Misanthropes For Jesus

The one before the heavy metal record

2009-06-03T20:39:00.002+01:00

Whoosh - and then it was June. The highlight: Waxing Gibbons, the new Malcolm Middleton long player out this month. Trust me.

Malcolm Middleton - 'Waxing Gibbous' from Mike Hemsley on Vimeo.

Depeche Mode: Wrong

2009-04-28T22:14:00.003+01:00

One day I'll write at length concerning Depeche Mode (indeed, as I recently waited for the woman who became my wife to jive down the aisle, See You may have been heard playing over the PA)...but not today.

Instead, new single Wrong, as filmed at some Euro Festival of Woo. New album Sounds of the Universe out...ooh, very soon I reckon

Random

2009-04-26T17:38:00.003+01:00

In lieu of recent words (I'm allowed, there was a wedding and an Eastern Europe and a few grand old films):

Lost Gramophone Classics

2009-04-04T10:51:00.003+01:00

Presenting Littlepixel's Lost Gramophone Classics, an ongoing project that lives here

Frisky & Mannish

2009-04-02T22:18:00.002+01:00

The music hall / Kit and the Widow / Fascinating Aida-style revival commences…now

Alcohol; half-remembered records; interwebs

2009-02-27T21:25:00.002Z

Regular updating of one’s interaction with all the boys and girls at home, or da blog as the kiddies on the street call it. Whilst stabbing each other in the face over who’s got da bestest Top Trumps card or sommit…I’ll just drop these in here…

The Delgados, Pull The Wires From The Wall

Curve – Fait Accompli

And simply because I recall being stuck in Royal Leamington Spa around the time this came out…

Morrissey stalkage

2009-02-12T20:01:00.002Z

An unusual detour to Radio 2 for this 6music fan, interview + live set from you know who here. He's on Johnny Ross tomorrow night too. Listeners and viewers outside of His Majesty's Empire, please contact your local cable supplier.

35. Shit, that old...

2009-02-08T21:08:00.001Z

I’m prepared to admit that The Mission aren’t the epitome of fashion. I loved them during the hideousness that is an impressionable age. An age way in the past. And thus everything Wayne Hussey related should be judged to be embarrassing, irrelevant, the remains of some pompous goth-rock style cul-de-sac of late eighties/early nineties oopsie.

And yet, and yet… a night surfing YouTube for truffles, ex-Stuffie Miles joining in… can’t help but smile ruefully, remind myself that maybe I wasn’t a monster teenager after all…

Record of the Week

2009-02-07T22:33:00.003Z

Taken from Radio Wars, the new Howling Bells album (a record subjected to heavy rotation in the MfJ Compoud). Riff-tastic.

Formerly known as Sub Sub

2009-01-28T19:46:00.002Z

New Doves album sometime this spring (MfJ is ignoring the frigid, steady gaze of winter), preceeded by a single at the end of March. Below, a reminder of why we fell in love with them in the first place...but if you can't wait for a taster from their long player, you can download a track here (email address required...and not sure how long link will be live for, so rapido)

Sentimental things that we said...

2009-01-24T19:37:00.004Z

Morrissey. Years of Refusal.

Initial thoughts on Years of Refusal. Because straight reviews are so passé.

>It’s a preening, strutting, taut, butch album, more Your Arsenal than Ringleader of the Tormentors. Produced by the late and sorely missed Jerry Finn (also at the controls for You Are The Quarry), the record eschews the more floral arrangements of the previous album for a more full-on Morrissey sound. Steven Patrick has been quoted as saying it’s one of his strongest records, a statement it’s difficult to disagree with.
>Love. The. Album. Art.
>Unlike several of his solo albums, there’s absolutely zero filler. None. Nada. I’ve heard You Were Good In Your Time described as weak. It isn’t.
>Album highlight It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore is, quite simply, astonishing. Epic, multi-toned, searing wit.
>Sorry Doesn’t Help is a homage to Spark’s This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us. Genius.
>Years of Refusal is the record of 2009, and is distributed by Decca in the UK and Lost Highway in the US, released on 16 February 2009 and 17 February 2009 respectively

