It’s leather trousers worn by men in pubs. It’s an OAP still piling the remainder of his hair into his Teddy Boy quiff, which has over decades thinned to the point where it’s just a flimsy hint, a ghost of a style.
“Mumford & Sons’ singular importance in rock’s current moment cannot be underestimated,” is not a sentence I ever imagined I’d read.
Sparky, desperate, rough-edged, delirium-fuelled, defiant, shouty boy pop. There’s a place for it, you know.
Seriously, the best thing I have ever seen.
Sometimes it’s just fine to have good old-fashioned fun at the seaside.
If after six plays of a song you are left with absolutely no idea what it sounds like it has surely failed some kind of crucial test.
The best Christmas songs will get you joining impromptu choirs and crying into your eggnog.
Really, just open your minds and dance, ya snobby fucks.
We’re not running workshops for the mediocre musician here.
Yup, my heart is yours, you Scots, ‘unfaithful servants of filthy, fucking language’, as Mr Withered Hand says.
She writes of being haunted by songs, battered and tormented and bullied until she can get them down and safe. It’s not craft, it’s alchemy.
Crass make me feel like the ignorant, posh, privileged, complacent, white dabbler that I am. And so they fucking should.
Of course we’re ungrateful, you patronising fuckwit. What exactly gives people who have cocks the authority to give or take human rights from people who have cunts? Absolutely nothing.