All the old favourites are there: Lord Kitchener, Lord Beginner, The Mighty Terror. A particular highlight is King Timothy’s Football Calypso where we hear which football club has the right to call themselves the best in England.
This is angry and aggressive, but if I lived in Belgium I’d probably produce music like this just to convince the rest of Europe that we’re not all bureaucrats.
“It’s really about a new experience for Chinese people, whether that’s through drugs or something else – something like our music.”
it’s obvious British Sea Power are not the band they used to be. No. They’re better than that. Far better.
What’s the point in going to see anybody else. Ever?
If the sound offered by Graveyard Tapes really is ‘their wound’, then it’s an oozy, self-inflicted gash reeking of antiseptic and self-loathing. Let’s hope it doesn’t heal
Both these records are uncompromising, but neither revel in obscurity: and PAS Musique’s brilliant Abandoned Bird Egg is one record you really have to listen to.
...John Shuttleworth practising his Casio chops in Johnny Minton’s flat, the North Sea ferry act Anthony H Wilson would have booked on the spot, Soft Cell turning up as the new entertainers in Hi de Hi
Suffice to say I think this release is tops, the gloopy, gluey sound is mired in a sort of ambient analogue fug, furring up the sonic arteries with a glut of wibbling synths and something called an Electronic Valve Instrument.
The end seemed nigh for our intrepid reporter and yet once again he’s leaving the concert, the sense of déjà vu providing a welcome relief from the spirit-crushing ennui. Apparently this is the ideal place for Stephen to gather his thoughts before setting off into the wet grey yonder in search of the magic bus to Didsbury.
As my hero Les McQueen, former rhythm guitarist with Crème Brulée, says: ‘It's a shit business; I'm glad I'm out of it.’
This is no clever tribute record mind, or accomplished addition to an already impressive back catalogue; this is a bona fide classic.
The opener Nocturnes – weighing in at over 40 minutes - got me through my shirts and the girlfriend’s dresses. The second track, The Trail of Tears, saw me finish off the other nicks and nacks and gave me time to put the ironing board away.
I think this lot hail from Newcastle, a Roman city with a defined and often celebrated Northern work ethic.
Even the act’s name, Creative City Project, does reek of hooking your laptop up in a coffee bar, or buying a tuna wrap and moseying down to the skateboard park.
I always enjoyed the play off between Tobin Sprout and Captain Bob; Sprout’s gentle and witty Byrds/Beatles-isms doing battle with the “Roky fronts the Who” schlock that Pollard promotes.
This is the stuff that’s been round the block so many times it doesn’t matter anymore whether you think you’ll get brownie points for digging it or seeing it as a vital part of the zeitgeist (or some other nonsense.)
But regardless of who, why or how; the main thing is that Impossible Truth is one of the records of the year, one of those surprises that no-one saw coming.