A Distorted Reality.

A botched installation of a light fitting sheds its red-filtered light over this entry: my entry always to be accompanied by the elegant paroxysm of irises contracting and relaxing relentlessly to find their new area of comfort in this weakest of electric lighting. Polyvinyl chloride trays reflect varying hues and saturations of reds back at me, to gradually shift into focus when my eyes eventually adapt to these new surroundings. Everything in this room is unnatural, forged by the hand of man: perfect in its inorganic nature; perfectly synoptic of this room’s purpose.

6 o’clock comes, and my head is back in the office: 15 minutes of work lost to the wondrous siren song of the careless fancy desired such that it approached trance. The return to the reality of my still being and hour and a half from my dimly lit refuge hits me with a force which could only be surmised as ‘crushing’. I leave; I had to leave: the journey is all that now matters. Home is all that matters, and it’s close to a crippling hunger at this moment. Never mind: right turns and traffic lights will distract me from longing for the comforts of home.

Time: that inalienable but oh-so human of constructs. Arbitrary measures of quantities which are not real; quantities which just measure that passage of events in the grand scheme of things: a second is nothing real; a second is an idea. Time just makes things seem further away: there are six traffic lights on the way home, each of which could hold me up for a maximum of thirty seconds: that’s three minutes, bringing my total journey time up to ninety-three minutes, assuming the best of conditions otherwise. One hundred and eighty seconds, essentially wasted. Pointless. To be quickly forgotten. Why can’t people move faster? Why can’t people have the common sense to look before crossing? Why can’t people take a little risk?

If I didn’t measure time, things would just take as long as they took. Things would be simple. Things would be more relaxed: the distinction between haste and speed would be an empty one.

To my delight, everything goes well; and I’m outside home in what is probably a personal best time: it’s seven twenty-five in the evening. Tanya, The Russian Neighbour, is waiting in our shared hallway: my mind races as to work out what it is that she wants, in spite of my all-consuming desire to be inside my apartment, viewing the end result of my work. She pulls me to one side in that typical way in which she always does: the sidewards head-tilt causing her fringe to fall from her eyes, an action performed in unison with a purr always hinting of a faux-desperation. She is a manipulator if nothing else; but her calibre with regard to this is something that is truly incapable of being criticised.

“Hey.”

It wasn’t just the purr which sounded desperate anymore: she looked frail, almost grey in spite of basking in the throw of this dreadful tungsten lighting: even the warm colour cast of the light was insufficient to put even the slightest of colour on the ever sagging skin under her cheekbones; the most gaunt of cheekbones. It was impressive to see this strong woman reduced to a wreck: stress truly is a destroyer of man and woman alike.

Colours splayed out over the walls: transiently going from being merged in an aesthetic symbiosis to pulling apart from one another with all of the grace of a back-alley separation of conjoined twins. Back and forth: these two binary states, each with their own infinitesimally small graduations far too gradual for any change to be noticed in small amounts; only the leaps from blended colours to distinct separations were discernible.

It reminded me of nothing but that experiment my physics teachers did with cellophane and a projector to amaze the more simple-minded, more blackbird-like students amongst my peers: they’d take this sheet of cellophane and rip it in front of the light to show the effects of this increased stress upon the material on its refractive properties. There would always be a point where the plastic ceased to be clear upon the screen and the yellow, red and green coronae would appear in their resplendent glory instantly; without no prior warning as to what was about to occur. ‘Ooh’s and ‘ahh’s accompanied this demonstration, of course, to be met with my almost trademark cynical sneer.

It wasn’t so much the opening and closing of the shutters which was bothering me: it was the separation of the colours of light. Perfect single-coloured bars were formed with each time that the shutters were closed: the red, green and yellow filtered strobes ceased to combine to create an elegantly off-white light on the wall of the office; each colour bled its diffracted light to me through usage-weathered polypropylene. Everything was unbalanced; unsymmetrical; unnatural.

