The general election's over.
Who won?
Labour lost well. Jeremy Corbyn's taking Samuel Beckett's old dictum seriously by failing better!
On the subject of society and politics, here's Jason Williamson of Sleaford Mods chatting with the famous (in the UK anyway) ranting taxi driver about life and stuff. It's a good conversation so watch all three. In this one they discuss being creative whilst still having to do a mundane job...
...as they say, you get 'smashed to bits', as everyone struggling with daily life in drudgery or the doledrums does although whether it's worse if you're 'creative' I don't know. What that does mean is that you think you should be doing something better, ie earning a living from your art, as opposed to simply thinking there's a better life out there. I know all about that, being a 'failure' at school at suffering in Work ever since, except for the few years I spent on the dole, which was a kind of freedom, albeit without much money, of course. It's interesting that Jason admits to feeling some guilt about his success and he raises an interesting point about the notion that he 'doesn't deserve it'. That's what's drummed into the working class, the idea that we don't deserve better because we didn't study hard enough, weren't ambitious enough etc. Where I disagree with him is his idea that if you 'keep going' you'll make it. That's obviously not true. But you must keep going with your art for the sake of claiming something special for yourself in an otherwise mundane daily existence.
...............................not only was I almost physically sick at the sight of so much shit in the form of CDs and books (I was actually puking in my mind! - a torrent of vomit flooding my neurons)yesterday I'm now sick to death of the B-word (Br***t) (and the silly fucking snowflakes bleating on about boo-hoo it shouldn't have happened not-in-our-name blah, blah GET OVER IT AND STOP WHINGING!) which gets mentioned every night on the news on the telly and so I've boycotted the news, or at least will always mute it until I think it's safe and more entertaining subjects are covered such as what Donald Trump has been up to.........
..........this morning I felt sick again flicking through the forthcoming supposed musical highlights of the year according to the London listings mag Time Out, which used to actually contain a lot of listings until the internet killed off that idea, although City Limits was a better listings mag, NOW Time Out IS A PERFECT FIT FOR SOCIETY AND LONDON BRAIN-LITE TWATS WHO WANT TO KNOW HOW MUCH THE TICKETS ARE AND WHEN SOME USELESS CRETIN IS WARBLING ALONG WITH WHERE'S THE BEST PLACE TO EAT PERUVIAN FUCKING FOOD OR WHICH SHIT NIGHTCLUB PLAYING MUSIC FOR MORONS THEY CAN GO TO AND WAVE THEIR HANDS IN THE AIR PRETENDING LONDON'S STILL GOT A 'COOL' CLUB SCENE.
"But, Robin, you're into music so why don't you admit that just because you've never heard of an act doesn't mean to say they're shit", you say.
First: FUCK OFF.
Second: I'm awaiting the Second Coming of His Holiness John Coltrane, all right? And not going to a gig until then.
Third: the contemporary music I listen to is mostly made by blokes twiddling knobs in their rooms, or staring at screens and I've no intention of going to watch them doing the latter 'live'.
I haven't seen bands regularly since the Punk/New Wave thing so, for instance, I saw Stiff Little Fingers at their best and you probably didn't - SO THERE. I saw a lot of bands and they were all brilliant because I was young and drunk. That's what middle-aged men of the future will be saying about this era only they'll be lying, obviously - not subjectively, objectively, because it's impossible to see anything more electrifying than The Ramones, Clash, Jam thrashing out tunes amid showers of phlegm from a pogoing pit of snotty young Punks.
I was reminded of all that when coming across a John Peel broadcast from 1978 this morning and listening to it in the office yes little tears of nostalgia trickled through the alleyways of me noodle, dear reader, even though at the time an underlying terror/dread of my life ensured I was miserable most of the time having not long left school to do factory work from which I could see no possible escape (I was so eager to leave school to do this?!). The Peel show was essential listening (yawn, you've heard all that a million times since he died, I know) and this episode reminded me why what with The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers, Gang Of Four and great reggae tunes (including a dub which reminded me that door chimes were once the fashion in dub tunes - crazy times).
