Top 5 One-and-Done

Long time, no see.

I know what you’re thinking – “whatever happened to those fine young chaps with their insightful musical commentary on that there website?”  Well, whilst I’ve been distracted by, you know, living, ML’s been giving it large at MusicOMH (get a picture up there, son).Yet to give a review under 3-stars, I await the day he gets to unleash his venom on a sub-par record with nervous excitement.

As promised in my last post, here’s a quick edition of ‘Axl Watch’. In just the last month, Guns N’Roses screecher Axl Rose has placed a blanket ban on T-shirts worshipping false idols – namely former guitarist Slash – at GN’R’s latest slew of moneybags arena dates. Rumours have also continued to circulate that Axl is throwing back two tanks of oxygen before every show, taking O2’s sponsorship of venues too far, quite frankly. And the legend of his backstage rider requests continues to grow. In fairness, I didn’t even know that square melons existed until Axl’s extravagance made me aware of them…

Everyday's a school day...

Since we last spoke, we have also lost a Beastie Boy and a Bee Gee, as the musical Grim Reaper brings down his scythe in an alphabetical fashion that will no doubt have Ben Folds looking over his shoulder. Whilst a full blown personal tribute to either would be built upon sand - an admiration rather than a true reverence held for both – it’s fair to say that our thoughts are with their bandmates, friends and families. Except Barry Gibb, he’ll always be a tosser to me…

Anyway, enough Bee Gee baiting.

Anyone who has read my debut thought-piece on this site will be aware of my disdain for the music industry’s current lack of quality long-form output, album tracks seemingly constructed as an afterthought. For this entry, I have decided to turn this paradigm on its head, and celebrate my own personal one-hit wonders – bands who have drawn me in with one single morsel of their portfolio, never to tempt me again after the purchase of said track.

The criteria: I have deliberately avoided tracks with high charting positions – mostly dance singles, the nature of that fast moving market driven by House DJs and their ongoing quest for the freshest grooves. So, no room for number one singles ‘Another Chance’ by Roger Sanchez or the Chic-sampling ‘Lady’ by Modjo, however much they may encapsulate an early 2000s summer. Also disqualified are those tracks I wish had been acquired solus; if I own the album, or even just a second track, that artist is disregarded. No matter how much I may want to fawn over ‘Brave Gravity’ by Northern Ireland’s finest,  Jetplane Landing (yeah, you heard right Snow Patrol), or the sublime ‘Rubber Lover’ by Biffy Clyro pop sideline Marmaduke Duke as standout indie singles of the last ten years, these tracks do not make the cut. Finally, one-off singles featuring the collaborative efforts of two or more artists, where there is no body of work thereafter, are not allowed - an incredibly difficult decision which eliminates Mint Royale’s sumptuous summer love song ‘Don’t Falter’, the result of a co-effort with mackem maiden Lauren Laverne. On the upside, this also removes the Jagger/Bowie ill-advised indulgence ‘Dancing in the Street’ (author’s note – I do not own this).

My list, in no particular order…

Captain – ‘Frontline’

A perfect example of coming across a song by unconventional means, from a band who made nary a dint in Britain’s musical history. Having been booked to open for Captain at our friendly neighbourhood venue, I headed straight over to MySpace (ask your Dad) to check them out. What I was presented with was ‘Frontline’, a starry eyed stomp which lit up my ears and drove me to bounce around my bedroom like Zebedee with an ear-to-ear grin. Thankfully for all concerned, my room was on the ground floor.

Me, circa 2005

Unfortunately, the band cancelled their appearance at the gig (yes, we headlined, and yes, we owned it) and as a result, I was never exposed to the rest of the band’s wares. Yet this solitary track managed to set up home in my tympanic cavity. That’s part of the ear, you weirdo.

Produced by chief-Buggle Trevor Horn (yes, that guy), ‘Frontline’ is built around keyboardist Clare Szembek’s effortless, instant vocal which lays the foundations for the captivating hook. Grounded by a viscous, anthemic bass from which the track draws its propulsion, frontman Rik Flynn’s distinctively drawling lead vocal allows the song to flourish by merely adding colour, never distracting from the smooth, dreamy chorus.

The band were dropped by ailing record company EMI as part of a restructuring operation in 2008, having only released a solitary album.

The Rumble Strips – ‘Not the Only Person’

An exceedingly British song by an exceedingly British band, Devon’s The Rumble Strips enlisted the help of walking cover-version /producer Mark Ronson to record second album ‘Welcome to the Walk Alone’. This track showcases Ronson’s penchant for lush production, but is dominated by the flourishing string arrangement of Arcade Fire collaborator Owen Pallett.

Vocalist Charlie Waller wails his way through the rhythmic stabs of guitar and violin, neatly packaged into a little over two and a half minutes, which combined with its orchestral overtures holds up as a tribute to a golden age of soulful pop songs.

The accompanying video seemingly relays the story played out in the lyrics, with Waller singing about the potential mugging related pitfalls of a drunken walk home. Although one suspects that he may have embellished the ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ style ending for effect…

The Subways – ‘Alright’

A band best known as the inaugural benefactors of the ‘Glastonbury Unsigned’ competition in 2004, I have always taken issue with The Subways’ path to the big time. Admittedly, my umbrage is of the green eyed variety, their big break coming at a time when I was trying to attain that most elusive of covets, a record deal. In the meantime, Michael Eavis plucked The Subways from obscurity and facilitated a rock’n’roll media circus that had PR and marketing departments at eventual home Infectious Records taking extended holidays; their triumphant story wrote itself.

As if winning a talent contest endorsed by Britain’s favourite chin-strap-bearded farmer wasn’t enough of a golden PR hook, The Subways were fronted by boyfriend /girlfriend combo Billy Lunn and Charlotte Cooper, who satisfied many a lady bass fetish.

Not what I meant…

This media friendly back-story did not reap long-term rewards however, as memories of their Somerset victory faded fast. Then, during the recording sessions with Grunge production legend Butch Vig for second album ‘All or Nothing’, the band were almost ripped apart by the end of Lunn and Cooper’s eight year relationship.

Having managed to transcend the change to their sleeping arrangements, ‘Alright’ was released in June 2008 - the last Subways single to threaten the UK charts, modestly peaking at 44. A shameful state of affairs really, as this is a barnstormer of an indie-rock anthem.