The shutters opened once again, and I was bathing in my preferred pleasant beige light; capable of doing the glamorous office dogwork for which someone of my abilities and qualifications is so wonderfully suited. You know; filing, photocopying, even, on good days, the unparalleled glory of post sorting: those tasks designed for the graduate with First Honours from a top-ten university. I suppose that this is what I get for taking an Arts degree, though: a lack of definition in the job market and an overwhelming predilection for the subjective.

Just as the light split into its constituent parts once again, my mind mirrored its change in state: my surroundings were no longer my mental habitat. My thoughts splintered into the realms of home: the opening of the kitschly rotting door bearing it’s gift of that unusual scent which could only be defined as that of my home; that combination of the natural smells of the innumerable amount of fruit and the chemical smells emitted so strongly from lazily unclosed bottles of ammonium thiosulphate happening in such a small studio apartment, whilst overbearing, was mine and mine alone. Esters meeting ammonia - the perfect example of the concept of neutrality: the sweet meeting the foul. This was my haven; my sanctuary.

The laziest of partition walling split that tiny room into two: a single piece of chipboard with a five foot, six inch ‘doorway’ cut into it. Thick black drapes hung from the top of this hole-in-the-wall: the perfect protector of my little voyeuristic antics from the derelictor of them that light would be. This was my true workplace.

Find the contents for the story here.

I’m serialising a short story called ‘Light.’ on here.

I hope that it is enjoyed.

This song rocks so goddamn hard!!! I love the worst case scenario imagery, like a Palanhuik book. Unflinchingly cynical. This is one of those songs that you want to listen to when the bombs are being dropped and you’ve pissed off all your loved ones and it’s just you, a hooker and some good pills.

Best description of Jaguar Love’s Videotape Seascape. Ever.

Politics and Philosophy at York University: AAB, excluding General Studies.

A good start, I say.

Wonderful, no?

I have something which could only be considered a soft-spot for disused, even if damaged electrical goods; and this was a wonderful find, even if completely outmoded and probably beyond repair.

Hiding in a prop cupboard was this: a Fidelity Rad 16, within it a battery not leaking, but not looking like it would make the end of another month without doing so. It was, of course, my moral duty to repossess this and attempt to repair it, should it actually have anything more wrong with it than the issue of a dodgy battery. Seriously, what isn’t great about this radio? It has three completely and utterly dead bands available (unless I want to listen to Radio 4 or World Service) in Marine Band, Long Wave and Short Wave; as well as a dying one in Median Wave, which is still good for TalkSPORT.

It’s taken a few knocks and needs a good clean, but if I can find a PP9 battery anywhere for less than a fiver, it will most definitely be going in this beautiful ’50s (I think, I’m not sure) throwback. And if it works, brilliant; and if not, I’ve lost nothing and a have a new project to amuse myself with.

Well, I couldn’t not take it; could I?

Los Campesinos! MySpace

Caustic, hyperliterate, aggressive twee pop. Seriously, even the concept is wonderful: I doubt that there could be ill-executed record of this central ideal, but Los Campesinos! really have made extended metaphor in song their hallmark. Their second album of 2008 (God bless their punk-esque recording ethic) sees a happy return for their 7-piece treble-heavy formula. Ways to Make it Through the Wall starts We are Beautiful, We are Doomed with no build-up: it’s straight into the addictive twee demonstrated on Hold On Now, Youngster…: synthesisers and guitars play over one another with a care-free air, in contrast to the serious nature of the lyrics: the song is a tale of fleeting youth executed in great style; the lyrics ‘We learn together over time that tolerance is more appealing in theory than in practice. I identify my star sign by asking which is least compatible with yours‘ showing that their edge for Eddie Argos-esque wry witticisms has not been lost in the seven months since their last effort. The male-female vocal alternation is once again out in full force, with all of the effect that it ever had. Miserabilia is a step-down in tempo from Ways to Make it Through the Wall, and shows off the more considered, more serious side of the Campesinos!’ (seriously, try to punctuate that) music. The high wails of the guitar throughout the song give rise to a chant of ‘Shout at the world because the world doesn’t love you!‘ near the end, chanted in a manner bordering on the anthemic.

