Everett True

Song of the day – 571: A Cartoon Graveyard

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A Cartoon Graveyard

There’s this band from Brisbane, A Cartoon Graveyard. They’ve been playing on my vanity for a couple of weeks now, telling me how they’re refraining from sending out their album to any other places for review until Collapse Board has thoroughly rejected it (or not, as case may be). Quick. Here’s the email now:

Collapse Board are the first and only music magazine we have sent this too so far. We are planning to send out more press releases in the coming weeks, but it would be spectacular if our first review was by Collapse Board, as yours appears to be one of the few media/magazines bold enough to actually still listen to the music you review (or not listen to, in the case of your album cover reviews) and give coverage to new bands.

We would be happy to send you a copy of PJ Harvey’s new DVD – Let England Shake ( £10.59 on Amazon) as a thank you (sorry, we’re relatively new at this marketing caper, so forgot to mention that in our previous email).

Golly!, as Bert would say in Mary Poppins. Who am I to resist such largesse?

So I had a listen, and – gulp – the music is woozy, overblown, heartfelt, disorientating, like Eyeless In Gaza crossed with Punishment Of Luxury (don’t ask: really, don’t ask). And frankly, Mr Blankly, I cannot resist such pathetic loser-hood. (Yeah, right. A good review on Collapse Board: that will really guarantee you front page coverage in Rolling Stone.) These people remind me so heavily of myself. So I had another listen, and the music…

The music is like 70s AM radio sped up slightly and wobbled nastily, all histrionics and nausea-inducing time changes. That half the songs on The Men Who Stole Your Horse Are In The Woods With My Friends sound like ‘Wild West Hero’ distorted beyond repair (at least to these ears) is undeniable. Ziggy? Sure.

It’s like The Bastards Of Fate if fate really had been a bastard to them. It’s 70s musicals taken to places they never made it back from.

So I had another listen, this time on the 383 express bus home (“show me someone on a bus over the age of 30 and I’ll show you a failure” – Margaret Thatcher), and halfway through Paddington I had to exit the bus abruptly, spewing.

I looked down at the pile of vomit shimmering in the gutter, shaking. “That’s funny,” I thought to myself, picking a bit of Jodie Foster out the remains. “I don’t remember listening to that.”

Home once more, I got out a tin of Dairy Farmers’ finest pudding accompaniment and, removing the lid carefully, stuck my cock straight into the gloopy yellow substance.

“What are you doing?” asked my wife astonished, as she walks into the kitchen.

“I’ve just been listening to A Cartoon Graveyard,” I replied, lisping slightly. “And I’m fucking dis custard.”

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