-Voodoo Mechanics-Les Baxter-Lee"Scratch"Perry-Nurse With Wound-Xenakis-Amon Duul-Chrome-Mad Professor-Esquivel-13th Floor Elevators-Strawberry Alarm Clock-Bevis Frond-Can-Flipper-Walter Wanderly-Kraftwerk-Spacemen 3-The Three Suns-Jimmy Smith-Yeti-Boredoms-Beach Boys-Os Mutantes-King Tubby-The Orb-Ultimate Spinach-The Shaggs-Pere Ubu-Lucia Pamela-Circle-Skullflower-Cal Tjader and many,many more

A list which would also make a handy Audiogalaxy cribsheet if only if only etc...

(This morning's bowel shaking news is that I've somehow been dialling the wrong number on my Internet connection for the last month and instead of being billed for a £12 unlimited access flat fee, I've racked up call charges in excess of £500+. Serves me right for those all-night download sessions, eh. Send your donations, however small, to Mr G. Wisdom Goof, House of Contempt, Dicksville N7.)

OK, I just found this deep within the hard drive. Be a shame if it just stayed there forever wouldn't it. Wouldn't it?

The Day I Split Up With The Corrs

In the 12th century, messengers used to carry horns which they blew as they approached a town to let the townspeople know their mail was arriving. This quaint custom was recently introduced to the little town of Hyde Park where I live in a simple two-up two-down miner's cottage. And so it was with considerable excitement when I first heard the brassy crescendo and galloping hooves that heralded the first appearance of our community's new postman.
I leapt out of my four poster bed, grabbed my silk dressing gown and tugged the cord that parted the heavy brocade curtains. Whoosh! I was momentarily blinded by the sunlight that flooded in, but as my eyes became accustomed to the brightness of that dawn, I saw the dust thrown up by the gallant rider's mount and thrilled to the sound of his golden horn as it grew ever-louder. Ba-bu-da-doo!! He was no skilled musician, that was clear, but one could hardly expect an efficient mail deliverer to be an expert equestrian as well as possessing the versatility of a Miles Davis.
But the simple repetition of a few urgent notes was enough to rouse the local residents from their beds and watch in anticipation - their noses pressed to their windows - as he went about his work. We watched as he niftily reached into his canvas sack and unerringly tossed envelope after envelope into the mail baskets that stood at the end of every driveway. We gazed upon his pillar box red jacket, resplendent in the morning sun, the gold buttons shining brightly with the confident glow of a man who takes pride in his work.
My heart pounded as he tossed a pink object high into the air... my eyes followed its graceful arc and its descent into my mail basket. I issued a silent prayer of gratitude towards the humble postman and activated the lever to the left of the curtain cord. Gerr-er-er-er! The basket wove its way from the front of the driveway to within arms' reach of my front window. I undid the window catch and retrieved the pink envelope before releasing the lever and watching the basket whirr back along its path, where it took its place at the entrance to number 24 Hyde Park Terraces.
I lifted the envelope to my nose and closed my eyes as I breathed into the heady intermingling aromas of lavender, mint and garlic. I felt my sphincter loosen in apprehension (a not altogether unpleasant sensation but one which I could happily have forgone at this juncture) as I realised who had sent me this missive.
After performing my personal hygiene rituals and pouring myself a glass of milk, I retired to my green leather armchair and gazed out upon the fields beyond my cottage. The postman was still hurling packages to eager recipients, and a heat haze hung over the oil refinery in the distance. I could delay the moment no longer. I tore open the envelope and retrieved its contents. There were three sheets of paper, each one containing a handwritten message. I knew who they were from, and as I read their contents I heard their mellifluous voices in my mind, each one as distinct and special to me as the others.

"Dear Matthew,
This is a very hard letter for me to write but until I get certain things off my chest my heart will be weighed down with a very weighty kind of heaviness that makes it hard for me to breathe and consequently, speak without choking, which could cause an untold catalogue of social distress. Not to mention interfering with my singing voice, which I remember you describing as 'the sound of a thousand angels stroking their gossamer wings in a forest glade'. That was sweet of you, but you know too many sweets rot your teeth and I don't want to be a toothless old hag thank you very much!
But enough of idle reminiscences, let me get straight to the point. Matthew, you're history mate. It's over between us. The end of the road. As heartless teenagers - cynical beyond their years - say, Welcome to Dumpsville: population 'you'.
Now I've said it, I feel a lot better. Sure, we had our good times and I want you to remember them forever, cherish them like little kittens that will one day grow smelly and cancerous and have to be exterminated. For all good things come to an end. Our 'love' for instance. I know you called it that. As for me, well, you're better off without me Matthew, I don't have to be told I'm a confused, bitter individual who's incapable of true love, but I tried, God knows I tried. Blame me if you like, call me whatever names you like, but don't call me, I won't be home.
One day you'll understand this was all for the best.
Yours regretfully,
Belinda"

Now that was something of a blow, I must admit. Something told, me, call it instinct or a sixth sense, that the other two pages weren't going to make for happier reading. I fetched a box of tissues from the kitchen, and took a deep breath...