A song about redemption and second chances conveyed with a sense of hope, the track hinges on the one word titular chorus. Such a simple hook, yet so difficult to execute with this level of splendour, Lunn’s Hertfordshire timbre and Cooper’s shiny silk backing harmonies interweave flawlessly. The fall-out from their break-up is beautifully encapsulated in the middle 8, as the former lovers sing at each other “And I wonder / When we fall / Who do we need? / Who do we call?”

Too good to let the final chords just fade out, proceedings are ended with an almost comedic simultaneous chord hit 10 seconds shy of 3 minutes. This is rock-pop at its finest.

PS. As an aside, Butch Vig’s daughter is called Bo Violet? This was allowed to happen? Social Services? Anyone? Bueller?

Delorean – ‘Deli’

Confession time – I am not cool.

Okay, so no new news there, but my discovery of this particular gem really epitomises how very uncool I can be. It didn’t appear on my radar as a result of attending an über-hip jamboree in a converted warehouse hosted by a continental DJ. Nor did I come across it by way of hipster track-du-jour word-of-mouth. Hell, I didn’t even hear about this track in the NME or as part of a late night MTV viewing (you know, when they actually open the doors to something, anything different). No, I first became aware, besotted and addicted to this track by way of a video-game.

In a hip-hop heavy soundtrack with flashes of indie and rock, Delorean’s  Balearic beats stand out. Incidentally, the same platform fantastically yet unexpectedly introduced me to mannequin-bothering Kiwis The Brunettes and Canadian indie-synth poppers The Russian Futurists. Well played music licensing guy, well played.

Despite sharing their name with the greatest movie-car of all time, this Spanish collective remain firmly under the radar - unsurprising really when you consider that the only Spanish artist to have had any degree of international success is this guy… and his Dad. That’s it.

This track from the group’s 2009 release, the ‘Ayrton Senna EP’, revolves around both synth and funk hooks, but is so much more than a synth-funk record, underpinned by a driving sense of purpose not dis-similar to that of Brighton alternative dance purveyors The Go! Team. A ghostly choir of a synth permeates the track, present in the verses over stabs of slap-back guitar, sampled vocal chops and a staccato ascending bass. This tight focus eventually gives way to a joyous, free-flowing chorus, a celebration of a one-time friendship or fledgling romance that never fails to elicit a smile. Awash with erroneous grammar (‘Up, up, they break my legs up’, ‘I like the time I spent for you’), the track has a sense of charm so often missing from the Dance genre. Any road, their English is way better than my Spanish - all power to them.

Those Dancing Days – ‘Hitten’

Band names are often great indicators of influence, and hence subsequent style. Yet when these five school friends from Stockholm took their moniker from the title of a Led Zeppelin song, you’d be forgiven for jumping to an incorrect conclusion and expecting a riff-heavy onslaught of blues rock. Endorsed by quintessential scarf-wearing-kitten-lovers Belle & Sebastian, no less, Those Dancing Days’ 2008 single ‘Hitten’ is the twee-est entry on this list and possibly in my entire record collection.

Belle & Sebastian (stock photo)

A lo-fidelity guitar twang and melodic synth set the scene for this song of acceptance and self-discovery (‘Now I know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling / What I want my life to be’). It feels somewhat cobbled together, the keyboard line being overbearing in the mix, detuned effects throwing the listener off kilter, and drum fills feeling like they have been improvised on the spot.

Real cohesion for the track comes in the form of vocalist Linnea’s voice, the yearning when she delivers the opening stanza, ‘Slow down, please, slow down’. It’s the emphasis and passion in her vocal delivery which really sets this track apart. Simply sumptuous.

So, whether it be a slice of a sound that I’m not ordinarily a fan of, an opportunistic proposition that captured a particular time or mood, or that moment within a band’s lifecycle when the stars align and a back-catalogue of mediocrity gave way to 3 minutes of genius, these tracks all have one thing in common – they remain unsullied by disappointment past, present and future; my perfect musical moments.

Share your own personal one-hit wonders in the comments…

Sick of Goodbyes: Remembering Mark Linkous

I first wrote a version of this piece almost two years ago, just a few days after the death of Mark Linkous, the singer/songwriter and mastermind behind Sparklehorse, at a time when feelings were surprisingly raw for me. Two years to the day since his passing, it feels appropriate to dust it off for display on this platform.

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I still find myself quietly devastated at the loss of Mark Linkous. Planning on writing a probably trite and ham-fisted Facebook status update to this effect, I started compiling a mental list of my memories related to his music. Quickly finding that I couldn't stop and, becoming increasingly confounded as to what to use, I instead decided to write a fuller, hammier-fisted part-eulogy, such as it is. I didn't know Mark personally, so have been surprised at the keen sense of loss that’s settled on my shoulders over the last couple of days as I’ve played Sparklehorse records non-stop. That there will be no more of these magical recordings seems unbearably and unavoidably sad. Those feelings therefore probably also need some exploration.

I still remember my first exposure to Mark’s music on the 25^th of May 1996. How can I be so precise? It wasn’t to do with a revelatory first listen, as you might imagine and as a good clichéd story of fandom would have it. I actually bought Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot on something of a whim on the same day as the Ben Folds 5 debut which I sought out having seen them on Later, smashing up Jools’ piano the previous weekend. A review of Vivadixie… in the NME that I’d skimmed had caught my attention – remember this was pre-Internet, back when that publication retained some relevance – and that was enough.

Of my two new purchases made on that day, one record was slick, witty and preppy, with virtuoso piano playing front and centre. The other was fuzzy and elliptical, with songs that sounded like they were recorded on rusted, arcane, homemade machines that were fit to fall apart at any second. There was no real contest as to which got my attention. I played Vivadixie… to anyone and everyone that would listen. Remember, this was at a time when Britpop was at its height and British music felt important and relevant the world over. Knowing and swaggering, not yet the hopeless show pony hindsight largely and ruthlessly showed it to be, the movement was arresting and all-conquering. Added to that, the hooks from Radiohead’s The Bends were still cast deep into me, so a record had to go some to garner anything more than my passing interest. That Vivadixie… caused outright obsession tells its own story.