Incidentally, I’m not making any tracks from the album available for sample download; the blogosphere (and blogspot in particular) has been rife of late with record company threats and takedown notices for permitting punters to try before they buy. Ed, over at 17Seconds, has had particular issues, receiving takedown notices for posting tracks he even had permission to distribute via his site (the effects of which you can read about here). However, drop me a message (d70g at hotmail dot com) and I’ll ensure you get a listen.

In a fist fight against Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, I'd fancy my chances.

2009-01-24T18:19:00.005Z

And in other news, Pat from Prolapse read the “Autobahn by Cha Cha 2000 is the greatest record ever made” diatribe that appeared here, and here, and confessed to me that, even though he was 50% responsible for said greatest record ever made, evil elves had stolen his copy too.

So unlike me, who moaned and ranted about not having Autobahn by Cha Cha 2000 on delicious 10-inch vinyl, Pat went out, did some hunting for truffles, and ensured that you can listen to it here.

And that's an order.

Record of the week (aka not the Years of Refusal review)

2009-01-22T22:19:00.002Z

At least once a week something hits the radar that becomes my new favourite record of the week ™. And this week I stumbled across the latest single from Dallas band the Secret Machines, which is so my new favourite record of the week ™ that it might just sneak into 2009’s festive think of a number poll ™.

You know when you’re hit with something, when you’re suddenly freezing in the most delicate fashion, when the hairs on the nape of your neck suddenly, inadvertently get into that whole standing erect thing. This week I’ve been blessed; firstly an astonishing track from the new Morrissey album Years of Refusal (review in the next few days), and then came Atomic Heels. It’s a very new-wave Texan record, the flavour of the Thirteenth Floor Elevators covering a Dandy Warhols track.

The band’s eponymous album was released late 2008, and is available on Reprise

The video’s pish, mind.

Crank

2009-01-18T00:29:00.004Z

It's late. sometime early morning. Mrs MfJ has gone to her nest, leaving me alone with a bottle of brandy, the internets and whatever music is wants to provide. Catherine Wheel were far too pretencious. Muse circa early ninetees. But I dare you to argue that this acoustic version of their finest moment isn't fantantic...

A dog that won third prize

2009-01-11T23:46:00.004Z

I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris

There are downsides of course. Every Morrissey fan has heard this countless times on tour over the last 12 months. Steven Patrick suddenly looks seventy-five. And this video is ripped straight from a Channel 4 late night “Video Exclusive” that both myself and Mrs MfJ stayed up for, and thus you get treated to both the Channel 4 ident, and whatever post-event commercial brake they had lined up.

But on the other hand…it’s Morrissey!

Years of Refusal hits the stores on 17 February 2009.

...and MfJ will be there when he plays the evocative Glasgow Barrowlands on 8 May

This took 26,000 pictures to make.....

2009-01-10T12:21:00.000Z

Ten Thousand Pictures of You from Robin King on Vimeo.

Hype hype hype hype hype of the week hype

2009-01-02T15:44:00.002Z

MfJ ushered in the new year listening to White Lies.

Which in itself is a rather large untruth; this being Scotland, the de facto year change thing (at least among the reprobates and ne’er-do-wells whom invite them selves to MfJ Towers for alcohol and Swingball) is to listen to truly dreadful home-grown pish. This year’s Deacon Blue being only slightly better than the Proclaimers track that spewed all over the 2008 kick-off.

