Panadola Diction

Fresh Cherries and almost every other musical blog around have been doing this, so here’s my list of the best album from every year I’ve been alive. This was done in quite a hurry, so it’s subject to change if I find that I’ve forgotten something.

1981 - The Cure - Faith
1982 - The Cure - Pornography
1983 - David Bowie - Let’s Dance
1984 - The Smiths - The Smiths
1985 - The Cure - The Head on the Door
1986 - The Smiths - The Queen is Dead
1987 - The Smiths - Strangeways Here We Come
1988 - Morrissey - Viva Hate
1989 - Pixies - Doolittle
1990 - The Breeders - Pod
1991 - U2 - Achtung Baby
1992 - Pavement - Slanted and Enchanted
1993 - PJ Harvey - Rid of Me
1994 - Weezer - Weezer
1995 - Radiohead - The Bends
1996 - Beck - Odelay
1997 - Pavement - Brighten the Corners
1998 - Beck - Mutations
1999 - Beck - Midnight Vultures
2000 - PJ Harvey - Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea
2001 - The Strokes - Is This It
2002 - Interpol - Turn on the Bright Lights
2003 - Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Fever to Tell
2004 - Interpol - Antics
2005 - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
2006 - Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Show Your Bones
2007 - The National - Boxer
2008 - Stephen Malkmus - Real Emotional Trash

Some notes - Yes, I would prefer to listen to Achtung Baby than Nevermind or Loveless. I don’t know why. 1992 is a killer, as I love PJ Harvey’s Dry more than most of the albums on the whole list, and I also like Your Arsenal a lot. Yes, I would prefer to listen to Brighten the Corners than OK Computer. 2004 was a good year, with many contenders. I couldn’t find room for any Suede anywhere. Funeral is great, but I still prefer Antics. I was struggling to come up with anything for several years, such as 2006, 1981 and 2008. I’ve obviously got quite limited tastes, given the amount of repeat artists. Either that or I haven’t listened to many pre-1996 albums. Odelay was the first album I ever bought. Somebody stole it, but I still have the CD case, without the inlay card.  

Gail Porter is a bad person. I know, because I saw her being a terrible bint in Hyde Park last Friday. For those of you know who don’t know who Gail Porter is, she used to be famous for showing her arse in FHM, then she got stressed and went bald with alopecia.

So, at Morrissey, there we were, having waited patiently for the opportunity to get a good spot near the front after Beck, enjoying our second-row view. To our left were two middle aged blokes, large, affable men, who were obviously genuine Morrissey fans, with no agenda other than to enjoy the spectacle. Then along came Slaphead Porter, trying to get to the front. To begin with, she was reasonably polite, asking people to let her through etc, but finally she came to the two men to our left, and they refused to surrender their positions at the front railing. She asked them to move up, but they couldn’t - it was jammed. They politely refused and told her there was no room. To cut a long story slightly shorter, the situation then escalated with Cueball Gail getting riled and verbally abusing the blokes, who then, quite rightly, told her to fuck off. She contined to harass them, outraged that they would not let her stand at the front, despite the fact that she only turned up fifteen minutes into the show, while they had been there for at least three hours before it started to get their spots. She was ruining the show for the two guys, who were clearly becoming tired of her ranting, and again told her to “look, just fuck off will you?” etc.  Eventually they even tried to get some of the security guards’ attention to try to have her removed.

Little Gail was then dragged away  by her friends, but not before she made a parting gesture of giving the guys ‘the finger’ and pulling a stupid face, like a six year old boy might. They responded with a similar gesture and she exploded, breaking free from her friend and running back at the guy, swinging punches. The fat man, shocked, swung a punch back, before various people got between them and dragged the spitting demon away.

Anyway, it was all highly amusing. Gail didn’t even seem drunk, just crazy-angry. I don’t think her hair is going to grow back any time soon, given her current stress levels. Unfortunately I didn’t get a photo - if I did, it would be in Heat magazine by now, and I’d be a few hundred quid richer.

If the Mirror any other rag would like to use this story in their social pages, do get in touch. I’m sure we can fake-up a good photo.