Even though I was anally careful with my CDs I swear I wore it out and I had to buy another copy, Vivadixie... becoming one of only two records that holds that distinction (The Bends the other). I still recall listening to the song ‘Saturday’ on loop for an entire afternoon, thinking its simplicity just audacious, floored by its beauty to the point of paralysis “I'd like to tell you how I feel / but I'll probably keep it till Saturday”. It seemed the most perfect thing ever written. It still does. I sort of couldn't believe it existed and I still feel that same way about it today. It made me pick up a guitar and became the first song I ever played to a live audience.

I remember follow up Good Morning Spider coming out in 1998 and, in an edgy froth of excitement, I took my CD walkman to town on the morning of release, bought a copy (yes, from those anachronisms called ‘record shops’) and retreated - well, fairly sprinted - to a nearby cafe to listen to the whole thing immediately. Twice. Really loud. They kicked me out for only buying a cup of tea and sitting there for 2 hours, eyes clasped shut for the most part. I wanted to drink it all in, to just collapse into that record. I often did over the following summer, one spent taking long, aimless walks in the Shropshire hills. Mark’s vocal delivery on ‘All Night Home’ is still breathtaking - it’s like he whispers into your ear and steals a piece of your soul.

The following may sound clichéd, but it's true: Mark's music did at times help me to reconcile my own problems - familial, health, philosophical / existential; all those that especially beset a gawky teenager. Somehow it was all wrapped up in those sad, glorious messes of records, which were as supremely sophisticated as they were naive. They seemed to exert their own gravitational pull, a sort of peculiar and delicious melancholia. This was in contrast as much as steadfast mining of a mood – dissonance meshing effortlessly with beauty, sometimes in the same song. I also loved them because my Dad hated them, thereby ticking another required box for rock and roll. I had and retain the inescapable sensation that, like all art worthy of note, Mark's music so clearly operated outside of an aesthetic and fashion. Things like image, reception, intention and, to an extent, form were secondary to exploration, necessity, understanding. These lessons – ones so fundamental they shouldn’t need underscoring but are hopelessly lost in today’s industry - stayed with me and still inform my creativity.

They say never meet your heroes, but I took the opportunity to meet Mark after a show in Leeds. I felt like I was a million miles away from home - it was the week after I had started University - and I chatted with him outside the venue whilst watching an enterprising local band play in the street to the punters leaving the gig. He was accommodating in the face of being hounded by the idiot, earnest fanboy I was - he was genial, funny and seemed to be about 7 feet tall. This is oddly fitting, as the man was a musical colossus to me - he taught me that you don't need a great voice to be a great singer, that the oblique can be just as affecting as the direct, and he almost single-handedly re-calibrated my sense of the solace and beauty of sound.

RIP.

Ferric Tape Re-assessment – Guns N' Roses – ‘Use Your Illusion II’

Wait, what did I say I was going to do? Review old records? Okay…

On occasion, a band rises above the ‘ease of reference’ that a genre affords them to become definitive, peerless. Guns N’ Roses were one such band, dragging the retrospectively baptised Hair Metal by its polymer enhanced locks through the second half of the 1980s. Dispensing with the spandex and mascara of their competitive set, their brand of punk infused blues and epic sense of rock dynamics quite simply took over the world.

It is only when you consider that the band actually only ever released two albums proper: 1986’s slow-burner of a debut and the Use Your Illusion recordings - regarded in sensible quarters as a double LP - that one realises what an immense impact this band had upon musical culture in such a short space of time.

I have chosen to re-appraise the second of the Use Your Illusion records track-by-track for the simple reason that ‘II’ was my first exposure to the band, one that immediately felt dangerous and illicit to my 12 year old self. Yet to forge my own sense of music taste having been brought up on my Dad’s passions of Queen, Dire Straits and Eric Clapton’s Cream (the band, you sick f*ck), I found myself caving to a peer pressure of sorts, and had a friend make me a copy of Use Your Illusion II. Whilst the quality of the recording was dubious – unconfirmed suspicions are that a tape recorder may have been pressed up against the speakers of a CD player – my nervous intrigue was at its utmost. This was no doubt driven by some of the band’s lyrical choices, this being the first record I had ever been exposed to which was emblazoned with an iconic ‘Parental: Advisory’ sticker.

Unprecedented levels of pre-teen excitement

In some territories, including the UK, the record was originally shipped with the band’s unique alternative to the sticker, a message less about parents protecting the malleable minds of their offspring, more about raising a middle finger to those who opposed their brand of ‘sinful excess’.

But this album wasn’t just exciting because somebody did a swear. This was the return of the most iconic band of a generation, the most powerful voice in modern rock, and the coolest top-hat to have ever emerged from Stoke.

Real rock icons get made into Lego

Branded ‘the most dangerous band in the world’ by many a media outlet, by the time the record and its preceding volume were released simultaneously in September 1991 the band were already several months into the accompanying Use Your Illusion world tour. They had already been charged with inciting a riot. By the end of the 28 month road trip, taking in 194 shows in 27 countries, the cracks in the band’s foundations would be beyond repair.

In fact, many would claim that the band never truly recovered from the firing of original drummer Steven Adler. Prior to their formation, Adler was the common denominator which would mesh members of two bands he had played in, Road Crew - with high-school friend Saul ‘Slash’ Hudson and bass player Michael ‘Duff’ McKagan - and Holywood Rose, which featured Lafayette, Indiana natives Jeffrey Isbell (better known as guitarist Izzy Stradlin’) and Bill Bailey.

Future Bill looks confused…

Early into the recording sessions for the Use Your Illusion records, it became clear that Adler’s heroin use had escalated to the point where he was no longer capable of being a functioning member of the band. Replaced by Matt Sorum, Izzy Stradlin’ would later describe the impact of Adler’s departure upon the band’s sound: “His sense of swing was the push and pull that give the songs their feel. When that was gone, it was just... unbelievable, weird. Nothing worked.”

Whilst the change of percussionary personnel may not have been as dramatic a shift as Stradlin’ claims, the effect that the change had upon the social and professional dynamic of the group would prove to be the lasting impact upon the band’s legacy. Adler only appears on one track from the Use Your Illusion albums, volume II’s opener, ‘Civil War’.

