Why do we love Chan Marshall so? Because love her we do. Who doesn’t? Because of her beauty certainly, inside and out, and its juxtaposition with her brazen imperfections and blind cathartic strides. Her louche demeanour and sometimes arrogant way. Her unpredictability and the sense that everything hangs by a thread. The fact that she’s been known to let people down, but for you, when she’s alone in your ears, inside your head, in the corner of your darkened bedroom, Continue Reading

They’ll want their own unions next! Is it, we ask, completely out of the question to expect two representative forces at loggerheads over the introduction of guaranteed regulation encore breaks at BSS gigs, to be enforced with immediate effect lest there be strike action? With specific expectations for uncramped performance conditions left open for continued discussion. Probably? Maybe not? Either way, cheap speculation aside, the evolution of ‘the band’ over recent years has made for fascinating viewing. And right now Continue Reading

There’s usually a reason why bands seldom get signed with unsolicited demos: they’re usually crap and the reason they’re unsolicited is because nobody, not even the band themselves, can be arsed taking half an interest and going to the effort of making a call or arranging a gig on behalf of those nice, well connected A & R people who turn up late in a taxi and spend the greater part of the evening thinking up ways to exploit their Continue Reading

‘You rely on someone else to make you feel alright. As far as I’m concerned that’s no kind of life.’ If ever there was such a thing as an awkward silence following a lyric on a record then I lay claim to experiencing one of the most awkward, embarrassing, shuffling, shoegazing silences on record. For a man who has relied consecutively on the the vocal and nascent indie habits of Blur’s Damon Albarn and a whole list of other A-List Continue Reading

First impressions of ‘First Impressions…’ aren’t great. Sorry. But that’s not to say ‘First Impressions…’ actually isn’t, in the end. Just that it’s hard to accept that it might be, sometimes. Truth be told, we’ve been bickering like a battle-weary married couple for the three weeks since we met. We were friends, The Strokes and us, some time ago. We were floored by their impossibly impeccable cool, they were the Fonz of post-post-punk no less, if you didn’t like them Continue Reading

To say Eminem has Tourettes, in the expected sense, would just be plain ridiculous. Obscenities are obviously neither a curse nor embarrassment to Marshall Mathers. They’re a career choice. They’re probably written in his passport. But he is nonetheless cursed by another form of seemingly uncontrollable ‘spontaneity’. Namely shooting himself (and particularly the quick-witted socially-intuitive foundation he’s so often laid) in the foot whenever he’s ahead, in order to present himself as some kind of sadly-populist, goofy, misogynistic meat-head with Continue Reading

As a music critic I’m contractually obliged to mention the following things about David Bowie: Major Tom-Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, Thin White Duke, Young American, Alien Godfather of New Romance, Drum & Bass,  Goblin King, Brian Eno/Hansa Studios, a cocaine habit so bad it results in holes in the brain, groundbreaking stage shows, Iggy Pop, Androgyny, cut up lyrics and Spiders from Mars. These words are part of every reviewer’s ‘Bowie tool kit’ and as such you must have heard Continue Reading

So, Jason Lytle tried to fool us all a little while ago by trimming back that which defines him and his band, even more so than their cascading psychedelic daydream rushes and obsessive hoarding of cotton-soft melodies. But there ain’t no fooling us, Jase. The bulk of the actual beard may have gone, but your anonymity is hardly assured when your tunes remain just as coarse, colloquially bushy and generally warming. It is, though, a relief that the clippers encroached Continue Reading

My favourite Christmas? My favourite Christmas came when I was six years old and was told there was no such person as Father Christmas. Imagine the unbridled joy I experienced in discovering that I would no longer have to endure the arrival of a brandy-swilling intruder into my bedroom at 4.00 o’ clock in the morning for the simple reward of a few puzzles I couldn’t solve, an annual I couldn’t read and a sockful of nuts that I was allergic Continue Reading

And so, our next exhibit in the “Live In Chicago” collection (see here for this week’s other offering) pips ahead as favourite, purely by being an absolute bloody revelation. As Wilco are every single time they come along in fact. They are consistently adventurous, or at the very least curious, purveyors of alternative readings of traditional Americana, yet somehow manage to be consigned to the memory as trustworthy, which is never exciting. And in addition, Crud remembers being charmed into Continue Reading