Some uprise

Nas - Illmatic [1994]

Can’t stop spinning Nas’ Illmatic. 1994. That mandatory hip hop text that somehow escaped my mindset for fourteen years. Unforgivable. “Straight out the fuckin’ dungeons of rap” Nas says… What can you say back?

“It's like the game ain't the same
Got younger niggaz pullin the triggers bringing fame to they name
and claim some corners, crews without guns are goners
In broad daylight, stickup kids, they run up on us”

It’s hard to appreciate the truth in these lines if you aren’t from the ghetto. But a good fucking headstart is watching HBO’s phenomenal series The Wire. Yeah, yeah, a TV show. But, in many ways, the anti-show. I could cum-guzzle The Wire all night, but I wont subject ya’ll. Suffice to say The Wire is Illmatic: The Movie.

“I'm out for presidents to represent me (Say what?)
I'm out for presidents to represent me (Say what?)
I'm out for dead presidents to represent me”

Fact is, these lines aren't gangsta posturing, this is the reality of life for black kids from those project corners in countless American cities – especially in the early 90s, at the peak of the crack boom. And we had working class artists like Nas right there, observer-participants, discussing this shitstorm in vivid detail in a form that was really less than a decade old. A form that would come to take over music. That's some Shakespearean shit.

“sometimes i sit back with a budda sack
mind's in another world thinking how can we exist through the facts
written in school text books, bibles, etcetera
fuck a school lecture, the lies get me vexed-er”

One time for you mind. That was Nas too. He was 21 years old when he wrote this shit. Twenty-one.

“Peoples are petrol, dramatic automatic fo'-fo' I let blow
and back down po-po when I'm vexed so
my pen taps the paper then my brain's blank
I see dark streets, hustlin brothers who keep the same rank
Pumpin for somethin, some uprise, plus some fail
Judges hangin niggaz, uncorrect bails, for direct sales
My intellect prevails from a hangin cross with nails
I reinforce the frail, with lyrics that's real”


“Straight up shit is real and any day could be your last in the jungle
Get murdered on the humble, guns'll blast, niggaz tumble
The corners is the hot spot, full of mad criminals
who don't care, guzzlin beers, we all stare
at the out-of-towners (Ay, yo, yo, who that?) They better break North
before we get the four pounders, and take their face off
The streets is filled with undercovers, homicide chasin brothers
The D.A.'s on the roof, tryin to, watch us and knock us
And killer coppers, even come through in helicopters
I drink a little vodka, spark a L and hold a Glock for
the fronters, wannabe ill niggaz and spot runners
Thinkin it can't happen til I, trap em and clap em
and leave em done, won't even run about Gods
I don't believe in none of that shit, your facts are backwards
Nas is a rebel of the street corner
Pullin a Tec out the dresser, police got me under pressure”

Suckin' the Thorny Red One

Review Reviews No. 1: The Dwarf Discovers "their ain't no place like METAL!!!"

Judas fucking PRIEST are apparently still alive and getting about sans-Zimmerframes. Not one of them is dead, you guys. When does that EVER happen? Never, that's when. Ever. Anyway. The tired, irrelevant, probably senile cast of headbangers from the golden age of metal (the pissweak age of metal) apparently toured the wide brown land just recently - and for once, "toured the wide brown land" isn't code for "ran out of adult diapers".

I pooped my pants.

music stooge benefactors and worst benefactors ever The Dwarf felt compelled to cover Judas Priest's Aussie tour not once, not twice, but thrice. Why three times? Because they fucking could, I guess. (The insane, "astounding", unprofessional (nice pen name, kathy0685), "who the hell would even visit this site?" epic crapness of The Dwarf is a whole 'nother post (watch this space fourth quarter 2008!), suffice to say, don't click any of those hyperlinks.) Below, I compare and contrast the three Judas Priest gig reviews in an attempt to glean something from the insanity beyond the pressing urge to END IT NOW.

Review 1: Friday, September 12 2008, Sydney show, by Stephen Bisset

A workhorse-like effort by The Dwarf standards (The Dwarf doesn’t have standards), which is to say that Stephen Bisset writes like he might have actually finished high school. Then again, the very first word of this review is “Nary”. Don’t write or say or even think the word “nary”, Stephen Bisset. Or anyone. No one says that. And by the way the nineteenth century called on a phone it got from Alexander Graham Bell and it wants its vocabulary back. It called just to tell me to tell you that, Stephen Bisset.