Opening with a simple brooding acoustic progression, quotes from 1967 prison drama Cool Hand Luke give way to Axl Rose whistling eight bars of American Civil War song, 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home'. So far, so politically astute. What differentiates this track even further is Axl’s opening vocal – there is no scree, no squall, no histrionics. Axl’s tone is sombre, and immediately surrounds the track with a sense of sincerity befitting its subject matter. A simple protest song decreeing that all war is in fact ‘civil’ and “feeds the rich while it buries the poor”, this is a million miles away from the nihilism of their sex & drugs drenched debut. Indications of changes to the core Guns N’ Roses sound become even more pronounced as the track progresses, with new member Darren ‘Dizzy’ Reed sneaking some piano into the second half of the first verse. However, all of this becomes secondary at the 1:19 mark, when the acoustic instrumentation gives way to swathes of distortion, chorus drenched bass, and THAT voice. Delicious.

What impresses the most with this song is the complexity of its structure. The track makes it through almost three minutes before hitting the main chorus (so defined by containing the song title in the lyric), having already traversed three distinct, differentiated limbs of the song. If there is one area where Guns N’ Roses remain criminally under-rated, it is their ability to create grandiose, multi-faceted opuses which shift seamlessly between segments. This is the first of a few prime examples on this record.

Reed’s keyboard work continues to gain prominence on second track ‘14 Years’. With Stradlin’ taking lead vocal duties, this relatively pared back blues number would be instantly forgettable save for Rose seemingly taking an executive decision to add some life to an otherwise drab chorus. A finer quality of hook is present on ‘Yesterdays’. Clocking in at a little over three minutes, this is the most traditionally ‘pop’ song in the band’s portfolio - the antithesis of sprawling tracks like ‘Civil War’ and ‘November Rain’ from volume I – yet it is only recognisable as a G N’R track by virtue of Axl’s unmistakeable vocal. However, these tracks side by side serve to contradict each other – on the one hand we have reminiscence, a song dedicated to the musical friendship of Rose and Stradlin’, whilst on the other “Yesterday's got nothin' for me” - adjacent yet perpendicular.

Next up is a cover of the Bob Dylan song, ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door’. Actually released one year previous on the soundtrack for the Tom Cruise film Days of Thunder, this song had been part of the band’s live set since 1987, included a reggae breakdown mid… you know what? Fuck this song. Fuck Bob Dylan, fuck scientology, and fuck reggae – I hate this track.

‘Get in the Ring’ doesn’t fare much better. A punk song layered with pre-recorded crowd noise (a possible nod to the fake crowd noises on debut EP Live ?!*@ Like a Suicide), this track stood out for my peers at age twelve as one of the most obscene – and hence coolest – things they had ever heard. In fact, this song offers little more than an opportunity to put on a display of anger directed at the media, with Axl offering various music journalists ‘outside’ - choice line from Axl’s spoken/shouted monologue: “Fuck you! Suck my fucking dick!”

As my old man would say, “Nice boy, basically shy.”

The self-indulgence of the lyrics could perhaps be excused were the music somewhat better, but, as it stands, the track is poor. ‘Shotgun Blues’ is a much better example of obscenities meshing with fast and dirty punk, like Status Quo on a cocktail of meth and forty Marlboro a day.

‘Breakdown’, opening with banjo, more whistling, and a military shuffle drumbeat, initially feels like the spiritual bookend to ‘Civil War’ to close the first side of the album, but such coherence is short-lived. Once the intro figure is replaced by the bold piano chords of the verse, the track degenerates into a seven minute bore, with an ill-advised shift in chord progression mid-verse leaning dangerously towards Meatloaf territory. Reportedly, the vocal ending to this track is the only part of either Use Your Illusion album that Rose was unhappy with. I would implore him to follow my example and re-appraise the situation.

So, half the album down, and my warm feelings of nostalgia are on the ropes…

Side two needs to open strong, and ‘Pretty Tied Up’ delivers. A Stradlin’ penned ode to a bondage obsessed acquaintance - “I know this chick, she lives down on Melrose/ She ain’t satisfied without some pain” – one would be forgiven for initially fearing the worst when the track starts up with a lick from a coral sitar. However, the phrasing and key of the song helps the distinctive twang mesh seamlessly into the instrumentation. This is what you want from a G N’R record, balls to the wall sordid rock’n’roll.

‘Locomotive’, a song that would no doubt disappoint thousands of Little Eva and Kylie Minogue fans alike if placed upon a pub jukebox, continues to get the album back on track. A pummelling Sorum drum figure and car-horn guitar usher in a funky McKagan bass motif, which in turn introduces this multi-tiered track with multiple chorus flashpoints. Like ‘Civil War’, the structure of this song is its most intriguing facet. The verses are simple enough, with Axl at his most nasal yet melodious over a single chord, and the first ‘chorus’ - lyrically referencing the album title - has a swagger that transcends the razor wire guitar chords which climb and fall in turn. Add to this a further ‘chorus’ - this time referencing the song title - consisting of a descending semi-tone figure that leads into a sequence of stop-start riffs which are as unbalancing and chaotic as they are driving, whilst Axl’s wails find themselves supported by an unsettlingly deep backing vocal, and you have 8 minutes and 42 seconds of structured bedlam, playing out with two minutes of piano led funk-blues. Somehow, it works.

‘So Fine’ is a McKagan number, dedicated to the then recently deceased punk rocker Johnny Thunders. With the verses sung by the bassist in a punk drawl over a lounge blues backdrop, Axl emerges to pine sensitively on the choruses. It’s a well measured departure from the bombast of ‘Locomotive’, and provides a moment of cerebral relief ahead of the album’s defining masterpiece, ‘Estranged’.

Another song that sits in two distinct halves yet flows seamlessly across its 9 and a half minutes, ‘Estranged’ contains, in my opinion, the finest moment of any G N’R song. An almost quivering Rose vocalises over pregnant, anticipatory piano chords - as the rest of the band enter the fray, Slash unleashes one of the most hypnotic guitar licks committed to tape. Each note is perfect, every bend a delight.

Considering the multitude of reasons that Axl Rose is widely considered to be, well, a bit of a dick, the one that I believe often gets overlooked is the writing credit for this track. Slash’s guitar phrases are essential to this song – try listening to it and try to block it out, leaving Rose’s piano as the lead instrument. It’s implausible that this song could exist in this form without Slash’s contribution, yet the only credit Slash receives is a token ‘thanks’ in the album’s liner notes for ‘the killer guitar melodies’. If they deserve special mention, they probably deserve a writing credit, Axl.