"Dear Matthew,
We're going to America tomorrow and we're going to stay in big posh hotels and eat expensive food and ride around in limos and meet a load of famous actors and big stars and do some TV shows, record company showcases, and all that malarkey - and we might go up in a helicopter. Cool or what. We're all really looking forwards to it. I bet you wish you were coming with us but, as you know, it's not a good thing for us to be seen with you. You cast a dark shadow of gloom over us and tarnish our carefully-honed public image, leaving a dirty stain on our wholesome cheeks. Also, you lack basic social manners, you've got pasty skin, wonky-shaped hair and your dress sense is worse than a homeless person. You smell as bad, too. And drink more.
So, we're finished. If you value your life, don't bother writing, calling or attempting to make any kind of contact with me or my sisters ever again. If that sounds a bit harsh, just get over it buster. Life's not fair.
But I'll say this for you Matt, you know more about dinosaurs than anyone I want to know. And you make a nice cup of tea.
Yours carelessly
Mags"

I blew my nose vigorously. As if in a trance, I read on...

"Dear Matt
Don't be too disheartened sweethart those two bitches are all twisted, they disapeared up there own arses with the fame and money an that. But you got to admit they have a point, your a miserable gobshite with few redeaming features. Notice I said few not none - your not a complete minger! I recall you tickled my fancy on more than one ocasion! You were always up for a good time, eh?! But enough bawdy talk, or I'll change me mind. We got big plans ahead and your not part of them, please find a nice simple lass whos not in the show busness and settle down.
Yours fondly
Lucy the 'cuet' one
x
Don't get any funny idears tho, I got a new feller now and he's nails."

I managed a smile through a vale of despondency. So this was what it had all amounted to. Three simultaneous goodbyes, each aiming a poisonous arrow deep into my heart. I could live without the free CDs and concert tickets, the star-studded awards ceremonies, the trappings of wealth that fell my way as I escorted one or all of the girls along the bustling and sometimes hazardous avenues of fame. Nothing remained but to raise my hands to the heavens and beseech the powers that be - 'why? why o why o why?' I knew I might wait forever for the answer.

© GC, 1998

Listeria (NoPopCon)
Last month on Channel 4: the 100 Greatest World Cup Moments... I watched it, I taped it, I loved it, oh yeah. Also, like you're supposed to, I shouted at things I disagreed with, and thundered against the appearance of Lisa Rogers who pops up on all these telly nostalgia fests.
Anyway, here's one to make you feel sick (and when I say you I mean me). Compile the 100 greatest moments in your life... would you ever get past 20... and bearing in mind that Hitler was a 'great' figure in history (Dr Preston not his real name who taught me 'A' Level history said so himself and he was a very clever man as he often informed us), there is thus ample legroom for both your dearest and darkest...

Everybody loves ya baby
As a beleaguered (that's how I'm spellin it) pedestrian walking off to a reluctant WC QF#2 yesterday, I plugged the earpluggers and adjusted the radio dial with thumbnail. Usual bleedin rub then as the sunshone, Land of Hope and Glory, loud and clear, with a rubby de tum-te-tum, tum tum tum... I superimpose the words 'Nottingham Forest', 'Tottenham Hotspur', '...and Leicester' and all is, if not right, then mildly wacked. This wonky goodwill is also a product of early morning drinking (in the pub at 7 a.m., be rude not to).
Another notch and I hear gamelanny bells over which there be vox of echoey portent, a promo loop for Resonance FM, who don't kick off till midday. England's exit, our exit, my own last log-in to the departure lounge, was inevitable but no less a dull thud to the solar plexus for all that. I'm so mentally annihilated I don't switch channels when Puddle of Mudd comes on.
Other increments along the FM range provide standard fluff and inanities. Some make my blood boil but it is in all our best interests that I don't make an exhibition of myself ranting about radio pesonalities who cause this unseemly boiling. When there is all that starving, bombs and wickedness stuff to concern me, as a grown-up puppy.
Almost too good to be true, but a pack of delirious Brazilians pass me as I approach the day's second venue; they're banging on drums and singing, draped in flags and yellow shirts. If it was anyone else...
In 1990, see, it was worse because we had high hopes, pie in the sky hopes, being young and gorgeous and fucking everybody, so after we lose to the Germans on pens, I arose like the lark the next day with sunglasses on and Sweetheart of the Rodeo on, not wanting to go to work, not wanting to confront Monica (not her real name) my then girlfriend of the then time who was, let's face it, German. I recall her being indecently apologetic - she was a good egg Monica not her real name - but the train ride with that album in my ears is still vivid. How distant their songs about Canadian rockies and living the Christian life were from the outbreak of national self-pity and xenophobia brought on by a couple of penalty misses the night before. And at least she never uttered the words 'It's only a game.'
I didn't really want to watch Germany v USA (something of dog's dinner if T be N) but we just don't want to Miss Something (make note: good name for character in experimental novel, file alongside Edna Tail and Olive Branch). I eat the worst plate of nachos ever and don't feel bad about under the table tequila top-ups to our drinks.
Outside the bar I say goodbye to my best friends, who are emigrating to Australia next month and I'm glad I'm agreeably smashed or I'd start weeping in the street on at least two counts.

