Hard-to-find, New! Now!, Sampled

Cult Heroes

It’s midway through the year and round about now the movers, shakers and self-appointed hipsters in the music press like to sort out the wheat from the chaff in an early attempt to predict what will become the all important ‘Album of the Year‘, just so they can say “told you so!” in December. It’s ridiculous to even try and suggest such a  thing – one man’s meat is another’s poison and all that, and who really cares anyway?, but for what it’s worth,  if you were to ask me, an early contender for such a title would surely go to solo Super Furry Gruff Rhys for his Hotel Shampoo LP.

Had it been released under the Super Furry Animals banner it would have been frothed over by superlative-filled foaming-mouthed sychophants falling over themselves in praise of yet another Super Furry masterpiece, but I can’t help thinking that it somewhat crept under the radar. Investigate it now – here‘s the opening track Shark Ridden Waters. Seagull noises and bursts of foreign TV shows doused with a liberal sprinkling of Gruff Rhys melody, all underpinned by the most fruggable bassline since Peter, Bjorn & John’s Young Folks.  Good, eh? And that wee fade out at the end, the ‘there’s no use cryin’, no use tellin’ me how much you’ve changed‘  part gets me every time. Sounds like it’s been sampled from something too, but I can’t place it. Any ideas? Oh, and talking of samples…….

Super Furry Animals’ The Man Don’t Give A Fuck takes the sweary part from Steely Dan‘s Showbiz Kids, loops it over 50 times and creates a fantastic record full of fuzz guitars, sleigh bells, Beach Boys-style doo-wop backing vocals and Glitter Band stomping drums that builds and builds and builds until it falls spectacularly in on itself. But you knew that already. You may also know that it was recorded at the same sessions that produced the bulk of debut LP Fuzzy Logic and was earmarked as a b-side (only a b-side!!) to If You Don’t Want Me To Destroy You. Failing to get sample clearance in time put the kybosh on that idea, however, but thankfully the SFA persevered until Steely Dan gave them the OK to release it as a standalone single – in return for 95% of the track’s royalties, an arrangement Gruff Rhys was more than happy with, given that a record featuring such nonchalant use of the ‘f-word would hardly trouble the playlists of the nation’s radio stations. And just in case it did somehow set the charts alight, the band deleted the single one week after its release, making it instantly collectable to those (like me) who care about such trivialities.

The sleeve of The Man Don’t Give A Fuck featured a picture of Cardiff City’s Robin Friday flicking the V’s to the Luton Town goalie of the day (see full picture below). Friday seems to have been cut from the same cloth as George Best – at his peak in the mid ’70s Friday was a free-scoring player both on and off the pitch, and was just as famous for his smoking, drinking and drugging exploits as he was for his womanising. A bit like any number of modern day players really, but without the kiss-and-tells in the News Of The World. Or, in Rio Ferdinand’s case, the free-scoring on the pitch part. Allegedly.

As Paolo Hewitt and Guigsy (from Oasis) wrote in the single’s  sleevenotes…

Robin Friday was a nonconformist and lived every second of his life with an intensity that burned for all to see. Friday not only flicked V signs at goalies who stood no chance against his prowess but he flicked V signs at anyone who tried to tame him. He was the superstar of the suburbs, the one who made George Best look like a lightweight.

Indeed. He once kicked Mark Lawrenson in the face, something that many of you here would no doubt jump at the chance of doing too. Perhaps that’s why Lawrenson now speaks in that ridiculous singsong school girly voice? Who knows, but surely after reading the sleevenotes above, the question on everyone’s minds is now, “How much of that did Guigsy write?”

*Bonus Track!

No bonus tracks as such. The 2 additional remixes on the MDGAF single were rather lacklustre beats ‘n bangs ‘n clatters mixes that just about survived one whole play before being filed away for 15 years. I’ve just played them for the 2nd time ever whilst writing this and honestly, you never need to hear them. But I’ve featured loads of Super Furry Animals before –  I’m particularly proud of the hidden tracks article I wrote a couple of years ago. For anything else, use the ‘Search‘ facility!

Gone but not forgotten, New! Now!

Happy Birthday Rabbie!

252 years young the day!

That reminds me. Prince Charles was on a visit to Crosshouse Hospital, just outside Kilmarnock a couple of years ago. One of the Hospital big wigs was accompanying him round the wards, steering old Charlie clear of the wasters, winos and swine flu sufferers that were using up valuable bed space. Walking into one ward, The Prince stopped at one of the first beds and asked the young man how he was feeling. The bedridden patient replied;

“Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pattle.”

Charles mumbled something under his breath, smiled at the distressed patient and walked on. He stopped at another bed and asked the next patient how he too was fareing. The patient looked up and shouted out,

“My curse upon your venom’d stang,
That shoots my tortur’d gooms alang,
An’ thro’ my lug gies monie a twang
Wh’ gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
Like racking engines!”