(A quick note about Slash – how ridiculous is it that a guy with as cool a moniker as Saul Hudson should be known by a nickname? As a member of the first-name-as-last-name brigade, I am deeply envious.)

Released as a single at the height of the band’s extravagance and indulgence, the accompanying multi-million dollar video is a curious affair.

The fifth most expensive music video of all time features the following:

• a SWAT team
• a military airlift jet
• Slash ripping a solo whilst floating along the Sunset Strip
• an oil tanker
•  a school of bottlenose dolphins
• Slash again defying physics - emerging from the ocean to wear down his fretboard once more

It all ends with Axl in a dressing gown smugly grinning to the camera whilst kicking back with one of the aforementioned bottlenoses…

What is this, I don’t even….

The record continues to strike whilst the iron is hot, with ‘You Could Be Mine’. A Stradlin’/Rose collaboration about a failed relationship, written prior to the release of debut album Appetite for Destruction, the song opens with gasoline propelled drums and guitar-work that sounds like it’s teasing a car ignition as you feel the track rev itself to full throttle. The track had been released as a single in the preceding summer, coinciding with the promotional campaign for Terminator 2: Judgment Day - the song features in the movie, but not on the soundtrack album. In retrospect, the film and band are perfectly twinned - both leading in their respective fields at the time, both still regarded as seminal today. This track is the collection’s climax and Guns at their finest; immediate, raucous, and slightly unhinged.

‘Don’t Cry’ takes the pace down, and is an odd proposition. Also present on volume I, this version offers an alternate set of lyrics and subsequent melodic phrasing. For what it’s worth, it’s a hell of a lot better on both counts. The problem with its presence here is the effect upon the pacing of the record. A simple open-chorded ballad, the song would be a better fit for a mid-album position rather than at the record’s apex. It certainly isn’t an album closer, despite any poignancy added by the presence of the late Shannon Hoon on backing vocals.

Of course, technically, ‘Don’t Cry’ isn’t the album closer. If we are to deal with this review literally and objectively, it is not the final track. But it might as well be.

Allegedly, the inclusion of final track ‘My World’ was a surprise to other members of the band when the record was released, with some completely unaware of its existence. Rose at the time was increasingly becoming interested in Industrial metal, best evidenced by the presence of future Industrial royalty Nine Inch Nails on the G N’R support bill. This minute and a half of electronic beats, S&M samples and synth bass is seemingly Rose’s solo experimentation with the then fledgling genre. Unsurprisingly, this tuneless, growled affair did not make a case for pursuing this direction long-term with bandmates and fans alike. Divisive.

This album was, of course, the beginning of the end for the band. Within two months of the record’s release and mid-tour, Izzy Stradlin’ called it a day, citing a combination of Rose generally being a dick and the struggle to reconcile his efforts on sobriety with the lifestyles his bandmates continued to pursue. This was a massive blow for Axl - his best friend, closest ally, and the buffer between Rose’s ego and the rest of the band was no more. Rose would subsequently drift between each internal feud and external controversy with aplomb. You only need to take a quick look at this timeline to see that Stradlin’s departure coincides with the band’s collapse into chaos.

More importantly, by the time the band would release their next record (much maligned covers album The Spaghetti Incident?), grunge had taken the world by storm. G N'R had become outmoded, antiquated, passé, in a mere matter of months. It didn’t help that Rose insisted on pursuing a war of words with Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain, who would of course be heralded as the focal point of this new musical movement - whether he liked it or not. By the time the Use Your Illusion tour had finished, the musical landscape had changed irrevocably, with the guitarists of tomorrow buying Fender Mustangs instead of Les Pauls. There was no longer a role for Guns’ unbridled extravagance.

So, with of-course-this-pun-is-intended-Rose tinted spectacles removed, does Use Your Illusion II still hold up as a great record? Or was it merely an illusion constructed by the smoke and mirrors of vulgarity and anger?

All told, it’s a close run thing. This album certainly isn’t as good as I remember when considered as a holistic entity. The first half of the record offers very little, with four of its seven tracks eminently ‘skippable’ in this digital age. Yet the second side is the epitome of everything that was good about the band, and is the key exhibit when arguing that my nostalgia has not been misplaced.

Of course, the temptation is to ignore the weaker entries in the Use Your Illusion collection and hypothesise which songs would make the best track-listing for a singular volume. However, it would seem that record label Geffen have beaten us to the punch - getting half of their choices spectacularly wrong to appease the moral epicentre of America that is WalMart.

Despite their obvious, glaring flaws, the question for me is whether these recordings still feel fresh, raw, and exciting as they did to a musically naïve 12 year old almost 20 years ago. And the simple answer is "Yes". Whilst certainly of its time, this record still retains that sense of ‘danger’ that the band were branded with. A shame then, that this intensity and dramatic tension extended into the personality and behaviour of W.Axl Rose to such an extent that the band would effectively never commit an original note to record ever again.

What a dick.

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Okay, enough of all this serious patter. Time for an Axl Rose gallery special…..

Hucknall wants the pianist to get a shift on…

Chainmail? No. Just no.

‘Come at me bro’

'What do you mean I can’t start the show at half eleven?'

'Oosh!'

Scarily uncanny…

And finally…

Haters gon’ hate…

Needless to say, we’ll be keeping an eye on this guy to see how it all pans out….

We watch the BRIT Awards 2012 (so you don’t have to)

Last Tuesday night saw the 2012 BRIT Awards ceremony take place at the O2 Arena in Greenwich. Whilst the destination of each award bore little prestige and even less surprise when announced - a quick scan of the live performers gave a reasonably clear indication of how the gongs would be distributed - we recorded a blow by blow account of proceedings so that you don’t have to take time out of your busy life to watch them. Yes, you could have used this information ahead of time.

First, a mention for the pre-show ‘red-carpet’ event, presented by Leigh Francis in his ever popular Keith Lemon guise, and Laura Whitmore. Who? Exactly. Here, we got the answers to key questions such as ‘How many TVs do Rizzle Kicks have in their house?’, ‘Is Olly Murs on the pull tonight?’, and ‘What is Pixie Lott for?’ One of these questions may not have been genuinely asked. Highlights include no-one knowing who Chase & Status are, society crumbling as Alex James said ‘shit’ on live TV, and Whitmore begging for one of her production team to give her ‘a question for Jessie J, please…. before she comes in…’ being inadvertently broadcast. This led to these insightful sound-bites: “I always wanted to get an A-star in art,” and “I was messaging [Ed Sheeran] this morning about pancakes and what we have on our pancakes”. I swear it, these quotes are real. Rock’n’roll is alive and well, folks.

