Archive for December 2010
My boyfriend likes to buy presents for me which are actually presents for him; fortunately for peace in the household this Christmas, he opted to give me something which both of us could enjoy – the latest long-player from Chap-hop superstar and rival of Professor Elemental, the great (but appropriately humble) Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer, entitled I Say!. I also have this most excellent Chap’s first album, Flattery Not Included, which I thoroughly recommend.
1. Hail the Chap
2. Lord Byron
3. Shoot the Cuff
4. You Just Can’t
5. Guy Debord
6. How Many Brilliant Minds Are Lost to Work?
7. A Thoroughly Modern Break-up
8. I Say, You!
9. Everything Stops for Acid
10. Hermitage Shanks
11. Crazy Knights
12. Lady C
13. Let’s Get This Over and Done With
14. The Impossible Dream
15. Songs for Acid Edward
Hail the Chap
Being a gentleman of impeccable manners, Mr B typically begins his records with introductions; in this instance he lays down the origin of Chappism and the “ten rules of the Chap Manifesto”, in reference to both the oft-applauded Chap Magazine, who in effect were the vanguard of the Chappist movement and the originators of the rather entertaining and heavily-attended annual Chap Olympiad, and to the excellent Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip song, “Thou Shalt Always Kill” (“Thou shalt always doff thy hat.”). Off to a good start, then, with his very English wordplay (“We’ve upped our standards, now up yours too!”) and frenetic banjolele strumming. Marvelous.
Naturally the place to look for commentary on the hazards of fame turning someone into a wanker who refuses to acknowledge his friends is in a chap-hop song concerning the famously arrogant Romantic poet. “We’d been out on the sherry three nights on the trot, but when I knocked on your door this is what I got: ‘Lord Byron doesn’t accept requests from fans’ – I can’t believe the ruddy cheek of the man!” It references Beau Brummel, but there is a certain issue of imperfect scanning and perhaps a little less good production on this track than on those from Flattery Not Included.
Shoot the Cuff
The thing about Mr B’s tracks is that they are almost always parodies of popular hip-hop or dance tracks, and the problem with that is that my hip-hop education is woefully lacking. Dance music I stand slightly more chance of identifying, but as a far-from-afficionado who came to the genre via indie, metal, techno, and trance, I haven’t the foggiest to which this song refers. A shame, but no great loss as I find it’s just as bouncy and charming in my ignorance as I’m sure it would be in my ignorance. “Button up your shirt unless you wear a cravat” is also a sentiment this blogger can get behind.
You Just Can’t
This song because with a sheep sound effect. I’m not sure this bodes well. Ah, I see, it’s a cautionary tale about how one can’t rape a goat because it’ll end up on Facebook.
Yes, that Guy Debord. Pronounced “G-ee”, as the song informs me. This track is noteable for the lengthy playout and rather pleasant brass solo; apparently “boredom can never ever be revolutionary”, a message which will doubtless pain and then be discarded by the audience of hipsters.
How Many Brilliant Minds Are Lost to Work?
Once upon at time your dear blogger scribbled a partly-plagiarised poem combining the witticism “work is the bane of the drinking classes” (ascribed to Oscar Wilde, although as Dorothy Parker noted, that’s no guarantee of its origin!); Mr B here has done a rather better job in advising his listeners to “get off your phones and back on your arses”, and creating a perky pean to the art of slacking off and knocking a few back.
A Thoroughly Modern Break-up
Apparently Mr B wants his tits back. I mean – oh, a wanking reference – that this is an unexpectedly upfront (pun very much intended) piece of bawd from the Gentleman Rhymer regarding a failed relationship and his desire to remove the breast implants that he paid for. A little childish and possibly out of keeping with the Chap Manifesto, but very funny all the same.
I Say, You!
Straightforward parody of Hey! You by the Rock Steady Crew. Not sure what else there is to be said about it aside from Mr B is causing a broadening in my musical knowledge.
Everything Stops for Acid
For some reason I am picturing this being MC’d by a clown. That is all.
It’s a song in praise of the people who manifacture lavatories and other bathroom furniture, in which all the rudery is left to the imagination with the glaring omission of the rhyming word, in finest end-of-the-pier entertainer style. The intimated coyness of sidling up to an explicit description of the obscene but catching himself just in time and the juvenility of writing an entire song devoted to the smallest room are so quintessentially English that it’s almost enough to make me consider this – very briefly – as an alternative National Anthem. I’m not exaggerating the brevity of my consideration, though.
