Hindsight is a rotten, worm eaten cunt. It's rancid discharge, constantly oozing from that tattered and decaying flower, has been passed off as Wisdom, by unscrupulous cunt merchants, since Day One. Or was that Day Two?
I've been around long enough to know this, but it's still hard not to wonder why I even bothered writing for tba. I was already completely disenchanted by the time I'd written my first word, and my first review for the zine proved that I'd have a difficult time getting anything, that I actually wanted to write, published. Instead, I found myself asked to write wiki-lite articles on electronic labels (I know... how horrendously fucking exciting) and asked to write promo pieces for promoters, bands and venues that the editor wished to suck up to. Needless to say, my style doesn't lend itself to such work. After each submission I'd be greeted with praise and enthusiasm, followed (in short order) by the inevitable“I just don't feel comfortable printing this”.
"Fair enough," I'd say, "maybe next month".
For a zine that claims to provide 'a platform for young and fledgling writers', tba shows very little interest in doing so. As for being 'a preview into subversive, unknown and admired creativity', I don't even know what the fuck that means. Perhaps, a 'glimpse into' or 'a showcase for' would be a little more apt. Except, of course, that it couldn't be any further from the truth. Maybe I just don't get it. Perhaps, if I was a writer of the calibre required to write for Pulp Magazine, I'd have had my work printed on a regular basis.
I seem to struggle with The Trivial. It's my main flaw- but please believe me, I'm working on it. Recently, I tried immersion therapy, but after two and a half editions of tba I'd had enough. I fear that I will have to opt for a much more direct course of action- Electric Shock Treatment. The Shoreditch Cure, I believe they call it. Each time the Patient has a thought bearing even the slightest trace of originality, a high voltage blast of current is administered directly to the Corpus Callosum. I hear it feels a little bit like being skull fucked by Zeus.
So, after three months of putting up with it, I've decided to go own way. Please accept this as my letter of resignation. Glad I gave it a try. It was an aesthetically pleasing publication and it might look nice in my 'Portfolio'- or whatever the fuck those snivelling cretin who manage to write for a living carry around with them. But looks can be deceiving. Thrym was very pleased by the beauty of his new wife- until, that is, she revealed- from behind her crimson veil- a Nordic beard and began hammering his purple testes to the banquet table. You can screen print words on to paper, but unless they are even remotely interesting no-one wants to read them. Which is probably why not a single soul has made it this far into my diatribe- and it all started so promisingly too, with it's profanities and oh so eloquent stylings.
I'll cut to the chase. No more metaphors or half-arsed mythological references. I like writing and I like Zines. I feel strongly that the Independent Press is a powerful tool. I believe a writer with even an ounce of courage, knows that making friends at the expense of artistic credibility is not worth it. Not by a long shot.
I want to express myself and work with others who feel the same way.
I'm in the process of starting my own publication based on these principles... and I need help. If you are interested please get in touch. Otherwise, I'll touch you.
Thursday 22 April 2010
Tuesday 20 April 2010
(Modern) Love to Burn
What makes a record special? Perhaps it's that ever elusive Something, which elevates seductively spiraling grooves- crudely carved into a slab of vinyl- from the realms of the mundane towards the legendary. Can there possibly be a way to truly measure and compare the fruits which dangle from the branches of Art's rotten tree, as if they were subject to some infallible laws of Science? This very question has troubled critics, as well as a whole class of high society cultural rapists, ever since we crawled far enough out of the primordial slime to stop worrying about impending death and start focusing on the wholly insignificant. The utterly inconsequential. The classic album.
Classic is a strong word, conjuring (to my mind, at least) images of Herakles' children seeking shelter in Athens, Phaedrus' garden parties and Cronos eating his own children. In short, something that has stood the test of time- in these cases thousands of years- yet which still remains relevant and capable of answering some of our questions about ourselves. I don't care what the NME might think, but in 2000 years no one on Earth (if an Earth there still be), will give a monkey's fuck about Vampire Weekend. Actually, my mistake, it turns out that this is already the case. Humiliated, I back track... in the span of the next two millennium, even the Beatles will be forgotten and entirely irrelevant. It is with the self important, and ultimately futile, arrogance of a doomed culture that we feel fit to tempt the hands of fate with premature deification of our meagre artistic excretions. Like Kool Keith, America's greatest philosopher, once said we're making “wrinkle cream out of rat poop”- artifacts so instantly disposable, that a supposedly “ageless” tune is old before it's even been recorded.