If, I said if the spirit of all that is at all alive to day it surely resides in Sleaford Mods, those luvvable scallywags who are old enough to know better and do so they make records to prove it. Jason Williamson's absurdist nonsense verse mixed with social observations and verbal phlegm is still a great thing as their latest, English Tapas, proves. 'Punk's not dead / Well, it is now or does no one care about you?' (Just Like We Do). Since I last spoke to Jason they've got big, as big as they can get, perhaps, but don't worry, I'm not saying that to prove anything just making the point that no matter how popular they get they'll probably always be this, what they are - they've been what they are too long to change and even money can't seem to alter, put a gloss on, the anarchic, haphazard-but-knowingly-crafted image/sound of jumbled lyricism (which still has more actual depth, probably, than what most other lyrical lamebrains can muster). Never too obvious yet unafraid of cliche or even trying to pack too many words into a line, therefore sounding gloriously amateurish. 'Given half the chance you'd walk around like a twat just like we do' - the perfect riposte to anyone who dares criticise them for being successful, the admission that, well, they might be twats whilst they're at it. Still the most basic rhythms, best suited to let Williamson's lyrics shine and amid the abstract mindstream ourpourings poetry like: 'Let's go back to corridors of mine and also yours / Where the dust lays on the shelf in this the quiet hell / Of cigarettes and trains and plastic and bad brains / And heartbreak lays upon the self of this the new born hell, well' (Time Sands). English Tapas isn't the nation's favourite dish by a long stretch but every year since I saw them I've noticed friends discovering Sleaford Mods and that's a good thing.
So I'm in the 12 Bar Club toilets talking to comic genius Stewart Lee about Improv legend Derek Bailey. I'd zipped up and stepped back when he did the reverse, thus allowing me to take full advantage of his vulnerability. 'Now seems like an appropriate time, Stewart, ' I said. He started laughing before I could finish. 'To commend you for answering questions on Mastermind about Derek Bailey.'
Our bladders emptied, we stood by the sink as he told me the best thing about that was listening to Bailey for two weeks solid in preparation, during which time he concluded he was a genius. Bailey, that is, not himself. Then I played my trump card, saying I'd appeared on stage with Bailey. Stewart asked what instrument I played. 'Turntables,' I announced, feeling terribly modern. After all, to say 'saxophone' or 'drums' would have been far too traditional. He asked where and I told him, adding that it was nominated as one of the '60 concerts that shook the world' by The Wire magazine. Top that, Stewart Lee! Oh, you might have numerous comedy awards but I bet you'd love that one. All collectors are frustrated musicians, aren't they? Except me. As I told someone on this night, I couldn't even make it into bad Punk band formed by friends back in '77.
I forgot to ask Stewart what he thought of Sleaford Mods. But I knew he'd enjoyed them because he'd stood close to me through the whole set, bobbing to the beats at one point. I later saw him talking to beatmaster Andrew Fearn at the bar. It's fitting that a comic star (cult) with good musical taste should be there. After all, Sleaford Mods aren't without humour. Fans laughed as much as they cheered and chanted choruses throughout the set. Jason Williamson: court jester in the kingdom of the blind, sporadically walking like an Egyptian when the mood takes him. On stage he's totally wired, pacing around the perimeters, standing to stare down the followers, frantically rubbing his hair back to front before another verbal salvo. All the time Andrew Fearn in that Rambo t-shirt, hands dug in pockets, or vaping.
Jolly Fucker, Jobseeker, Tied Up In Nottz, A Little Ditty, Tiswaz were all dished out, much to the crowd's delight. I was at a 'Rock' gig. It felt weird. It felt like a Rock gig until Sleaford Mods crushed the idea like an empty beer can and threw it back in my face. 'I used to be in bands, fuckin hated it' is a line on their Bandcamp page. I used to go and watch Rock bands, now I fuckin hate the idea. Rock has not spoken to or for me for many years. Now it seems that a lot of Rock fans want to cuddle Sleaford Mods. It puts them in a strange position. They're not the first to rail against the arena they find themselves in, but few can be misfits to the extent the Mods are.
All types want a piece of them, from Rockers to supposedly righteous SWP types. Everyone has an angle on them, a box to shove them in, but Sleaford Mods really escape any net cast by would-be categorisers and claimants for their cause. In my improvised piece based on their new album, Divide and Exit, I referred to Mark Fisher's review in The Wire. It's not that I hated it, just that the last line struck me as missing the point. The point being that there isn't one, no easy definable one anyway. OK, I know that Fisher has a political agenda, based on what I'm not sure, so he wants a 'new political project' that will answer 'the questions that Sleaford Mods pose'.
I won't try to answer for Jason; I don't know what he's asking. I know what he's saying, some of the time, but a lot of it is a wind-up, a put-on, banter, madcap humour along with frustration and rage. The points made about fucked-up Britain are obvious, but never offer answers, or even detailed descriptions. He raps about what he sees and has seen, on the street and in his head. Their brilliance lies in that individual vision. Fisher wants a 'project' that will address the problems and I would hope for the same if I had any faith in Politics and politicians.
Meanwhile, I'll enjoy riding on the back of the bus with Sleaford Mods.
