It’s like slipping backwards through sunlight.
I really should get out more.
It’s a most welcome cliché, this sound. An always welcome cliché round these parts.
Some labels you trust. This one I do. The fellow there doesn’t contact me very often. When he does, I listen.
This is the one I find most beguiling and strange and sad and simultaneously seductive.
In music, as in writing, brevity is a virtue. This song is 27 seconds long and it does more in 27 seconds than most bands manage in 27 years.
I love the first Black Sabbath album cos it feels so amateur: unfinished and clunky and full of ridiculous couplets, and vitally not scared of ridicule. Songs don’t fit together, most the time.
I fucking love Camera Obscura.
Cosines. You’ve heard and loved this song before. There’s absolutely no reason not to hear and love this song again.
There’s a part of me that still holds that ‘We’re From Barcelona’ from those Zeitgeist-suckling, cod-Christian flailing, infectiously inane, irritatingly delightful I’m From Barcelona to be one of the singles of the 00s.
The singer hits a slightly wrong note on the guitar and the song stops. No one notices.
Everyone’s smiling. Everyone’s hugging themselves. What a glorious mess of a noise to be a part of. What a glorious sense of community.
Give ‘em time, I reckon. They’ve got energy, attitude, a spark. Let’s see if they turn into a Savages or a Divorce. I know which side of the line I’ll be cheering from.
This vaguely recalls many delights, but has a sunlit haze charm unique to one street in my Chosen City. Like a toddler walking sideways and falling over just because she can. Delicious.
That’s SIR Wharton Tiers to you punkette, man who’s drummed with the Bangs almighty No Wave band Theoretical Girls (ft. Glenn Branca) and Laurie Anderson.
Sometime soon, I need to wake myself up. This abject surrender, this kissing with my eyes open, serves me no good whatsoever.
There’s this slightly pathetic, socially inept indie boy, see. He idolises women. He wants to be with the women, understands instinctively that he’d have more fun if he was with the women
This could, I suspect, be called synth-pop without much fear of contradiction.
The video is so striking, it’s easy to overlook how rad the music is. And the music certainly is rad.
I looked down at the pile of vomit shimmering in the gutter, shaking and still feeling nauseous. “That’s funny,” I thought to myself, picking a bit of Jodie Foster out the remains. “I don’t remember listening to that.”
Sounds like The Pastels to me. Magical.
And now I’ve found this, and I’m more than happy. For this is how I remember Olympia, WA. Ask any of my old friends. Magical.
If they charge by the rhyme, you couldn’t afford the Album. If they charge by the joy, it couldn’t even be sold. This is museum quality joy.