But as for White Lies, To Lose My Life did generate a play at some stage of the evening. Horribly, horribly hyped, they’re either the Killers covering Joy Division (a terrible thought), or Joy Division covering the Killers, which at least provides hope…

Red wine and a record of the week

2008-12-27T17:37:00.002Z

1. There’s no doubt something intrinsically dodgy about a bloke nearer to his forties than his twenties liking the new Lily Allen single (even if, in my defence, the closer to forty thing is only by a month or so). By mid-January this track will be everywhere; on the in-store PA system of Top Shop, during stupid people's funerals. But in the meantime I get to pretend I'm somewhat ahead of the curve. Pretend being the operative verb.

2. Mrs MfJ has just informed me that she loves red wine. Amen to that.

Festive...err...twenty

2008-12-16T19:24:00.002Z

But a single post this December. What with it being a time for all-round, tinsel-wrapped avarice, you’ve no doubt had enough already. Besides, I’ve a stillborn novel to write, planes to catch, alcohol to mainline, festive fifties to post (it should have been a festive fifty, but we’re in a recession.) See you in January.

1 – Glitches ‘n’ Bugs - The Shortwave Set
2 – Halfway Home - TV on the Radio
3 – Machine Gun – Portishead
4 – Marguerita Red – Malcolm Middleton
5 – Baby I’m Just a Fool – Spiritualized
6 – The King of England – Chris T-T
7 – Don’t Dance – Hot Chip
8 – All You Need is Me - Morrissey
9 – Love is Noise – The Verve
10 - Við Spilum Endalaust – Sigur Ros
11 – Today is the Day – Screaming Tea Party
12 – Geraldine - Glasvegas
13 – Century – The Long Blondes
14 – Six and Three Quarters – Ipso Facto
15 – 1,000,000 – Nine Inch Nails
16 - Back on the Motorway - Metronomy
17 – Five Years Time – Noah & The Whale
18 – Another Version of Pop Song – Rose Elinor Dougall
19 - Great DJ – The Ting Tings
20 - Get Over It – Guillemots

Christmas record of the week

2008-11-28T18:16:00.001Z

The aquarium’s splattered with semi-finished, badly thought out articles. Reviews of the new single by an ex-member of the Pipettes that is far better than it should be. Ill-informed rants cursing human nature or geese or the cast of Are You Being Served? All of which I’ll fail to post. But whilst you’re waiting, here’s the new Robbie Williams / Alison Moyet Christmas single, which can’t fail but to light warm your festive chestnuts.

Mania

2008-11-17T20:10:00.004Z

I’m imagining medieval-style self-flagellation in Wick. Hoards of glazed-eyed frantics patrolling the streets of Dumfries and Kirkaldy, spinning like tops, dancing about as if they’re Peter Shilton protesting a World Cup goal that wasn’t.

It’s all BBC Sport’s fault. “Maradona mania grips Scotland” they reported this weekend. No doubt closely followed by Frankie Boyle quipping that Glaswegians engulfed the city’s airport on the off-chance that a famous South American drug addict was dishing out free samples.

Alas, I detect a slice of journalistic exaggeration to the arrival of an Argentina team coached by a certain Diego Armando Maradona. As per the rules governing international football friendlies, Scotland vs Argentina at Hampden isn’t going to teach us anything we don’t already know (first choice players have a habit of picking up thigh strains just after the squad is announced; Glasgow weather isn’t especially clement this time of year; Scotland aren’t very good).

However, the hyperbole surrounding the game is more than the Scots’ fierce loyalty to the shirt, or the SFA jumping at any opportunity to convince the outside world that we’re not the small footballing nation many seem to think we are. Maradona remains a global figure, one who travelled from childhood poverty to become one of the most beguiling talents ever seen on a football pitch. Never mind his subsequent failures at club management, he’s also tried his hand at being Parkinson, hung out with Castro, and had the pre-requisite-for-a-celebrity public divorce and cocaine problem. All, of course, after being kicked out of a World Cup after failing a drugs test. Maradona is a headline. Maradona sells. Which is why his tenure of the Argentine national team smacks of appointment by the marketing department.