L-R: Cay Lang, Vanalyne Green, Dori Atlantis and Sue Boud
Posted this yesterday on Facebook thinking I could just name the women involved and that would be enough to signify that it wasn't the work of some nasty male Photoshopist. Then I covered myself by adding that it's part of a photo shoot by a feminist Art group. The way Lang's hair lays over the C indicates to me that it's an original photo but you know how clever some people are at manipulating images.
What famous artist are you?Yes, another one of those answer-questions-to-find-out-who-you-are quizzes. Lately I've been Wes Anderson, 'a major music nerd' and now Monet - Monet! Christ, I'm more boring than I thought. Damn that quiz. I wanted to be Duchamp, maybe, if he's one of the answers. You know how things are shaping up if you answer honestly. Just give all the 'rebellious' answers if you want to fool yourself that you're a rebel. Perhaps you really are. Perhaps Monet was. I rebelled against learning anything at school and I'm not about to stop now...
Ignorance is bliss. A guy I used to work with would come in all smiles and pretty much stay that way the whole day. He was an idiot. I was miserable. If only we could have fused together to form a happy soul who hated what capitalism was doing to society. That's a contradiction in terms, I suppose. 'You're just too hip to be happy', said Gene Hackman in David Mamet's Heist. That would have been a perfect riposte for my work colleague whenever I snarled at him.
I never turned to drugs, legal or otherwise, during the Great Depression (roughly the first 10 years at Work). At least Punk Rock said some of what I was feeling...
I once dreamt of a career opportunity in music, as a journalist. Years later, I didn't regret not getting one. What does a band with principles do when bigger labels start sniffing around? Take the money and run? By principles I mean a healthy mistrust/hatred of the music biz and what fame does to musicians. Would success spoil Jason Williamson? I suspect they're getting offers. 'Slam dunk with a concrete record deal...it's bound to sink'. I'm going to see them 'live' in London soon. The trouble is, I'll have to put up with three other bands unless Sleaford Mods are on first and I doubt that. They're the reason the night has sold out. It'll be like waiting for the Chelsea game on Match of the Day and having to suffer Stoke vs West Brom, Fulham vs Aston Villa and Sunderland vs Hull City first...only worse...
austerity mods - small faeces in the toilet bowl of the music biz?
the philosophy of Armitage Shanks esq.
liveable shit - you put up with it -
everyday life, a spectacle seen through dark glasses - raise yours to Sleaford Mods - beer or wine?
you don't have to be working class to review this album, but it helps - otherwise - what? Bourgeois pontifications on the meaning of it all - fuck off - I keep out of it -
what are they rebelling against? what have you got?
rock stars in Tudor homes, fat-arse office life, flag-waving idiots -
Mark (Fisher) you miss the point, mate, this isn't about a 'new political project' - project this (burp) - it's a reflection not a rallying cry - you are the mirror, you see what you are -
'It's about my life!' Is it?
Conceptualists, connoisseurs, they conned you, sir.
It's nonsense, perfect sense, punk poetry (?) that doesn't rhyme, much - it's bile, but it's funny - survivors, strugglers, ranting ex-ravers - it's all gone Pete Tong -
re-tweet the Birdy Song and on and on -
the selfie-obsessed generation wank-fest -
I keep out of it -
Shout it to the bottom, all the way down - aspire? to what? the trendy middle-class Shoreditch values of the vacuous hipster herd -
'I love hip-hop!' - ghetto-minded on a grant -
the verbal spew of benefit street scum is all -
become a Grime superstar - culture show, cultural shower and fashionable for perhaps one whole hour -
we all want to be middle class now, dontcha know? fuck off.
but what's the alternative? be yourself, let the media shove you in a hole - square pegs in a round one - stereotyping at 45 & 33 -
one nation under the heel of brogues click-clacking through the halls of Westminster -
garish sloganhearing smacks you in the chops like high street signs selling prole cuisine -
bare-knuckle drum 'n' bass grooves for Chicken Village people - disgusting! -
should I really be consuming this? processed cheese, you are what you eat.
'So primitive, darling! I love listening to the natives!'
Ryvita!
'I'm not bothered, I never was' -
you got a Brit Award? No surrender!
'Life knifes you as it screams 'YOU GOT FUCK-ALL''
'Don't let the mechanics of beer trick you into thinking you're a warrior'
Mods 'n' Sods getting heavy with a past that didn't exist.
The struggling words - the fame - 'ave a bit of realism - posh suburban wankers -
'Liveable shit, you put up with it' - (canned laughter) -
'So now I don't dream of anything, I just wait for it to turn up'.
'We don't get what we ask for, we get what we deserve' - t
he metropolis of discontent - all you zombies tweet, tweet, tweet -
