Music
Riffage, as any nutritionist will inform you, is an essential part of a healthy diet. It promotes proper bowel movements, to name but one benefit. Since I received my review copy of The Neon Handshake I've been shitting like a champion. The name, I concede, is donkey poop, but as everyone knows, the proof of the hard rock pudding is in the noise, and believe me when I declare that the noise on offer here is helluva good noise.
Following the theme, the track names are jism. Don't let that put you off: even if they have anything to do with the lyrics, you can't make out what Justin Schlosberg is shrieking on about for 90% of the time anyway. Who cares that a song is called 'I Can Climb Mountains', in which the singer makes so bold as to claim he can spit further than I can hurl (I wouldn't be so sure mate; my aesophagus has had plenty of practice), when it rocks harder than a dodgy analogy featuring Slayer giving a concert in a granite mine. Essentially, Hell Is For Heroes are not a lyrics band. Reading the inlay, a kind of unfocused injured earnestness is immediately apparent. Sixth form poetry ahoy: suberbian rage of a spectactualrly cliched emo-rock variety pervades throughout. Luckily, however, this band isn't emo: no quiet-loud-quiet-loud lollygagging for these serious sounding young men. Quite the contrary, rock is the order of the day, and HIFH certainly love the rock. Drums are bashed, guitars are pummelled and a man screams empassioned gibberish into a microphone. It may not be Keats, but then Keats' power chords and miserablist screaming never were much cop. If you want great poetry in song, go and buy a Dashboard Confessional album. God will hate you and send you to hell, of course, if you do, but its always an option.
Not all the tracks on the album are 150% proof solid gold slabs of songmuscle - several numbers descend into joyless chugging guitar twattery, but there's enough of the shit on this album to make it a worthwhile purchase. If you like rock, but think you're too cool for Slipknot, get this. At least they don't fanny about with turntables and rapping like fucking lostprophets. A perfect antidote to the waves of substandard pretty-boy manufactured New York garage rock shitehawks polluting the pages of the Music Press at the moment.
Leftfield beats supreme Jean-Yves Prieur is the latest in the line of producers to contribute to the Anotherlatenight series. I have always seen a fundamental flaw in crediting artists for releasing compilation CDs. Having a large record collection is not a difficult achievement, and the idea of getting paid purely for rifling through your shelves to find a dozen tunes seems self-indulgent.
That said, Loco's compilation is surprisingly original given that he is often labelled a bargain basement Air. He clearly has the late night idea in mind, but often takes it to wonderful places, juxtaposing music from many genres and ages, which, on the surface, have no common thread: the mix opens with a haunting tune from 1960s Hungarian psychedelic guitar virtuoso (!) Handor Szabor followed by The Herbaliser's ingenius 'Hard Stuff'. Ok, it's a cynical cash-in, but any mix including a story read by Patrick Moore about a woman getting gutted in a public peepshow gets my vote.
It was never looking promising. From the press release: "US rocks (sic) hot
new talent!"; "Propelled into Rock superstardom literally overnight!"; "Distinctive heavy rock melodies and lyrical sentiments!" In other words, yes, it sounds like Nickelback. And Creed. And Godsmack.
But whereas those bands have produced the occasional catchy song (don't tell me you've never sung 'How You Remind Me' whilst off your face), 3 Doors Down are dull. Really dull. Even duller than Staind in a bad mood. Their sound is MOR where 'M' stands for 'muddy' - there are no crunchy guitar bits, no original melodies and nothing worth shelling out £15 for.
Naturally, they're huge in America. Sheep. It's difficult to pinpoint what exactly is so stomach-churning and repulsive about this new wave of sub-grunge, although I suspect it was the phrase "... are heading for the UK" which made me want to die/destroy/vomit the most. Please, no. Just fuck off, alright?
Perhaps the greatest compliment that can be paid to Oasis' latest single is that it could easily be mistaken for a good John Lennon b-side. Liam has never really hidden his admiration for The Beatles' more adventurous songwriter, and here the chiming guitar mixes perfectly with piano asides to create a two-minute beauty that the John almighty himself would have been pleased with.
This is not your typical slab of half-arsed nu-Oasis rock and roll; Songbird pleasantly surprises by demonstrating Liam's long-known - but only recently realised - ability to write a sweet, melodic gem of an Oasis song. Although it may be indicative of Oasis' lack of ideas and purported stagnation that Songbird has been chosen as a full a-side, the whole package of the single, with a memorable b-side (You've Got) The Heart Of A Star, and a storming live version of the undeniable classic Columbia make this an essential purchase for the hardcore Oasis fans who buy every single on cd, dvd and vinyl. And bloody good listening for the rest of you.
6th Feb 2003