Apparently Judas Priest are a “metal” band. This becomes pretty apparent throughout the course of the review, depending on how savvy the reader is to the subtle clues Bisset leaves dotted around the place as to what genre of music Judas Priest play. This both needs and deserves a tally. What follows is a list of Bisset’s use of the term “metal” is his 933 word opus:

metal gods (x 6 (six))
metal – heads [sic. Yes, the spaces between the – are Bisset’s. Metal needs room, you guys]
disgruntled metallers
breakneck-speed metal
heavy metal thunder
metal as plastic
metal fans
metal showman
metal frenzy

That’s 14 metals. That’s almost as many “metals” as “ands” (22 of those). For math buffs, this article is 1.5% metal. That’s more metal than there is in your car. That’s one metal every 67 words. In case these statistics aren’t telling the story for ya, I’ll translate: that’s fucking mental.

There’s some real gems in this review. The best sentence, far and away, is this:

“It was obvious from the get go that Judas Priest meant business, with drummer Scott Travis perched atop a riser no less than eight foot high that was flanked by two platforms.”

I love this sentence. I almost feel bad to make fun of this sentence, because I’m pretty sure that if I saw this sentence in a bar I would hit on this sentence and buy it a drink and later I wouldn’t take no for an answer from this sentence. It’s nice to know in this crazy mixed-up world that if you ever want to “mean business” (and hey, who hasn’t?) all you need to do is perch on a ridiculously tall drum kit? No, that doesn’t make sense.

But even better than meaning business by being on a “riser” (is that a word?), I love the journalistic integrity of this sentence. I mean, Bisset could have taken the punchy, dramatic path and omitted to mention the “two platforms”. Readers would have been left with an image of a drum kit fucking floating in space. But no. Bisset, the Noam Chomsky of music journalism, didn’t shy away from the truth. The riser was “flanked by two platforms”, guys. It was flanked by platforms. Otherwise, how could the drummer have got up there? Exactly. He doesn’t live on the riser, guys. Give the platforms some credit.

Where my platforms at?

You just know that Bisset knows that music isn’t just about the sounds and stuff, it’s about the props. He points out that the lead singer’s costume made him look like “some kind of futuristic druid”. But druids are from the past, I hear you say? Exactly. Imagine something from the past from the future. Fucking badass.

But not for long:

“From Halford wielding massive flags about the place, changing costume no less than five times, to appearing from behind a door underneath the drum riser singing from a throne pushed by a cloaked figure.”

Anyone that can “wield” a flag has got my respect. And costume changes no less than FIVE TIMES?! Maybe even more than five times? Bisset likes to say “no less than”. It’s got a salesman’s oomph. Who says “the riser was eight feet high” when you can say “the riser was no less than eight foot high”? Whoever they are, they aren’t Stephen Bisset.

But I’ve got to say, Bisset, where has the platform love gone, dude? I mean, props for shouting out both the “door”, the “throne” and the “a cloaked figure” (read: roadie). But surely the platforms were still flanking the riser when Halford appeared from behind the door singing from a throne pushed by the a cloaked figure? We’ll put it down to an oversight this time, but dude: Remember your roots. Your platforms, as it were.

Bisset, master of the witty turn of phrase, ends with a signature piece of repertoire:

“I guess you could say I went into the ‘temple of the metal gods’ an agnostic. The Priest made me believe.”

Kind of reminds me how I went into this article an agnostic, but Bisset made me believe (that there is no God).

Review 2: Saturday, September 13 2008, Melbourne show, by April P Bedeau

In the course of this 1289 word behemoth, the newly assless (“I'm sure many an ass was rocked off by the Melbourne show... including MINE!”) April P Bedeau lets us know that her favourite band is Motley Crue and, while she has the soapbox, manages to complain about the parking (“Rod Laver really do need to look at their parking facilities around their venue”). I should just stop here, but this article is a train wreck so complete that I looked at it for way longer than anyone should and I now find myself compelled to tell people all the gory details. I’m sorry. If you’re a nice person, please skip directly to Review 3 (if you’re a nice person, you’re not reading this. Sorry, person whose reading this and thought they were nice).

My theory is that the 36 year old April P Bedeau was so super PUMPED to be seeing the “Priest Beast roller coaster” that she regressed into writing like a sugar-crazed nine year old penning a freeform piece on the joys of Halo 3. But that’s just my theory. All I can say for sure is that any way you look at it, April P Bedeau should never have gotten her pen license. We need a Royal Commission into why April P Bedeau got her pen license.

So, in spite of my minor obsession with this article, I’ve been semi-dreading the prospect of reviewing it. Beating up on April P Bedeau’s writing is going to be like flogging a child. I don’t take any pleasure in this, guys. This hurts me more than it hurts you, April P Bedeau. I’m not angry, I’m disappointed.