Talismanic former footballers with well-documented personal problems aren’t renowned for their managerial success. A friend of mine was on the books at Kettering Town during Paul Gascoigne’s brief reign. Libel law – and the urge not to kick a man when he’s down – prevent me from imparting exactly what said friend told me, but I think it’s safe to say that Danny Baker’s best chum didn’t appear on the training pitch particularly often, and appeared somewhat under the weather when he did.

Maradona may well not be under the weather. He may coach Argentina to three consecutive World Cups. Even if he doesn’t, it would be plain mean not to hope that he hasn’t beaten his demons for good. It doesn’t even matter that he has little managerial pedigree; for every Steve Staunton there’s always a Mark Hughes or a Marco Van Basten.

No, what the hullabaloo over Maradona’s appointment signifies more than anything else is the issuing of a clear message for any iconic footballer with an eye on the national management job. Don’t bother with that UEFA coaching badge. Simply make sure you stay tabloid fodder for as long as possible. I guarantee us Scots will be manic.

True tales: The return of 1980s twee

2008-11-13T21:33:00.000Z

Swoon (Guardian Music Blog)

Record of lots of weeks.

2008-11-11T20:29:00.005Z

Continuing an occasional series where I mostly spend the week trawling through the old vinyl wedged under the bed or hiding in kitchen cupboards. Crikey, thinks me, this is fantastic. Why isn’t this record the theme tune to the Archers or something?

Kenny Anderson’s King Creosote persona is proof that a) Glaswegians have a habit of resembling its climate – weathered. b) Glaswegians have a habit of recording some of the most beautiful music there is. I’m an exception to both rules. The video for You’ve No Clue Do You? does it’s best Taggart impression of the streets of the dear green place.

Galashiels. Dawn of the Replicants.Candlefire.

And for dessert: the best band to hail from Liverpool who weren't the Teardrop Explodes. Or Echo and the Bunneymen. Or Ladytron. Record of the week, incidentally. Clinic - Tomorrow. Released any day now, says my record store persona.

A rush and a push and the land is ours

2008-11-10T20:48:00.003Z

Photo: Edinburgh 10 November 2008. Latest Turntable issue here.

The smoking edition

2008-10-30T19:53:00.003Z

As anyone who knows me will testify, the chances of me succeeding in quitting the ciggies are so low as to be off the scale. Still, to celebrate, or maybe mourn the fact that for the time being at least I’ll be spending office hours actually at my desk instead of huddled in the car park with a nicotine stick betwixt my lips, I’ve been trying to decide which is the best song about smoking.

Quick and dirty ideas – Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors (Editors). In Four Cigarettes, Malcolm Middleton is four ciggies away from having to leave the house (and stocks up with a fresh pack of 20 in Blue Plastic Bags).

Indirectly - Feel Good Hit of the Summer (and the accompanying apocalypse psychedelia of the video).

But pending your suggestions, and there has to be many, many more - the winner so far, from My Bloody Valentine, is this:

(NB: Minus points for submitting Oasis)

Post-modern genius at work

2008-10-27T17:24:00.001Z

Many moons ago, when the occasional decent record used to penetrate the upper echelons of the Top 40 – and possibly garner an unlikely appearance on Top of the Pops – I’d pay attention to chart music. Admittedly, this was probably the mid-eighties, back when the Human League weren’t a karaoke band and Lloyd Cole was still hanging with his Commotions.

Now of course, I’m far too preoccupied doing whatever it is that I spend my days doing to raise the effort required to ascertain what the kids are listening to. Maybe I’m just too cynical to understand chart-fodder when I do bother to stick my head above the parapet…

Not that the long-awaited Scooter vs Status Quo record could ever be described as cynical. I’d like to think of it as the pinnacle of what we as a species have achieved.

Or to put it another way: what the bejesus is this?

Records of next week...or last week

2008-10-24T16:58:00.004+01:00

Released this week, Six and Three Quarters by London band Ipso Facto sounds like it was recorded by San Francisco hepcats in 1969. The video’s gorgeous too.