But enough about the support act, let’s get to the headliners. Here‘s mine (black type) and ML’s (blue type) running commentary of the awards…

19:59 (MJ) Coldplay open the show, slightly early by my watch, in their neon emblazoned denim with what I assume is their forthcoming single, ‘Charlie Brown’. Never has the Peanuts comic strip had its name taken in vain so shamelessly. We tracked down Charlie for a live reaction…

I hear ya, bro.

The performance is everything you would expect from the band. Some pyrotechnics are the only thing that retain my interest, which peaks during one particularly incendiary moment towards the song’s end. However, the possibility of the band being wiped out in a fireball is unfortunately wishful thinking.

20:04 Walking fat joke James Corden takes the reins. Mention is made of Sir Peter Blake – he of Sgt. Pepper fame – who has designed this year’s statuette.

It looks like it should contain bubble bath...

20:05 A pre-taped vignette is played for British Album of the Year nominee, ‘21’ by Adele. Adele benefits from what I refer to as “Waller’s Law”, or “McManus’ Maxim”; the assumption that any recording artist who is overweight brings an emotional depth to their performance that those with a normal BMI cannot muster. The girl’s got talent, but would she really warrant all the international fuss if she wasn’t marketed as an ‘inspiration’ to all of us who carry a little timber?

True fact: Adele’s record label is XL.

20:06 A Whitney Houston tribute lasts all of 30 seconds. Feels lazy.

20:08 (ML) What did I miss? Oh. So, here we go, that night when we all pretend that music is some sort of dun-faced meritocracy; a competition that can somehow be “won”. As we know, the real winners are the advertisers and sponsors, along, of course, with the errant human dreck that comprise the British music industry, who are already busy getting wankered on Bollinger and patting themselves on the back. I’m doomed to fail in my attempt to maintain that phlegmatic attitude when neither Laura Marling nor Bon Iver get anything and Adele sweeps the board.

20:09 Florence and the Machine perform. Florence looks tired beyond her 26 years. The instrumentation that defined her sound in 2009 (melodic harps and big drums, basically) is front of centre as this pony is encouraged to repeat that one trick… dull, dull, dull…

That reminds me, I must get that bloke round to unblock my drains.

20:12 Commercial break. Mark Ronson tries to sell me Olympic tickets.

20:16 Nominees for Best British Female Solo Artist are announced by Kylie, who’s looking good for 72.

Marling won’t win again surely? If we’re doing it on current merit it has to be Kate Bush. If we’re doing it on past glories it has to be Kate Bush. It’s... shock of shocks, ADELE. And is that Sid Owen cheering her on from her table? If there’s ever been anyone more deserving of a Brit for his glittering soft reggae pop career, it’s him.

We get a close-up of British non-Female Artist Ed Sheeran for no discernible reason. Adele appears to be momentarily possessed by the spirit of Barbara Windsor before thanking her record company for “letting her be herself”. Inspiring.

One of those rare moments in history when the country comes together, thinking exactly the same thing at the same time. “That can’t be Adele’s speaking voice!”

20:18 Jessie J’s punchable jawline presents Best International Male Solo Artist with Jack Whitehall. She appears to have styled her hair like a spaniel for the occasion.

Whitehall demonstrates a level of reading comprehension almost on a par with our glorious host, fluffing his intro beautifully. He’ll be leading proceedings next year at this rate. The only other thing remarkable about him is his haircut, which, fittingly, makes him look like an unmitigated Jessie J (i.e. twat).

Come on Bon Iver. WIN FOR MUSIC! (Phlegmatic attitude gone.)

Possible midget BRUNO MARS wins the award, with the voting panel missing a golden chance to speak to us ‘cool kids’ with a win for Bon Iver or Ryan Adams. Non-international Male Ed Sheeran receives another close-up shot for no reason.

At least Little Richard’s looking spry eh? The voiceover, in dead-eyed, sanguine tones, tries to convice us that popularity and quality inherently correlate, this being the mantra of and spurious justification for the evening. Also, somewhere a poorly guarded Mexican border crossing is missing a furtive illegal immigrant. Can I say that? Probably not.

(Jesus.)

20:22 Our first moment of genuine excitement as some random suit walks between Corden and camera.

GIVE HIM A BRIT!

20:23 Olly Murs comes flying out of a heart shaped sculpture adorned with a Union Jack design. Judging by the subsequent accuracy of his vocal pitch, one can only assume he has been winded by the exertion. It’s the only explanation. No way is this kid a bad singer. You don’t come second on X-Factor by being a bad singer.

Murs is on. I have literally nothing acerbic to say. After all, if he can’t be bothered to put out something that’s not even shit enough to comment on, why should I? It's actually more entirely anodyne, like eating a bowl of air.

20:25 The Critics Choice (sic, apostrophe fans, it’s what the graphic says) Award is doled out, apparently to Max Headroom. This, for me, encompasses the rampant banality of the Brits, which is of course why we love it and hate it in equal measure. A new breed of gong given to a new artist, it's an altogether more sinister beast in that it’s a thinly veiled marketing tool, replete with faux authenticity in claiming to be a highbrow critics’ choice, as opposed to the other awards which are just massively explicit press stunts. Who are these shadowy figures that are involved in the judging process? We're not told. That Jessie J won it last year really says it all. How can someone who’s barely released anything win an award?

True Fact: EMELI SANDE’s real name is Adele.

20:27 Ed Sheeran performs ‘Lego House’, and all I can think about is how very ginger he is. His bum-fluff beard looks like fuzzy felt. He has changed out of the suit he arrived in. Decked in surfer T-shirt and jeans, he almost trips over his words at one point, probably trying to decide whether to continue to slum it or to smarten up for when he inevitably wins an award…

20:30 I’m embarrassed to say and have to confess that I pre-judged Sheeran having never heard him. Now I have, I know he’s shit. Can’t sing, can’t play, is ginger.

20:31 We’ve had more performances (4) than awards (2). The organisers will regret this.

Commercial break. I hope my neighbours don’t work out I’m watching this. As far as they know I only listen to Shearwater and krautrock. I’ll never live it down.