It’s hard to read this review. Line for line, it’s heavier going than Homer’s Odyssey. I planned to quote some choice sentences and/or paragraphs here, but it has become quite clear that it can’t be done. I don’t want to blow your minds like that, readers. Instead, I’m going to drip feed you a few fragments. Take it easy and make sure you’re seated when you read these, ok?

“there he stood, in a sparkly cloak on a platform looking like a wizard with his staff”

This one comes back to April’s year two teacher, the same one with the liberal pen license policy. I don’t care what you say, Webster’s Dictionary: “sparkly” is NOT a word. Got back and do it again.

Scrupulous readers will also notice the return of the promised “platform”. Seriously, this band loves platforms, and apparently the fans lap it up (this may or may not have something to do with the occupation of your average Priest fan – see Review 3 below). The singer doesn’t love platforms quite as much as the drummer, though, because he’s only got one platform. He isn’t flanked by platforms.

Now, I can’t decide whether “a wizard with his staff” trumps “some kind of futuristic druid”. “A wizard with his staff” is perhaps the more mundane of the two descriptions, but, on the other hand, at least it makes fucking sense. Whether or not he had a real staff or April was just referring to his mic stand, we may never know (we never want to know). I’m not going to get into the staff versus wand debate (sorry, Harry Potter fans). But I’m inclined to like April’s description here. It’s straightforward and modest. She’s a writer for the masses. If Bisset is the Chomsky of music journalism, Bedeau is the Mao.

A futuristic druid or a wizard with his staff? You decide.

“The first cloak outfit was one of five costume changes Halford made throughout the show and the numerous props that went along with it were what made it a truly theatrical experience.”

Mao or Chomsky, everyone loves props and costume changes. Looks like Bisset might have been a little hyperbolic with his gushing “no less than five costume changes” though. Bedeau brings the straightforward honesty yet again: yep, he changed costume five times. No more, no less. Wow.

“the beginning was sure to be just a taste of what was to come.”

See what I mean? Can you think of anything less pretentious than actually taking the time to explain to your readers what the word “beginning” means? I can’t.

“Halford slowly made his way down amongst the other players at the end of the second song…”

Just because Bedeau is a populist, doesn’t mean she can’t break new ground. Why aren’t musicians called “players”? They play music, don’t they? If you’re thinking “Because it’s a god-damned stupid thing to call them”, then you just don’t get it.

“Sure the songs Angel was haunting…”

Aww, how cute, she said the songs Angel. And way to bring the positivity, April. So much nicer than Bisset’s just plain meanie take on the same track: “The only let down in the set was the atrocious and ill fitting power-ballad Angel, possibly only included to give the guys a much needed breather.” AND included to haunt April, Bisset. Don’t forget the songs Angel haunts April.

“Of course, I have been to copious amounts of metal shows as well as other gigs before in several different genres”

Oh. Wow. Bisset’s sentence earlier, the one from the bar: screw that slutty sentence. I’ve got a new crush. “Copious amounts”, ahhhh, that goes down like an ice-cold 7-up in a hot, hot desert. She’s been to gigs IN genres! INSIDE them! Several DIFFERENT genres! Oh, the best. This is the best sentence, you guys. If Bisset’s sentence was a one night stand, this sentence is a happy marriage and two beautiful kids.

Review 3: Thursday, October 2 2008, Perth show, by Dan McManus

In their way, both of the reviews so far are so bad that they’re hard to hate. But I’m an arsehole and I hated them anyway. Not for the crap spelling and the atrocious syntax. I hated those reviews for their sycophantic, gushing, narrow-minded, bogan discourse. I hated them because they’re a waste of air and precious internet bandwith and because the authors were clearly in it for the free ticket. A free ticket to see a shitty outmoded act whore itself to a cliché so obnoxious it’s a parody of itself. Ugh, you guys. Just gross.

And then, almost a month later, Dan McManus rolls into town:

“Whoever fixtured priest on a Tues needs to be lined up and skull fucked.”

Now that’s writing. How brutally and honestly and hard does that sentence hit you after the other bullshit? It is the anti-Bisset and the anti-Bedeau. It’s a beautiful thing.

Bias alert: Dan McManus is a mate of mine. Oh, wait, everyone reading this thing knows that. Still, just putting it out there. Bias or no, in a mere 578 words this article kicks arse and it kicks fucking THOR arse next to those other two:

“Half the crowd there were blokes and sheilas over 30 who clearly needed to be up at 4.30 am the next day to lay bricks for dale alcocks homes in mindare.”