The title track is, simply, a joy. The mids of synthesisers, bass of guitars and highs of violins combine to form a texture best described as ‘luscious’ - thick, but not overly dense. A new vocal idea is explored here for the Campesinos!: Gareth screams the line ‘I hope my heart goes first‘ in such a vehement manner opposed to his usual pseudo-sprechgesang (especially in light of his prior monologue of ‘I taught myself the only way to get along in love is to like the other slightly less than you get in return. I keep feeling like I’m being under cut‘ in a voice of great delicacy) is undeniably stirring. Between An Erupting Earth and an Exploding Sky is an instrumental track; and one demonstrative of the creative and instrumental prowess which the band possesses: it would not be out of place on a Jesu album, or a newer Envy release, for that matter. It’s completely possible that title is somewhat of an homage to Explosions in the Sky, and the music therein would make it one which that band would be more than happy with, I should think.

You’ll Need Those Fingers For Crossing is a return to the playful nature of the Campesinos!’ music. Their envisioning on a ’soft-porn end of the universe’ is delightful merely in terms of the imagery. The glockenspiel makes a more than welcome comeback to their music and is in good company amidst overdriven guitars. The chorus is nothing short of rousing and the last instrumental minute and a half is a wonderful foray into the realms of guitar noise. It’s Never That Easy Though, Is It? is a tale of some sort of twisted love told amongst a duck-like synthesiser, soaring violins and that unique Campesinos! guitar tone. Love as a medium of class war; the mutual visual experience of viewing pictures of dead pets and relatives; and the unavoidable debate over love for music or a woman experienced by every snob is the Campesinos!’ concept of love, it would seem.

The End of the Asterisk is the height of their ascerbicism, and that is no bad thing: assailing someone as a ‘waste of time’, a ‘tragedy’ and describing their self-deprecation as ’spot-on’ is so miraculously direct. The muted strumming connecting each phrase of each verse is basic but oh-so effective. Documented Minor Emotional Breakdown #1 is an elaboration upon their previously stated twee artistry: unrelenting treble with esoteric lyrical focuses. Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time is a sweeping, solemn song dedicated to a lost love; complete with the hyperbole inherent therein: ‘the way you look could seriously make nature dysmorphic‘ being a personal favourite. All Your Keyfabe Friends shows everything that makes Los Campesinos! great: the multi-instrumentalism, the wit and the poetry, and it really is a great way to finish an album.

We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed should be an example to bands within the niche of Los Campesinos!: it’s an album which shows progression whilst sticking with everything appealing about yourselves. The slower songs’ inconsistencies of old have been ironed out here to great effect; the result of which is a far better rounded album.

OK: some of the most intelligent people in the world, and they can’t make sure that their application questionnaire works properly.

This enrages me.

Google, you are king.

Seriously, this is why I love the long lease given to Google developers: things that you’d never usually think of integrating come through.

This, kind reader, is beyond overdue: I have long been enamoured by the music of the Leicester-based Maybeshewill, and this album has been available for rather a long time now, and it’s gotten a lot of positive press from media outlets far greater in scope than this one. However, this time has done very little to dull my passions for this masterful piece of music artistry, and so this will be written and published, regardless of it being akin to our little fish playing in the realms of the sharks and whales.

There is something beautiful about bands which can (at least) claim to have a diverse range of influences, no matter how far from the truth that statement may be; and with Maybeshewill, I’m not even sure if ‘varied’ is a strong enough word to define their vast array of musical tastes. They draw parallels between the aggressive likes of Envy, Botch and Isis and the more laid-back likes of Radiohead and the Postal Service. On paper alone, this combination of influences meshed together may seem like an effort fraught with an inherent element of overambition, if not sheer impracticality; but in its practice, it is the best elements of all of the above in a package of divine execution and wonderfully displayed musicianship.