The Mastercard trails inadvertently give the lie to the state of the industry when pissed up karaoke efforts from members of the public are comfortably on a par with the ‘pros’ suspiciously often. Ah, but can they also do backflips like that one who looks like he's missing a chromosome from JLS? (Actually, thinking about it, that description doesn't help round it down.) If not, NO RECORD DEAL.

20:36 Best British Single, voted for by that most responsible of publics, the Great British. Simon Webbe from passé Eurovision boy-band Blue rocks up to present the award. He’s going by the name Tinie Tempah now. Not sure what that’s all about…

Tinie Tempah says “bloody hell” and it’s pre-watershed. He can fuck off.

ONE DIRECTION win. I can’t even remember the name of their song, distracted by what fundamentally amounts to five walking haircuts. That lad shagging that lass old enough to be his mam looks like an absolute bellend in a bow-tie. Panic starts to set in as it looks likely at one point that all five of them will have a speech to make. The organisers will regret this. I temporarily warm to Corden as he steps in to stop the madness.

These few seconds a year is pretty much the only time I’m exposed to the sort of songs nominated here, but they still seem genetically engineered to cause me an unusual amount of pain and unearthly suffering which easily lasts until the next BRITs. I can’t work out who my favourite One Direction member is. I think it’s the one who looks like a piece of toast. Yeah. It is.

20:39 Jenson Button offers the most random bang for your buck so far tonight by being the bizarre choice of presenter for Best International Female.

When did YOU last win something Jenson? "The winner is... ME!" *runs off cackling* An overwhelming crowd reaction for actual music’s Feist there during the nominations. You could hear the collective shrugging of shoulders, so now at least we know what that sounds like.

Button delivers the award with less personality than one of the motors that he drives. RIHANNA’s plunging neckline wins for the second year on the bounce. Kind of obvious considering she was the only nominee present and on the live bill. Just sayin’…

Bless Rihanna: “Cheers to everyone for shittily peddling my shit and little shitty people for using your shitty money to buy my shit”. I’m making myself dizzy with the reflexive eye rolling during her speech.

20:42 Ed Sheeran’s vignette for his best album nomination, ‘+’. Somehow he manages to look more ginger on the album’s cover. Clips are shown of the ‘Lego House’ video with Rupert Grint of Harry Potter ginger sidekick fame – it’s as if some sort of high council had been called…

20:44 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds perform and proceed to bore the shit out of me. I’m convinced that this is at least 57% due to Coldplay’s Chris Martin guesting on keyboards.

Alright Noel, please just say something outrageous and not actually sing.

20:53 An Amy Winehouse tribute in the same mould as the earlier Houston montage. Corden struggles to do sincere.

20:54 The award for Best British Male is presented by an intoxicated Plan B, whose patter is shite as he struggles to remember what year it is.

Jesus. Plan A must’ve been fucking unconscionably appalling. Yeah, the number of the year goes up by one at the start of a new one mate. Plan B unfortunately and inadvertently says more about the state of the British music industry in a 15 second introduction speech (and that’s a liberal use of the term) than the whole evening's meticulously planned, glitzy show does.

My mind wanders as I try to understand why Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds are considered a solo artist rather than a band.

ED SHEERAN wins the award. Now re-suited, it’s clear why he wished to remain in his civvies for as long as possible. Not a good look.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d get this one” waffles Sheeran. Meaning that you do think you’ll win the others? You arrogant shit.

He’s like a fox you hit on a country road late at night but don’t quite kill and have to go and finish off with the jack.

(Jesus.)

20:57 Renowned media whores Huey from the Fun Lovin’ Criminals and Jo Whiley present the Best British Group award to COLDPLAY. ‘Supported’ by Radio 2 listeners, this award was never going to go anywhere other than to Chris Martin and his band of merry men. The camera cuts to the boys from Elbow, and I kind of want a fight to ensue. Not because I think they deserved the award, but because I fancy Guy Garvey could cause some damage with those whiskers. Useful for grouting, I imagine…

Who are this Coldplay band? How long before Chris Martin says something that’s meant to be endearing but is actually trite? Let’s keep count, shall we? … I make that 6 seconds.

Eff this noise, Big Fat Gypsy Weddings is on. Will catch up later.

21:00 A quick cutaway shot reveals that IS Sid Owen!

21:01 Best British Album vignette for PJ Harvey’s ‘Let England Shake’. Definitely the odd-one-out here.

PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEJAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! I wish she’d stop being so reasonable, intelligent, and articulate. That sort of thing has no place at the BRITs. How can we redress the balance? Here’s Kylie!

I can see the pain behind her eyes each time she smiles…

21:04 Adele performs ‘Rolling in the Deep’. She’s been head and shoulders above the rest so far, and that’s a terrific backhanded compliment.

I can’t shake that ‘Rolling in the Deep’ sounds just like ‘Gimme Shelter’ by the Stones. I await that Glee mash-up with fervent vigour…

21:11 Best International Band presented by Brian May and Roger Taylor. Roger’s not bothered. He’s not even taken his coat off. Angie Dickinson’s let herself go, too.

The issue here continues to be that Taylor and May will do ANYTHING for publicity/money. Respec’ to John Deacon for keeping the hell away.

The FOO FIGHTERS win. Are we supposed to believe this is the best the rest of the planet - put together - has to offer?

When Maroon 5 are nominated, we should be thankful for small mercies. At least the Foos have the sense to stay away.

21:14 FC Barcelona’s Cesc Fabregas (why? has he got an EP out?) and a Pussycat Doll - the one that was only slightly less of a glorified pole dancer than the others - present the award for British Breakthrough Artist.

Cesc declares the winner to be “HEAD SHEARIN.”

It’s ED. Again. You see, we need to make him a star to perpetuate the myth that the internet is somehow vital in discovering new talent; anyone can be a star, and it’s not at all to do with faceless marketing men and overwhelming multinational conglomerates.

21:17 A performance from 2012’s Best International Male. My mind starts to wander and I begin to believe that Bruno Mars must have a vagina. I finally decide that's maybe unrealistic, but he at least definitely has a smooth plastic nubbin like a Ken doll. That’s a fact.

21:22 Corden tells us that “[Florence’s album is] full of intelligence and imagination.” For once, tubs is right. However, it's the same intelligence and imagination that Kate Bush did better first time around 20 years ago. Cue a Best British album vignette.