While Bideau’s grade 4 grammar could be cringe-funny, this is legitimately haha-funny. Like, LOL funny. Moreover, THIS is why Judas Priest fans are obsessed with platforms: they all work on them. You have to admit: Priest have their niche cornered. The fans appreciate a good platform – give the fans platforms!

McManus, being my mate and all, informed me that The Dwarf censored the more brutal aspects of his article. I can’t even imagine how brutal when stuff like this made the cut:

“Judas shit? That's right metal heads, your beloved metal gods sucked Satan's proverbial thorny red cock last night. Sorry to have to be the one to shed some truth on the matter, but they did.”

Suckin' the thorny red one

But the real beauty of that quote and this review is that it simply cuts the shit. Dan doesn’t count the bloody costume changes. He doesn’t use the word “metal” as an adjective. Platforms don’t get a gig. He sums up the cheap theatrics hilariously:

“The theatrics of Priest, always a highlight in the heyday, seem dated and sort of like your on a 1987 version of the Ghost Train at the perth Royal Show. Scary when it first came out but now cute and adorable.”

Rather than fellate the rehearsed gun-show, McManus has an eye for those surprising details that actually tell you something about the experience:

“There was a funny moment during Breaking the Law when a bloke got on stage, took a photo with K.K.Downing had a little dance with himself and then mingled back into the crowd without security batting an eyelid. Unbelievable. It was either pure apathy from the rent a cops or pure incompetence.”

The best thing about this review in the context of the other two is that it actually explains why those reviews suck Satan's thorny red cock: because the idiotic reviewers were always going to love it, even if the fucking Druid Wizard had finally had that coronary on stage:

“I don't think it would have really mattered what Priest offered last night, the army of black jeans and even blacker shirts were going to love it. And love it they did. As demonstrated when I was walking from the carpark trying to locate my way out of this labyrinth only to see a young hoodlum deviate 5 metres sideways to elbow me in the shoulder on his way through. Now that's what I call love for a fellow human being. Going out of your way to make physical contact. Just brilliant.”

Take me off suicide watch tonight, guys. The world is ok again.

Lightbulbs are transparent things

Fujiya & Miyagi - Lightbulbs [2008]

It’s a cliché of criticism to say that a band records the same song or the same album over and over. It’s generally bullshit perpetrated by those who want to dismiss a piece of music offhand, but there’s also some truth to it (as acknowledged by Love is All who called their 2006 album “Nine Times That Same Song”). For one, in the end, all music is about organising sound over time – so a five word history of music might read “Infinity times that same song”. But that’s not to say that repetition is a-ok. Sometimes it blows, because, well, it’s boring.

But if talented musicians reinterpret and challenge a formula, song to song, the result might be great music, in spite of the accusation that they’re reinventing the wheel. Bringing us to Fujiya & Miyagi’s newie, Lightbulbs. Lightbulbs happens to sound a lot like Fujiya & Miyagi’s excellent 2006 break-out, Transparent Things, and not just in a sound-over-time sort of way. The Brighton four-piece are still pumping out funky, bassy Krautrock over silly lyrics about household items. For those of us who were all over that shit in 2006, the question is whether they break through the seen-it-all-before threshold and back into the awesomesphere this second time around.

The answer is yes and no. Fujiya & Miyagi are still as catchy, fun and stupid as ever. They still sound great from car speakers and if you spin this thing at a party you’ll still get strangers nodding their heads and asking who these funky mofos are. Because the band’s formula is relatively unique, the need for musical evolution is diminished. One spin of album opener “Knickerbocker” or the appropriately titled “Uh” reveal Fujiya & Miyagi doing what they do best with, to quote Borat, great success.

And yet, a couple of things tend to dim Lightbulbs in the context of Transparent Things. Fujiya and Miyagi’s only attempt at anything different here comes in the form of two down-tempo tracks: “Goosebumps” and the eponymous “Lightbulbs”. Both fail. Fujiya & Miyagi are built for driving four-four grooves, but these tracks plod. They break up the album unnecessarily and feel like a token nod to the expectation that their sound evolve. And while the rest of the album pretty much regurgitates the Fujiya & Miyagi formula to success, closer “Hundreds and Thousands” is pretty much an instrumental version of Transparent Things opener “Ankle Injuries”. It seems an odd way to finish.

Still, apart from the plodders, props to Fujiya & Miyagi for shamelessly rocking a pretty sweet formula.