Gentle mocking of the Kiss song/album; Mr B’s idea of a “crazy night” may not line up with that of the average rock ‘n’ roller but to me it sounds extremely enticing. Except the part about early nights, which I have yet to master. Again it is a fairly straightforward parody/mockery, and what with Kiss not being a hip-hop group Mr B is somewhat straying from his remit.
A dancefloor-filling track at any Chappist event, presuming that the floor will fill entirely with ladies, right up until the part where Mr B has to be bleeped out for saying “wankstain”.
Let’s Get This Over and Done With
The biannual battlecry of the genteel when faced with the noisy enthusiasm and flag-flying of the Euro Whatsit Football Thing or the World Cup has long been “let’s get this over with and get back to the cricket.” Set to a tune immediately recognisible to most as “that bit from The Great Escape“, this is a firm march through the loutishness of the World Cu, hurling a bridge of criticism of the “nouve-riche” and the failings of the modern footballing elite, featuring penny whistles, an “aaahing” chorus, and the strong desire for a cucumber sandwich. Easily the best football anthem my country has ever produced.
The Impossible Dream
“To fight for the right to make ‘party’ a noun, and have those who use it as a verb run down” numbers among the ambitions of Mr B’s impossible dream – “to make hip-hop gentlemanly”. I think he may be fighting a losing battle there, especially as this song is far more West End than West Side.
Songs for Acid Edward
Several immediately recognisible parodic references here, from “Move Any Mountain” by the Shamen through a menagerie of much loved trite dance classics. Don’t take my word for that – watch the video.
Overall, then, a charming album although if I’m honest it lacks a little of the novelty value and enthusiasm of its predecessor, and the “hissing record” noisebed has been somewhat overused. Still, he is a jolly good banjolele-playing, and Mr B does have a very fine moustache…
So far on this day, Des Anges (Delilah) has received Mr B The Gentleman Rhymer’s new album, some storm-proof matches, and a video of a dear friend singing “In The Bleak Midwinter” in her garage. She has gifted her beloved a hob/stove-top espresso-maker, and inteads to continue talking about herself in the third person until her boyfriend stops watching Bill Murray or the Dr Who Christmas Special starts.
Enjoy your day off, everybody who has one.
I just applied for a job in Longreach.
Going the slightly less circuitous route, it’s still 1200-ish kilometres. Planes go in and out every couple of weeks.
Fortunately the odds are reasonable that I won’t even get an interview; I’m slightly underqualified and a long way away. But if I get an interview, I have to go, and if I get the job, I have to take it, because the starting salary is like $60K and I’ve got a whole lot of HECS debt to pay. There are much worse places than Longreach–I’ve lived more rurally in places with more wild pigs–but it’s still… not ideal. Especially since I’ve got postgrad quals to finish.
but then Michael Moore made me very angry. Sady Doyle and Kate Harding already covered the important things. I like WikiLeaks, but I am experiencing an odd desire to strangle every one of Assange’s fans.
So, instead, some useful information:
Posts categorised as “Posts by Amelia” were made by me, Amelia, aka Mill, the younger Des Anges sister. Posts categorised as “Posts by Delilah” were made by Delilah, aka Del, the older and awesomer Des Anges sister. If we remember to, we will also put our names at the bottom of the actual post.
If you receive a comment and already know who we are (especially if you can identify us by the D-wing avatar alone,) the comment was most likely made by Del. If you have no idea who we are, the odds are reasonable that it was me. If the comment was bizarre and/or incoherent, it was almost definitely me, at 5AM, so sleep deprived that I have lost the ability to differentiate homonyms and have started seeing flights of cranes rising from the carpet.
In other news, the roller derby season is over for summer here in Australia, but these beauties have just come out in the frigid northlands. Heat moulding! Reinforced toe leather! Shock absorbers! GUMBALL TOESTOPS! Oh, my Sure Grips have served me faithfully and still have plenty of mileage, but I want them anyway. I am a such a geek.
What feels like a lifetime ago, tickets for Nine Lessons and Carols for Godless People hosted by Robin Ince and arranged by New Humanist magazine, at the Bloomsbury Theatre, came on sale. In an uncharacteristic flush of adulthood, I bought some for myself and two friends and promptly forgot about it for six months apart from the bits where I relentlessly nagged Chris to pay me back for her ticket because I am a tight-fisted Scrooge.