This is awesome, I’ve raised awareness of alopecia and warned the public about a dangerous celebrity. This is what blogs were invented for, surely.

P.S. - Spot the dog in the picture. (hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha)     (haha)          (ha)

While Morrissey stole the show (can a headliner steal a show? Probably not…) at Wireless last Friday, there were plenty of other things to point my ears at too. Here’s a summary of what I saw/heard.

• The National. I had pretty much written off seeing The National at this festival, due to their partial clash with Beck & Morrissey, the fact that I’ve seen them twice in the last year and the fact that I’m tired of their album-milking, but I was nonetheless pleasantly surprised when a girl with wings grabbed myself and Lady R just as we had entered the festival at 3:00pm and told us that The National were doing a “secret” 15 minute show soon on the 02 stage. So we wandered over and saw a fine condensed National performance of four songs, including my old favourite, ’Mistaken For Strangers’ and ‘Fake Empire’. This satisfied any National-needs that we had for the day, and we were more than happy to ignore them later, in favour of getting a good spot for Moz. I don’t care how good anyone says they were (apparently they put on a good show), screw the (talented) milking bastards.
• Dirty Pretty Things. We sat on the grass with a plastic bottle of Tuborg and listened to these fellows. It was grand, samey, grand.
• Guillemots. The first song ‘Get Over It’ was grand, then he started dribbling on about the next song being about ‘loving’ and asked everyone to kiss their partners, or if you had no partner, to just watch the others kissing. Mulchy wet bastard. I haven’t been so appalled since The Great Athlete Incident*.  We got up and went for noodles.
• Siouxsie Sioux. I’d been looking forward to seeing this quite a bit, though more out of legend-curiosity than musical interest - I hadn’t been impressed with her last Jools H performance. But I was very pleasantly surprised. Her voice has changed over the years, due to a million cigarettes or whatever, but she clearly still enjoys herself on stage, and gave an energetic performance in her silver catsuit. The band sounded fantastic, opening the set (to my delight) with Banshees classic ‘Israel’, and including ‘Happy House’ later. Again the vocals did little for me, but the band sounded huge. Great stuff.
• Beck. This was strange. I love Beck, even though he’s a loop-the-loop Scientologist. He played what was, on paper, a fantastic set with most of the classics, but it was like he wasn’t there at all. Just some robot-Beck. Or a dull man dressed as Beck. There was no interaction, no energy, no show, nothing. It was just like a sound-check. It sounded fine. Strange. Presumably he wasn’t in the mood. But it’s his job to be in the mood. I hadn’t seen him for eight years, and I love almost everything he’s ever recorded, so this was disappointing. There was nothing from Midnight Vultures either, presumably because you couldn’t play any of that whilst acting like a scarecrow with a guitar.

And that was all. Follow all the above with Morrissey, and you get a happy Jusk.

*This deserves a blog-post of it’s own, sometime in the future.

(Photo courtesy of Lady R)

Morrissey is, or at least should be, the envy of every musician, would-be musician or ex-musician. While every other pre-90’s era band is either doing greatest-hits tours or playing greatest-hits material under the pretense of touring some new shit album, Morrissey continues to maintain a level of relevance that has eluded Bowie, Smith, Black, Corgan, and any other has-been who hasn’t killed himself yet. Add to that his borderline-crazy legion of loyal fans, of all ages, and Morrissey must be the benchmark for musical longevity.  

Friday’s show was, to both my dismay and glee, the first time I have seen Morrissey in the flesh. It didn’t rain, Beck had left the crowd unsatisfied and there was a fifteen minute montage of video clips to build expectation before Morrissey took to the stage just as it began to get dark. Front row space was at quite a premium. We settled for row two and reassuring tallness. A friend of mine once commented that Morrissey is actually a better singer now than he was pre-’You Are The Quarry’, and I can well believe it. He can really sing, and he was in fine form in Hyde Park. It was tremendous.

It went a little something like this:

Last of the Famous International Playboys
Ask
First of the Gang to Die
I Just Want to See the Boy Happy
That’s How People Grow up
Irish Blood, English Heart
Sister, I’m a Poet
Vicar in a Tutu
All You Need is Me
The Loop
The World is Full of Crashing Bores
Why Don’t You Find out for Yourself
Mama Lay Softly on the Riverbed
Billy Budd
Death of a Disco Dancer
You Say You Don’t Love Me (Buzzcocks cover)
I’m Throwing my Arms Around Paris
Stretch Out and Wait
Life’s a Pigsty
How Soon is Now
encore:
What She Said

So as you can see - a good mix of brand-new Morrissey, recent Morrissey, old Morrissey, The Smiths and even a cover. I was particularly delighted to hear probably my favourite Morrissey song ever ‘Why Don’t You Find Out For Yourself’, the classic ‘Ask’, and the sublime ‘How Soon is Now’. All were delivered with that iron sincerity (and perhaps sincere irony) that I’ve seen few other artists produce, and underpinned by the excellent band (all in matching jeans and Playboy t-shirts). Even if you don’t agree with what he’s saying/singing, you’re left in no doubt that he really means it. The doe-eyed crowd were treated to a few rants between songs, with meat, George Bush and Kylie Minogue all getting lambasted. “Ah the smell of dead animals wafting across the park,” or something like that. We are all putting illness, sickness and death into our bodies, or so we were told. I’m all for animal-biting myself, but his unbending opinions make me smile.

For those interested in fashion, Morrissey wore a black Playboy t-shirt, a black American Idol t-shirt, and two other normal shirts, all of which were peeled off and thrown to the crowd at some stage. After the show, many fans just hung around for a few minutes, ankle-deep in plastic bottles, letting it all sink in, smoking and exchanging stories with complete strangers. It was all rather triumphant.

More on the O2 Wireless Festival later.

Hello! Blogging is shit.

Seriously. But you all knew that. It’s an indulgence, which I like to dabble in every now and then, but it is largely inconsequential and pointless.

Oh, but it’s writing, it’s great to be writing, you say. Yes, well, no. It’s an excuse not to write anything worth writing. I find that prolific blogging periods correspond with zero proper-writing periods, and vice versa. Q E fucking D.

But there’s nothing wrong with the odd indulgence. A rogue cigarette, a glass of A Winter’s Tale, an episode of Emmerdale (Farm), a game of Wii Tennis. Actually, there’s an analogue - blogging is to writing, as Wii is to exercise. Sure, it’s doing you no harm, but you’re deluded if you think it’s genuinely a form of exercise. But what about Wii Fit, you say? Well, all I can say is that it’s marketing genius - the  Jap who said “lets sell people a weighing scales that can count your push-ups for €100″ is truly a clever Jap.

Is saying ‘Jap’ offensive? Doesn’t seem offensive to me, it’s merely an abbreviation. Hello Japs.

Oh, but it’s a gateway to the world of critical media. It’s only a matter of time until I’m invited to write a column for the Sunday Independent, or guest as an expert on a radio show. Or maybe I’ll get a book deal, and become the Loo Read of 2009, you say.  

Oh, but it’s an outlet for my feelings. Woe is me, you say. Yes, woe is you. Woe betide, I’m leaking feelings.

Oh, but it’s a fine soap box for my poorly-formed polemics and amusing rants, you say. Aye, ’tis. 

Have you ever tried standing on a soap box? Your average box of Daz won’t support your average man. I’d suggest one of those foldable footstools available from “The Book People” - those folks who leave ‘books’ in your office once a month - the latest selection of TV tie-in cookbooks, some children’s books, a sportsperson’s autobiography (for the men) and some other gimmicky gimcrackery. Never a novel. God forbid.

So, yeah, what’s my point. Blogging is like Wii? The Book People are cucksockers? Your blog is even shitter than mine? I’ve got Blog-bulimia? I hate books like “Overheard in Dublin“? I’m looking for attention? I am high-i-i-i-igh on emotion? I frown upon enjoyable and vaguely rewarding pastimes? I’m ok with mild xenophobia? I like sherry? No, no that’s not it at all.

And for god’s sake, if you have read this, please don’t feel the need to justify your blog, or, heaven forbid, mine. Or do, it might amuse me. I might kill you though. Ooh, I’ve just threatened the world. Does that make me a terrorist? Relax, Americans, it’s going to be Ohkay.