Ixnay on the Autoplay starts the album in a relaxed, synth-y manner reminiscent of Meanwhile, Back in Communist Russia: it’s one minute, forty-two seconds of keyboard work, leading into a pattern of a synthesised drumbeat. Seraphim and Cherubim, our track two, practically demolishes any predictions made as to the direction of the album to come from Ixnay through its immediate change to ‘real’ drums and a treble-heavy tremolo-picked guitar part screaming of Red Sparowes; as well as a later, heavier guitar riff being a passing nod to certain members of that band’s previous incarnation in Isis. Instrumentation remains tight, with keys, guitar, drums and whatever other synthesised sounds that they may be using blending, intertwining and supporting one another to produce a rich texture.

The Paris Hilton sex tape is thoroughly disappointing; Maybeshewill’s The Paris Hilton Sex Tape, however is a musical tour de force, with Mineral-esque hypnotic trebly guitar riffs paving the way for chugging basslines and guitar chord progressions. The drumming ability of the band is plainly demonstrated through the reduction of the song from full-band to mere drum and bass skeleton at around a minute into the song. Once again, keys compliment pounding guitar riffs in a manner incomprehensible but still amazingly simple, akin to most human expression: this is a perfect example of the emotion which can be expressed through instrumentation alone, without the pained whinings of a vocalist over it. I’m in Awe, Amadeus is a showcase of drumming ability from its start, with the fast-paced playing accompanying an endlessly falling-and-rising guitar line to the introduction of a key solo and then a more rhythmic guitar line.

We Called for An Ambulance but A Fire Engine Came demonstrates the band’s more post-metal side, with acute guitar highs meeting with obtuse guitar lows to form an all-around accessible outcome. After around a minute, this initial energy of chugging guitars and pounding drums descends into a sustained guitar chord gently fading and a key and synthesiser dream-like sequence. It’s ethereal beauty in simplicity is interrupted shortly after by a more electronic drumbeat and that wonderful rhythm guitar tone them seem to have created for themselves. Heartflusters is the first showing of the band’s vocal intentions, and it has to be said that they aren’t amongst the best of all bands: unfortunately, it does seem whiny above the delicate (and oh-so delicious) synth beats below. In fact, at three minutes in, there is a godly breakdown into a glitchy drumbeat, the likes of which I have not seen demonstrated better by even the venerable 65daysofstatic.

C.N.T.R.C.K.T is an immediate, bouncy, energy filled track which plods along by sheer virtue of its own will, it would seem from its insistent rhythm. He Films The Clouds Pt. 2 could be used as a definition for the concept of mixing delicacy with beats which could only be described well as either ‘tasty’ or ‘harsh’. Piano and strings meet with the technical drumming which has underpinned so much of this album so far in a manner bordering upon the symbiotic. The vocals which come later on in this track are wonderful, especially compared to the disappointment of those earlier, given their build up to that point. From the sole female voice to the full chant over that wonderful glitchy drum sound, the vocals are well balance and well executed in terms of tone and texture.

Not for Want of Trying, as well as being the title track, is the only song on the album I can even venture at the concept behind: the sampling of the 1976 film Network points at an acute socioeconomic awareness: Maybeshewill knows about our global recession. Musically, it is demonstrative of their dichotomic, loud-soft dynamic usage of their keys and guitars separately and is a constant ascent and descent rollercoaster of musical amazement. Takotsubo rounds the album off quite nicely much in the way that it started: delicacy once again is the order here.

This band is a revelation for the West Midlands area: they experiment with sounds that other local bands seem to be afraid to. We have glitching, chanting and piano solos all one album, and that is an achievement sofar as demonstration of diversity in music is concerned. It’s a wonderful combination of the best elements of post-rock (like Envy’s Chain Wandering Deeply), experimental electronic music (just think Aphex Twin) and even hardcore in some of the chord progressions and harmonic usage (think pageninetynine). All in all, this album demonstrates music visionaries in the early stages of what I hope to be a long career. If the sound can evolve from the originality which it already displays, I can see no upper bound for the potential of this band.