Cynical? Well, you would be too if you'd seen even half of the things that I haven't. But if you want a slice of meaningless hyperbole to go with your bullshit pate, I can think of no better place to find it than Boomkat Records, where superlatives are thrown around like infant Chinese girls from cliff tops. Every other record is branded as “killer” or “huge” or (the one that bothers me the most) “Essential”. I'm sorry, but if a record is actually essential to your ability to function as a sentient being, then it's time to give up- just leave your front door key at home, pick a direction and keep on walking. Vinyl addiction is a real problem for a lot of us, and this kind of one-sided reviewing can easily make otherwise sane people lose their financial continence. I, myself, write this from a room pebble-dashed with records- many from Boomkat. Some I still listen to, the rest make superb building up boards. Here's one thing that my bitter experience battling musical cholera has taught me- very, very, very few Dubstep records even come close to being useful, to say nothing of essential. If you think otherwise, you may just find me waiting for you outside of Hit & Run with a rusty claw hammer.
To my mind Boomkat's worst offences come when describing their own imprints, such as Modern Love. The site always deems fit to spew forth the grandest of compliments for the tracks it will profit most from selling. Praise is laid at the feet of artists such as Andy Stott, in a manner that hasn't been seen since Henry VIII's court of yes men tended to the last pussing syphilis lesion on the twisted shaft of his weeping cock. I understand that it's a business and they exist only to sell records, but language is such a beautiful gift it's a shame to misuse it so wantonly. Which, of course, makes me a terrible hypocrite. I can admit that, and I am big enough to admit that quite a few Modern Love records are actually pretty good. Further more, I'm starting to get a bit excited about the FutureEverything show coming up on May 14th at Sound control featuring ML's Demdike Stare and Boomkat DJ's as well as tunes from Finder's Keepers. The real draw, though, is Omar Souleyman playing with Mark Ernestus of Basic Channel (!) and Paul St. Hilaire- it should be quite a bit of fun. Just please don't let me hear you fucking describe it as “Epic”.
Classic is a strong word, conjuring (to my mind, at least) images of Herakles' children seeking shelter in Athens, Phaedrus' garden parties and Cronos eating his own children. In short, something that has stood the test of time- in these cases thousands of years- yet which still remains relevant and capable of answering some of our questions about ourselves. I don't care what the NME might think, but in 2000 years no one on Earth (if an Earth there still be), will give a monkey's fuck about Vampire Weekend. Actually, my mistake, it turns out that this is already the case. Humiliated, I back track... in the span of the next two millennium, even the Beatles will be forgotten and entirely irrelevant. It is with the self important, and ultimately futile, arrogance of a doomed culture that we feel fit to tempt the hands of fate with premature deification of our meagre artistic excretions. Like Kool Keith, America's greatest philosopher, once said we're making “wrinkle cream out of rat poop”- artifacts so instantly disposable, that a supposedly “ageless” tune is old before it's even been recorded.
Cynical? Well, you would be too if you'd seen even half of the things that I haven't. But if you want a slice of meaningless hyperbole to go with your bullshit pate, I can think of no better place to find it than Boomkat Records, where superlatives are thrown around like infant Chinese girls from cliff tops. Every other record is branded as “killer” or “huge” or (the one that bothers me the most) “Essential”. I'm sorry, but if a record is actually essential to your ability to function as a sentient being, then it's time to give up- just leave your front door key at home, pick a direction and keep on walking. Vinyl addiction is a real problem for a lot of us, and this kind of one-sided reviewing can easily make otherwise sane people lose their financial continence. I, myself, write this from a room pebble-dashed with records- many from Boomkat. Some I still listen to, the rest make superb building up boards. Here's one thing that my bitter experience battling musical cholera has taught me- very, very, very few Dubstep records even come close to being useful, to say nothing of essential. If you think otherwise, you may just find me waiting for you outside of Hit & Run with a rusty claw hammer.
To my mind Boomkat's worst offences come when describing their own imprints, such as Modern Love. The site always deems fit to spew forth the grandest of compliments for the tracks it will profit most from selling. Praise is laid at the feet of artists such as Andy Stott, in a manner that hasn't been seen since Henry VIII's court of yes men tended to the last pussing syphilis lesion on the twisted shaft of his weeping cock. I understand that it's a business and they exist only to sell records, but language is such a beautiful gift it's a shame to misuse it so wantonly. Which, of course, makes me a terrible hypocrite. I can admit that, and I am big enough to admit that quite a few Modern Love records are actually pretty good. Further more, I'm starting to get a bit excited about the FutureEverything show coming up on May 14th at Sound control featuring ML's Demdike Stare and Boomkat DJ's as well as tunes from Finder's Keepers. The real draw, though, is Omar Souleyman playing with Mark Ernestus of Basic Channel (!) and Paul St. Hilaire- it should be quite a bit of fun. Just please don't let me hear you fucking describe it as “Epic”.
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