Then my other friend contracted the flu about two days before she was due to fly over from Ireland, because God hates Sandra D. I almost feel as if I should downplay what an excellent night it was to preserve some sense that she wasn’t missing much, but I doubt Sandra will take that lying down.
Oh, and then it snowed.
London doesn’t handle snow well. London takes snow in the same way that I take exams, which is to say that it freaks out at the first sign of it, then shuts down arbitrarily and in complete lack-of-correlation with the actual amount of white stuff that falls out of the sky. And then people buy a lot of bread for reasons that I still haven’t quite got to grips with yet.
I woke around noon to what felt like excruciating cold (my bedroom is the coldest room in the flat, and the place isn’t very well insulated) and discovered that white cold shit had fallen from the sky in a bid to ruin everything ever. My boyfriend left for his referee meeting (he’s a rollerderby ref. attached to the London Rollergirls) and texted back to inform me that the buses were buggered but apparently still running, but if I left enough time to get there I should be fine.
This turned out to be a lie; I stepped off the doorstep up to ankle-deep snow, and penguin-waddled down my break-your-neck slippery garden path (and promptly managed to fill my pocket with snow without noticing, which meant that getting my gloves out was an unpleasant experience); the bus stop display informed me there was a bus due in ten minutes. I walked to the next bus stop just to be on the safe side; after a five minute walk it was also showing ten minutes, at which point a woman popped out of the nearby shop and informed me she’d seen no buses for the last hour.
I was on my way to the third stop when my boyfriend told me he’d walked to the tube station.
So I set off at as close to a trot as one can on an ice-and-snow-packed pavement, when one has knackered knees and relatively worn Doc Martens, and, being a slave to the correct soundtrack, plopped the iPod on Fall Out Boy’s cover of “Beat It”. Feel free to mock me for my appalling choices, but that and subsequently high-speed, purposeful songs got me down to the nearest tube station without falling, stopping for breath, or calling anyone a C-word on my way. And that was exercise in the cold and those are two things I really do not normally have any truck with. I am one of nature’s extremely potato-esque couch potatoes, for god’s sake. I break out in tantrums if I have to so much as look at a walk of more than the length of my road.
And that is the story of my “brave trek through the snow”, which was slush by the time I reached Warren Street. The moral of the story is always have an iPod and a good book with you. And wrap up warm!
Nine Lessons and Carols for Godless People
As friend and reviewer at the Spectator blogs, Rose Watt, is either going to be writing about tonight’s show or Tuesday’s, I don’t feel it’s quite fair to go on about the entire line-up. Also my memory for names is bad, I ate an entire bucket of sweets beforehand and had a sugar crash in the middle of Robyn Hitchcock‘s set in which I got so relaxed that I started dreaming about hedgehogs, and I’m really lazy.
Highlights, then, of this year’s Godless, for me:
Robin Ince: Always an experience, Robin seems perpetually on the verge of a sleep-deprivation-linked nervous breakdown, leaping from subject to subject as if he is unable to keep track of all the very important things he has to tell you, waving his arms and recounting anecdotes from his life, episodes of science history, irritants from the media, and nuggets of information expressed with a kind of breathless enthusiasm for ideas that is extremely contagious. All while making one laugh like an idiot (the man in front of me glared several times and eventually walked out, so evidently not everyone finds him as funny as I do). At previous shows he’s run over time and had to leave several things hanging, but this time he just about managed to reign it in. A pity in some respects as I can quite easily listen to Robin Ince talk about almost anything for two hours on his own.
Frisky and Mannish: A dissection of pop songs, in this case during a festive event, Christmas pop songs. I have seen Frisky and Mannish before, at The Portrait of Dorian Grey, a caberet/vaudeville variety event centring on MC Dusty Limits and his prodigious ego, on my birthday a couple of years ago. In a bizarre coincindence, at that event they were, if memory serves, preceeded by Mr Limits talking about a book he’d read recently about the sexual habits of bonobos; at this evening’s events, they were preceeded by Mr Ince talking about … the sexual habits of bonobos. Of course, as pointed out by Matt Parker earlier in the show in his data analysis section (I promise it was funnier than those words make it sound), stunning coincidences are shocking and meaningful when they happen to us, but they’re not really meaningful in a wider context.
To be honest I’m not sure I’d want to know about a wider meaning to a link between Frisky & Mannish and the sexual habits of bonobos, and I’m not sure they would either.