I honestly did not realise that this album had been released. No doubt Jo Whiley thinks it ‘seminal’.

21:23 Corden sits down with One Direction and lists the places where their album is number 1 – the tissue thin quality/quantity argument cropping up again. Interestingly, the list correlates strongly with those countries which have particularly strong sex tourism industries.

21:29 The award for International Breakthrough Act presented by Bry.i.am (Wyclef Jean Black Eyed Pea and comic Rob Brydon). This unlikely duo should be good value here... oh. Well you can’t have everything.

Wow, I actually quite like 2 of the bands here (Bon Iver and Foster the People). I'm worried as I actually get interested for a second.

LANA DEL REY wins it. As long as she doesn’t sing, everything will be fine. Voiceover lady tells us Del Rey apparently likes to refer to herself as “the gangster Nancy Sinatra”. Must they insist on reading out the press releases? I’m surprised that in a room of consisting of industry professionals there’s not an avalanche of laughter. Then again, no-one there from the industry seems to be actually paying any attention. Things perk up when it looks like Lana (animal name Llama Del Rey) might actually cry. YES! NO! Tease. She obviously changed tack having realised that true sentiment has no place at the Brits, and rightly so.

Given her lineage, is “the gangster Nancy Sinatra” not, well, Nancy Sinatra?

You know what really grinds my gears here? 12^th January 2012: Lana Del Rey, nominated for BRITs 2012 International Breakthrough. 30^th January 2012: Lana Del Rey releases debut album in UK. How does that work?

21:31 Hilarity ensues once more when Simon Cowell signee and Tinie Tempah botherer Labrinth (why no ‘Y’?) walks across Corden’s link spot. It was funnier when it was a random suit. And when it clearly wasn’t a deliberate exposure ploy. A quick search puts this guy’s age at 22.

Tough Paper Round

21:32 Rihanna performs ‘We Found Love’. Coincidentally, these are pretty much the only words I can decipher. Enunciation is clearly no longer a key competency in pop. Tina Turner wigs and paint chucking is where it’s at.

Josh Wink’s spinning in his grave, but at least she’s putting a show on. OK, I admit that this has its moments, even if only for being a spectacle. This despite clearly knowing that Rihanna’s music is some kind of horrible cipher heralding the apocalypse.

21:36 Outstanding Contribution to Music award goes to BLUR, which we knew anyway. I’m totally confused, partly because the presenting Ray Winstone is on the TV and isn’t trying to get me to lay a fiver down on Torres next to score at 4/1 (no chance, football fans).

Cockney gives award to mockneys. I like the way Ray was able to up the ante on London shout-outs by specifying SOUTH London.

21:41 Damon thanks Parlophone “when they had a tea lady.” And that bloke (Chris Morrison) who no-one, including industry ‘professionals’, seems to have heard of. He once saw Bob Dylan. The suits go “who?”

Albarn witters on for three minutes. The organisers will regret this…..

21:44 Final film for British Album of the Year is for Coldplay’s ‘Mylo Xyloto’. Chris Martin claims that this is the most fun they have had recording an album. God forbid how dull the previous four were. Quote of the night from drummer Will Champion:

“…we have to try and do something different. Maybe not, kind of, groundshakingly different…"

21:48 Jessie J does a little MasterCard tag ad at the end of the commercial break. Someone should punch her in the box and then be given an honorary BRIT for life.

21:49 Here we are, it’s all been building up to this - the MasterCard British Album of the Year. George Michael takes to the stage to present the award as the chorus from ‘Faith’ plays. Bet he’s delighted with that. He’s looking well, not sounding great.

Poor George Michaels. I didn’t realise he’d gone blind, but at least he’s had the good sense to turn up pissed. He tells us he lives a little way up the road, apparently, and looks like he got lost on his way out dogging. I’m assuming he didn’t drive down as there’s no reports of Snappy Snaps being hit.

ADELE fulfils all prophecies and takes the award for ‘21’.

Voiceover lady informs me that one Adele album was bought every 6 and a half seconds last year. Wow.

And so to the night’s talking point as Corden cuts Adele short to introduce Blur. Fingergate.

Feel quite sorry for Adele. What would you do in her situation? Thankfully we are left in no doubt that THE ADVERTISERS ARE IN CONTROL HERE.

Make no mistake, this is an almighty cock-up. Biggest award of the night, and the winner is denied their moment. The thing is, this is so easy to fix for nominees, winners, fans and advertisers alike - schedule the show for ten extra minutes, and if everything runs smoothly and time is left over, run more adverts. No? Anybody?

21:53 Blur close the show with ‘Girls & Boys, ‘Song 2’ and ‘Parklife’.

Two of which are their two worst songs, also known as their two most famous songs. Is that the first time a lifetime achievement award winner has been booed as they take to the stage? The crowd reaction is lukewarm, to say the least, and I can’t see Blur winning them back here, either. This brings me neatly to my problem with this band, which is that of warmth, essentially. I always got the distinct feeling that their oeuvre rang hollow, relying on cosy stereotypes, either that or the band were mocking and superior. Their records never felt like a genuine celebration of being British – not everything has to be ironic. I mean, isn’t 'Girls and Boys' a condemnation of promiscuity, but marketed to exactly those who indulge in it? (Alan Carr loves it judging by his dancing.) They’re either taking the piss out of those who made them and not moving on from that market, or they’re not nearly as arch and clever as they think they are.

21:59 Phil Daniels shouts “Oi!” - didn’t see that coming. He decides to shout his spoken word part for the duration of ‘Parklife’.

22:00 on the nose, and Albarn has only cheekily chimed “Parklife!” once. The News at Ten crowd are gonna be pissed…

22:02 Should Damon Albarn really be jumping up and down like this? He’s 44 ffs. The show ends two minutes over time, with Blur still mid-song…

Underwhelmed.

So, the BRIT Awards 2012 draw to a close. How do we sum it up? Radio presenter Danny Baker hit the nail right on the head with the following piece of Twitter wisdom:

"The Brits. God love it but what a shrill vacuous gurning corporate teat sucking faux anarchic artistically bankrupt cattle trough it is."

Well said sir! It doesn’t have either the class or distinction offered by the Grammys. But it’s ours. And we love to hate it.