With heavy rotation on this station, Vampire Weekend’s A Punk doesn’t particularly do it for me…except for that delicious hook 45 seconds that comes out of nowhere. If only the entire song sounded like this…

The best thing that you've ever had is your eight-legged groove machine

2008-10-22T18:59:00.006+01:00

Growing up in a seaside town that didn’t agree with me, I spent much of mid-teens glued to the stereo. The Cure, The Mission, The Wonder Stuff – especially The Wonder Stuff. A little embarrassing perhaps – at least in the sense that I don’t listen to them these days. Unless, as Mrs MfJ reminds me, I’m drunk.

Whatever, it’s 20 years since their debut album, the Eight Legged Groove Machine was released. Which, considering I bought it on day of release, makes me feel a little on the old side. To celebrate – or maybe commiserate – the modern version of the band (Miles Hunt and Malc Treece, minus those no longer with us) have released the entire album (plus a few b-sides) all re-recorded. With modern instruments and jetpacks, probably. You can purchase it here. Nostalgic goodness. I might even play it when drunk.

The Wonder Stuff - Inside You

Of Coldplay, bagpipes, and obscure shouty music from dismal places

2008-10-22T17:28:00.015+01:00

Author's note: This article is shortly to appear in the Halloween edition of Turntable and Blue Light. Or maybe it isn’t… I missed the submission deadline, a rewrite was ordered after I voyaged off on some bizarre tangent about Sarah Palin and the blind children who do her make-up… I know, very much not like me. Anyway, as I have been promising to write about Prolapse for quite a while, here’s some words. And yes, Turntable is a fine way to spend an hour or two if you have your reading spectacles handy.

***

Turntable and Blue Light’s editorial office. The top two floors of a converted warehouse in the Bowery. It’s chic, it’s drafty, and when I arrive there’s a crowded conference suite; half-dressed midgets performing Bavarian folk songs. I don’t ask. The editor’s inner sanctum – known colloquially as the Den of Pain – contains a desk the size of small Caribbean island. I can just make out the editor herself on a distant shore, up past the paperclips. She’s reciting war poetry of an ancient, undiscovered civilization. Or maybe telling me I have to have 1,500 words ready for the Halloween issue – she’s so far away it could be either. I take the safe option and nod. “And make it spooky” (I think) she yells on my way out. The midgets are still busy singing. I don’t ask.

“Make it spooky”. Spooky – I looked it up in this big book that explains what words mean. In reference to horses it defines acting in a nervous or skittish fashion. In any other context, it means eerie, scary. Coldplay, in other words. Or maybe not even Coldplay, more the waves of cultural and critical acclaim that such safe, anodyne, soulless drivel continually generates. Any combination of earnestness, pretentiousness and anaemia is begging for public ridicule (plus any band who name an album Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends deserve to spend the afterlife in the company of Billy Corgan) – and yet they shift records in astonishing amounts. I don’t get it. Why Coldplay? Even the merest glimpse of Chris Martin’s smug face makes me desperate to hide in the refrigerator, and I grow mightily scared when I crawl onto the shelf next to the yoghurt and those pesky elves slam the door shut. The prospect of writing 1,500 words on what Gwyneth Paltrow likes to stuff in her ears leaves me headed directly for that consignment of semi-legal vodka Keith Richards gave me after I’d discovered that he’d had his entire internal organs replaced with those harvested from Cambodian orphans, and I’d promised not to write about it in any of my articles. Several vodkas calm my nerves enough to stagger over to the stereo. A Prolapse album, played at some vulgar volume, that should do the trick.