Somewhat shaken, Charles walked on. Stopping at the last bed  he looked at the patient. Being the future King and all, it was only polite of him to ask this patient how he too was progressing. With a froth of the mouth patient number three barked out,

“When Chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae nicht did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses.)”

A visibly bemused and perturbed Charles turned to his guide and inquired, “Where are we man? Is this some sort of mental ward?”

No Sir,” came the reply. “This is the severe Burns Unit.”

You can have that one for free….

Here‘s lo-fi acoustic folk Scottish supergroup-of-sorts The Burns Unit doing a brand new song called Tupperware Pieces for last week’s Marc Riley show on BBC 6 Music. S’a cracker. (I stole the mp3 from Peenko – ta!)

New! Now!

Weller Weller Weller Oooh!

This is a first for me. Anytime I’ve reviewed an album here it’s been retrospectively. Invariably, the album I’ve reviewed has been one I like – one packed full of tunes that have soaked their way under my skin and into my heart and became embedded in the human iPod that is my brain. I don’t need to listen to Abbey Road again in order to tell you how good it is. I could write you a thousand words on the beauty of Bandwagonesque without reaching for its cheapo dayglo sleeve. I could (and quite often do) wax lyrical about Elliott Smith’s XO album. But today is a first. What follows (for what it’s worth) is a review of the new Paul Weller LP Wake Up The Nation. Heard for the first time this week and yet to worm its way into my head like those above, I know it’ll get there and still be there in 2, 5, 10 years time. Wake Up The Nation really is that good. It pisses all over joyless rubbish like As Is Now or Heliocentric or Illumination. While those albums undoubtedly have their brief flashes of goodness, the new album is jam packed full of them. No pun intended.

Tell me more, tell me more, like does he play guitar? Aye, does he! Like a 16 year old me discovering the joys of a crappy distortion pedal, PW is playing some of the best guitar of his life. His guitar sounds amazing – clanging, ringing, waking up the nation indeed. And Weller’s an artist don’t you know. Not content with just making exciting sounding records again, he’s been pretentiously banging on in interviews recently about searching for a “tough, urban, metallic sound“. Hmm. Thin Wild Mercury Sound anyone? Producer and co-writer Simon Dine has helped him achieve this.

Best track by a country mile has to be No Tears To Cry, a pop soul nugget that it’s writer freely admits is a nod to Scott Walker and all those mid 60s sweeping Spectoresque symphonies. Right now it’s up there with Hung Up as my all-time favourite Paul Weller song. In fact, it deserves to have it’s own special one-off release on the famous old blue Philips label. If only Dusty Springfield was still around to record a version of it…

Elsewhere, short, sharp twisted blasts of strangled rock music fly in and out. Tracks are kept refreshingly short. Abrupt endings. All too soon fade outs. The whole album is less than 40 minutes long. The way albums should be. Indeed, the longest track, Trees, is practically a 4 minute 19 epic by comparison. PW probably really rates this track, although it can’t make up its mind if it’s pastoral whimsy, slash ‘n burn Who mod pop or Thames Delta blues. It’s actually a bit of everything. If you could condense last album 22 Dreams into a can of Heinz 57 varieties odd-Mod flavoured soup it would sound a bit like this. Of the shorter tracks, Andromeda (also available as a Richard Hawley remix) and 7 & 3 Is The Strikers Name (brilliant and bizarro collaboration with decidedly non-mod noise maker Kevin Shields) stand out as early favourites.

Find The Torch/Burn The Plans is notable for a couple of things – 1. the vocals are so fackin’ cockernee it should be dressed as a Pearly Queen and have Ray Winstone munching on jellied eels in the background a la McCartney on Vegetables (Google it if you’re none the wiser). And 2 – On this track Wee Fanny Cradock from Ocean Colour Scene removes his tongue from the Boss’s arse just long enough to cook up the best guitar riff on the album – a cute steal from the paino riff in Marvin Gaye’s Pretty Little Baby. Nice one! And I bet you he thought no-one would notice too!

With an artist so reassuringly retro as Weller, I cannae help but play ‘spot the reference’. Wake Up The Nation has plenty to offer yer music fan with a half-decent knowledge of 60s & 70s pop, soul and psych. Hey! What’s that? Working In A Coalmine of course! Listen out for the Blockheads Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick by way of Issac Hayes film score (Aim High) and the guitar clang of Low-period Bowie (Up The Dosage). I thought he was supposed to hate Bowie… Talent borrows, genius steals n all that.

Donald. If you’re reading this you’d have ruined this album for me by Monday lunchtime. For everyone else reading, do yourself a favour and pick up the first essential album of the decade.

PW sits back to enjoy a good ego stroking