Mark Thomas: I have been a fan of Mark Thomas since my mid-teens, when he was still appearing on TV often enough for me to see him, and I own the book from which he was theoretically reading this evening. Like so many of the acts, I felt that the constraints of the time limit robbed me of a potential couple of hours of fantastic comedy; while one or two acts were fine at the length they were, others were the kind I’d have preferred to savour over a few hours, and Mark Thomas was definitely one of them.
Simon Singh: Answered my question on how he thinks the universe will end and therefore is the best person ever. I am … not an intelligent person, more someone who is just intelligent enough that she knows how much she doesn’t know, and I appreciate having very complex ideas broken down to a level that I can understand. Mr Singh has a talent for that.
Baba Brinkman: Perhaps not to everyone’s taste, but I have a soft spot for high-velocity eloquence, and having recently become more interested in hip-hop than I was, I find the combination of good delivery, meter, and rhyme with principles that I approve of to be a good use of my ears. And I’m sure there’s something to be said for covering a Dead Prez song about inciting a race-based revolution and turning it into an inclusive song about how everyone comes from a common ancestor.
On the way home I discovered something of which people from less temperate nations are already aware, that fallen snow and a full moon are a recipe for fantastic visibility. I cut through the park behind my house, along a road which is usually as eerily dark as anywhere in London can manage with the omnipresent light pollution, and ended my night by dancing in the snow under a full moon to Emmy the Great. This is probably disgustingly twee, but I promise that I said the C-word a lot later to make up for it.
I leave you with this Richard Feynman quote lovingly read out by Robin Ince at this evening’s show:
There are the rushing waves…
mountains of molecules,
each stupidly minding its own business…
…yet forming white surf in unison.
Ages on ages…
before any eyes could see…
year after year…
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
…on a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest…
tortured by energy…
wasted prodigiously by the sun…
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea,
all molecules repeat
the patterns of another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves…
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity…
masses of atoms,
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land…
here it is standing…
atoms with consciousness
…matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea…
wonders at wondering… I…
a universe of atoms…
an atom in the universe.
At which I, I am not ashamed to admit, teared up a bit. You’re welcome.
This post was contributed by Delilah
Employers deliberately make job hunting vastly more painful than any aspect of employment to weed out the weaklings.
I wish to find the person responible for this state of affairs and throw them out of a window.
Jewellery-making seems like such a contradiction. The jewellery at the end is frequently some delicate and beautiful confection that looks like it might fall apart in a passing breeze (and in the case of my inadequately-closed jump rings, probably will do just that), but the interim involves soldering irons and blowtorches, molten metals, intractable gemstones, or at the very least pliers and a lot of swearing.
I am still at the the “pliers and plying of vicious curse words” level, having been thwarted in soldering by the absence of the right kind of solder (which I didn’t find out until after in my impatience to make my electrical solder stay on the silver charm I pressed it with my thumb and invented some other new swearwords). This afternoon I thought I’d reward myself for having writen 500 words on types of bus systems used in digital audio, a subject on which I know approximately nothing (although it is minutely improved on the absolute nothing I knew before I started) by making some jewellery, as it is a nice change from squinting at a computer screen and wondering why words won’t magically fire themselves from my fingertips without my brain getting involved somewhere along the way. At least, not usable ones.
Over the course of this refreshing and relaxing activity I’ve worn a hole in my side from reaching down over the edge of my chair for the jump rings, because lowering the arm of the chair or, say, putting the correct number of jump rings on a tray on the desk hadn’t really occurred to me (the desk is as ever buried under computers, empty cups, stereo speakers, and an ashtray with a teabag in it – I think it was actually meant to be a candle-holder but I don’t do candles). I have pinched bits of my hand with wire clippers, fired bits of clipped wire into my face with a ferocity that would have blinded me were I not wearing glasses, and invented a lot of new swearwords for pliers with a grip as feeble as a politician’s excuse, and the entire concept of gravity.
After a while I put on the audiobook of The Silver Chair as read by Jeremy Northam in the hopes that soothinng children’s literature would stop me from trying to dig up Newton and kick him for making my life difficult; what actually happened was that I spent about half an hour shouting “BUGGER” and other, stronger things as jump rings slipped from my grasp, crystals slithered off the desk and into the mechanism of my printer, and Jeremy Northam talked about why Jill Pole was blubbing in the shrubs with Scrubb behind the gym.
The end result was precarious, if pretty to look at for the five minutes before it inevitably falls apart: