Right! I’ve thought long and hard about this, agonised and whittled down to final ten but here, at last, I think I’ve burned down to a list of solid gold excellence.
You’d have to have been found swaddled in a wicker basket in a forest clearing and bought up and reared by wankers to ever consider this anything other than time-marking bollocks of the most tedious kind. Legends.
I have been doing this too long to be in it for the tickets.
And that’s The Breeders, a naked man joy-riding in a car.
Listening to whole albums has become irrelevant due to the immediacy of the internet
A foghorn of a Croydon singing voice, Quality Street-tin drums and curiously deft and layered guitars, almost tripping over themselves in their distorted rush to get to the end.
My god, can you imagine how tiny Robin Thicke’s dick is? Judging by his over-compensation it must be Clarkson small, Gervais small, with a couple of tiny balls looking like Murun Buchstansanger.
Dynamics are the key and it’s only if you really goddamn feel the song you’ve written, understand it with every fibre, does it all instinctively flesh itself out in a live scenario.
Suddenly I realise I’m in a room with people actually comfortable with sexuality and I’m relieved to be around a sexual culture that doesn’t exist just to please men.
Who would rather watch television than go out? I don’t understand the world.