Ah, Prolapse. If Coldplay’s global exposure is in inverse proportion to their inventiveness, Prolapse did it the other way round. Or, as my neighbours probably won’t testify, there’s something rather special about this all-too-quickly-forgotten band from a lost decade and a dreary city in the border country that’s neither North nor South, the UK’s very own Mason/Dixon line. Leicester is a city I know well, an urban persona strafing POST-INDUSTRIAL in large, untidy letters on the walls of concrete underpasses. It’s an aesthetic found – in the 1980’s and 90’s at least - in many similar cities: Sheffield, Düsseldorf, maybe even Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (although I can’t be sure of the latter; the last time I was in the Keystone State a large man with a mean glint in his only eye and a hunting rifle strapped to his torso came up to me in a bar, remarked upon my pink sneekers, then suggested that I should return to Canada with haste, so I never made it that far). Cities struggling with their own idenity possess a distictive sound, and it’s a sound that Prolapse plugged into with brio. It’s also, by the name of Pointless Walks to Dismal Places, the title of their debut album. Beat that, Mr Paltrow.

Prolapse sound like Leicester in 1992. Conversely, this is also the sound of flying to Amderstam to start a riot, or the Fall if they’d come from a small village in Switzerland and had been touched inappropriately by Auntie Freda. Prolapse continually executed a fine line in shouty. A quick rummage, in the big book that explains what words mean suggests that the correct noun is shout, or (context-dependant) shouting – which just goes to prove that big books can be as wrong as a Coldplay-loving populace. Open-larynxed, sophomore angst or politicisation - shouting is an artform that any three year old can manage with aplomb, and certainly isn’t something that graces any canon of popular music. Shouty however – it’s something far more subtle. Often just as loud, but far more inventive, multi-layered and multi-textured. Former Pixie Frank Black has spent his entire career enveloped in shouty. Zack De La Rcoha has spent his entire career shouting.

Shouting = Spandex heavy metal, Courtney Love, Courtney Love’s vagina.

Shouty = Old Julian Cope records, At The Drive-In, Dear Science - the fantastic new album by TV On The Radio, LCD Soundsystem’s North American Scum.

Shouting = Fox News.

Shouty = that understated “hello, we are Prolapse”; buzzy, droning, hacking guitars; male / female duel vox underwtitten by a twist of sexual tension and embellished with improvised, non-sensical wordplay. It’s like eavesdropping to a couple arguing in a cupboard whilst feeding each other candy. That they never had a hit single, it’s simply further emphasis that the majority isn’t always in the right.Just ask those who want the hideous piano intro from Clocks played at their next funeral.

Shouting is bad, shouty is damn fine thank you, and by half-past whenever, with dawn trying to kick the windows in, I’ve traversed the entire Prolapse back-catalogue. I’ve consumed enough vodka to make me eligible for Russian citizenship. I’ve spectacularly failed to write a single word of the “spooky” article. Only there’s a far more pressing problem. Prolapse are the greatest band in the world, ever, but I haven’t yet played Autobahn by Cha Cha 2000. You know, Kraftwerk’s zen-industrial masterpiece, only covered by the real greatest band in the world, ever. Cha Cha 2000 were the evil spawn of Prolapse, depraved masterminds who knew that the only way to improve upon the original was to coat it with the sound of bagpipes mating. The pained cry a set of bagpipes emits is so soul-destroyingly awful, the only people who should be subjected to them are those who would quite happily be stuck in an cupboard where Paul McCartney’s Mull of Kintyre record is the only choice on the jukebox (I was thinking on nominating Chris Martin for that particular pleasure – but it would only give him ideas). Cha Cha 2000’s true genius was to apply the theory of inverse awfulness and release it as a record. Yes, the only way to attain greater understanding of a seminal record was to re-record it as a discordance befitting two Glaswegians fighting over who has the fewest teeth.

There’s nothing else for it; the very future of the planet may as well depend on me listening to this record RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT. I crawl over to where the vinyl lives, next to the box of severed mannequin heads. A preliminary search displays a sharp lack of Autobahn. A more thorough search, one that involves an unnecessary amount of mess and a certain degree of trauma, confirms the worst. I no longer own this record. A precise memory, the exchange of hard cash for 10 (yes – 10!) inches of gramophone record - sullied, invalidated even.

