I love it when Radiohead write proper, hummable pop songs.
Perhaps Merrill Garbus is the anti-Zooey Deschanel? I fucking hope so.
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.
I’ve met Nick Cave a few times, and – seriously – I don’t reckon he has ever killed or raped a woman.
This talk of reverence and inheritance worries me. The idea that you should shut the fuck up because your progenitors haven’t yet been accorded their rightful due is so damn paralysing.
The kitchen-sink clattering of Youth Novels has been replaced by enormous thunderous drums, multi-tracked heavenly choirs, and melodies that come in great trembling reverberations.
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.
If you wanted hairpin changes of direction: this freewheels straight down the line.