Come back WG

Delia Derbyshire - sound clips. Dreams (mp3 edit) is 'spliced/reassembled interviews with people describing their dreams' set to an 'often terrifying musique concrete soundbed'.

"Not a Second Time": a Study in Rock Semiotics
- Beatles song given semiotic seeing to. Translated from the Finnish.

Mark E Smith in conversation with Bruce Dickinson on Radio Six. 8.1Mb mp3 (47 mins).

Post England v Denmark recent downloads playlist!



La Dusseldorf Cha Cha 2000
Lee Perry Money
the Mops Atsuku Narenai
Last Poets White Man's Got a God Complex
the Bees Sunshine
Walter Wegmuller Der Mond
Harry Partch Barstow
Motherlight House of Many Windows
Mad River Amphetamine Gazelle
Shooby Taylor Stout-Hearted Men
Destroy All Monsters Bored
Life Without Buildings Love Trinity
Liars The Garden Was Crowded And Outside
Colin Blunstone I Don't Believe in Miracles
Kinky Corn Man
Peaches Set it off

The folklore of mania - everything fall apart at the same time it come together, you can't see in front! Now you. Two hours to get sorted.

Gurrhhh - my parents listen to that
It used to be merely 60s but now it's anything from punk to Take That, as in Not From This Decade you sad old sack. But for my parents the entire spectre and spectrum of rock n roll was alien and suspect. They came of age in the early 50s but contrary to received opinion I don't think youth culture existed until much later so jazz and Elvis or even bleeding skiffle left no impression, had no impact on them, for which I am eternally grateful. I couldn't stand it if they'd have had musical 'tastes' for me to measure up against - none of it made any sense to them. Pity the poor children trying to bother their parents with their nu-metal and getting a blast of dad's Ace of Spades in reply.
Music of all types was an impenetrable mystery to my father. The only song I ever heard him sing was Wandrin' Star, and then only because he found Lee Marvin's deep voice rather comical. He used to hum it under his breath in an aggravating manner on an endless loop (the unconscious way he did it used to bug me and then when I did the same with JAMC's Upside Down the Christmas after it came out, and when my sister pointed out what I was doing I was horrified).
Wandrin' Star used to freak out Richey Manic who obsessed over the line 'hell is in hello'. It was also Johnny Rotten's favourite song, although he didn't like to admit it, so to have him and my dad linked is proof that music is the universal language, although maybe it just means that showtunes are the universal language. In which case... ^ ?ø~æ† å~† †ø ß´å? å~ø†?´® ø®?¡.

CKOD
The Cool Kids of Death sing in Polish, which is only right and proper because that's where they're from. I saw them on Polish TV in Portugal - don't ask why - and we laughed at their silly name (crazy foreign kids, ha!), but I heard something I liked, probably the fact that they reminded me of Datblygu. And then how I laughed (at myself, patronising English swine!) when I found out that they took their name from a Saint Etienne song, which in turn was a misprint - shoulda read Cool Kinds of Death, which makes even marginally less sense. But out of all that, I am very much liking the likes of Butelki Z Benzyn I Kamieniami and Radio Mi>=oúÊ which are how the titles turn out without the proper accents/characters.

Sixties throwback
I thought I knew them all them 60s groups that my parents didn't listen to but I'm belatedly discovering the stunning/gorgeous/gooey and lush sounds of the Zombies. I knew the two songs that we all know but no more, but a quick dip leaves me wanting more and more. All sparked by hearing an radio interview at the weekend with Colin Blunstone who sounded like a decent old cove.
When I say I knew two, it seems there was a third which I forgot as I had A Rose for Emily on a compilation tape I made about 15 years ago, recently unearthed and also part of the equation...