The Forefront of Unclassifiable

subtle - Exiting Arm [2008]

subtle’s 2006 album, for hero:for fool, always struck me as sounding like music from the FUTURE. The way subtle morphed these rambunctious beats through some very weird production, the way that it didn’t conform to any of the tropes of indie rock and yet was somehow firmly grounded in the indie aesthetic, the way the raps had no real point of comparison in modern hip hop, and the way the whole thing was somehow catchy – all of this created the time travel effect. I mean, imagine hearing cutting edge music 10 or 20 years from now without the benefit of context. So many of the evolutionary steps that are embedded in the music – and familiar to contemporary listeners – would be lost to you. It’s going to sound familiar yet different, like how rye whiskey tastes. subtle mimic this effect by being so forward looking and unique.

subtle are still rocking the time machine with Exiting Arm, providing further evidence that they’re at the absolute forefront of whatever genre they’re supposedly in. iTunes tells me that for hero:for fool is in a genre called “Unknown” (with the exception of one track, which is unhelpfully classified as “General Hip Hop”), while Exiting Arm is simply “Rock”. This is rubbish, but I’m not sure that I could do better. Is it possible to be at the forefront of “Unclassifiable”?

Title track opener “Exiting Arm” provides all the evidence. Like most of the songs here, it’s driven by percussion – in this case, a thumping, fast rap beat. Then, like a lot of great Beatles tunes, the lyrics start with the chorus. Meantime, a whining, distorted riff weaves its way around the beat, keeping pace, and further rhythm is provided by a looping, Brian Eno-does-Microsoft hum. When the guitar drops out for the verse, we’re immediately in hip hop territory. In the course of less than four minutes subtle manipulate this tension between musical genres. The bridge at the 2 minute mark is a classic electro break, while the one forty seconds later is “Rock” – everything drops out besides the voice and the bass. Somehow, it’s all catchy as hell.

Thus, Exiting Arm is the best possible musical mindfuck. “Sick Soft Perfection” drops spooky, Amnesiac beats and pained electronic glitches under subtle’s already-weird vocals at their most disjunctive. To their credit, subtle never allow the density of the music and the ideas behind it to take over, as evidenced by the surprising moments of clarity like the rap break-down in “Unlikely Rock Shock”. And while the lyrics are largely incomprehensible, you’re occasionally given a hint that what’s being said doesn’t just sound like it might be profane, it actually is: see “what sort of armor can the average man arrange inside of him?” and “Q: what’s working man’s hope? A: they call it cope”. [Edit: Also see this fucking nutso flash site the band put together to accompany the album, featuring interactive poetry.]

The future called, they want their music back.

Punks. Everywhere.

Abe Vigoda - Skeleton [2008]

There’s this punk club in downtown LA called The Smell and there must be something fishy in the water there (get it? Fish smell, heh-heh) because four of their mainstay acts – No Age, HEALTH, Mae Shi, and now, Abe Vigoda – have blown up and become mega indie-famous. Meaning, moderately famous. Not sure if this is one of those Manchester in the early 80’s things (unlikely) or Seattle in the early 90’s (also unlikely) but, well, it does at least look like one of those random geographical creative pulses – and those things are pretty cool. Call it the Californian Spring… Of rock. The California rock spring… You get my drift.

Abe Vigoda make tropical punk rock. Weird, right? It reminds me of when Lisa Simpson encountered Yahoo Serious: “I know those words, but that makes no sense”. The tropics are the last place you’d expect to find a punk – it’s too hot for black jeans, and everyone’s getting laid too often to be riled about capitalism, the Man, or the Queen of England. Y’know, punk stuff.

But the concept of tropical punk makes a bit more sense when you hear Abe Vigoda. The dissonance of Skeleton is very No Age, but the sound also embraces the chaotic power of Black Flag and throws a whole lot of schizo Caribbean rhythm into the mix. Abe Vigoda even manage at points to make the guitars sound like steel drums, which is one of the things that almost rockets this album directly into the awesomesphere. If I were forced to give a non-drug related analogy, I’d say Skeleton is the music equivalent of being chased through downtown LA by stoned, knife wielding Rastas. Woops, there’s a drug reference. Sorry.

Abe Vigoda’s sound isn’t easy on the lobes. Skeleton isn’t a dinner party album, unless you’re hosting a dinner party for hipsters. But you get the feeling that Abe Vigoda would fucking shred live, and that (the potential to one day see these guys shred) probably makes this album worth the risk of indictment for music piracy. Plus, when everyone’s talking about the “Cali scene of the late 00’s” you can be all like: “yeah man, I was listening to Abe Vigoda back when No Age were relative unknowns”. That’s called cred. You can’t buy that shit.

Zack Attack Back

New Zack De La Rocha here. The angry not-so-young man and a drummer called Jon Theodore. It's stripped down down and pretty cool, but this may as well be new RATM. Not necessarily a bad thing.

voltage spikes

This looks even cooler here.