There’s something deeply unsettling about a treasured, lost record. If I understood the concept of irony (hey - you attempt consulting a dictionary after this much liquor) I might try a wry smile; whilst failing to mould a spooky article, I end up asking myself: is there anything spookier than the land where lost records go? Where is this place? How do you get there? These many, many records that I’ve owned, that by every sensible law of physics should be standing on some shelf pleading to be played, do they elope together to some stereophonic nirvana? Are they awaiting more responsible owners via a thrift store secret door? Pimping themselves online?

Ah – the internet. No-one buys records anymore. What’s the point, when some high-school student has altruistically uploaded a torrent of exactly what you’re after? Except that Autobahn by Cha Cha 2000 doesn’t exist online. Not a single torrent, not one single blog specializing in obscure Leicester-based rockola available to click on and save as. What is the point of being able to download every anthem, ditty and advertising jingle that has ever existed, directly into your cranium, if the one fucking record that the entire planet’s survival depends upon isn’t waving its derriere in the air and screaming “yeah, let’s internet copyright theft, baby”?

At 6.03 in the morning, with a deadline for a “make it spooky” article about to be missed, I finally admit defeat. No vodka left. Mannequins lacking torsos, they look sad, resigned. No Autobahn right now for us. The future of a small and insignificant planet is out of my hands. Prolapse split in 2000. Cha Cha 2000 probably didn’t exist in the first place. Before I pass out, I recall a recent visit to a bar in Scotland. A roaring fire, a splendid range of malt whisky, and the gentle sound of bagpipes dripping out of the wall-mounted speakers. It took me a while for the song to register. It was Yellow. Bagpipe Coldplay. As a metaphor for doom it worked far too well. Keith – I need more alcohol.

Next Friday's Record of the Week

2008-10-22T16:20:00.003+01:00

TV on the Radio - Dancing Choose. From the rather fantastic album Dear Science, out in shops now (maybe - I don't go to shops)

Record of the Week 17/10/08

2008-10-17T18:25:00.003+01:00

Chris T-T, The King of England, taken from the album Capital (Xtra Mile Recordings)

All music is for sample purposes only

2008-09-17T19:09:00.006+01:00

Section 4(b), sub-section 32 (municipal bye-law #3955) of my radiant slackness being an inability to commit copyright theft, on top of, that is, manifold failings to update any of this. What can I say? Modern life is like a persistent Mormon with his foot in the door; it kinda gets in the way.

I think I’d rather listen to Girls aloud than the uber-hyped Glasvegas debut.

Six Bottles of Stella, Jacobs Creek, and Twenty Fags (Malcolm Middleton)

Be My Light, Be My Guide - Gene (wma file)

Julie Moult is an Idiot

2008-08-29T18:14:00.003+01:00

Bandwagon maybe...but a damn fine point made with seduction. And who can resist smearing poop over the windows of the Daily Mail?

Clicky for more

Welcome to dorsey's

2008-07-31T18:31:00.002+01:00

hup

2008-06-22T17:34:00.011+01:00

Misanthropes for Jesus has a house full. MfJ is listening to The Wonder Stuff, which is kinda nostalgic and potentially not the way forward. MfJ hates Pipex, who left MfJ without the interwebs for at least a month. Thanks, guys. MfJ likes the following, and hopes you do too...

Spinto Band - Oh Mandy

The Delgados - Mr Blue Sky

Probably... the best record ever released

Floating in space, #2

2008-05-12T21:26:00.006+01:00

26/5/08

See previous post.... this is one particular highlight of many...

Spiritualized - I'm Just a Fool

+ OMM article:

which is probably enough J Spaceman for now...

Floating in space, drifting in time

2008-04-21T19:38:00.003+01:00

There’s real trepidation when it comes to the new album from that highly regaled – adored even – artist. It’s like that moment with a new lover, just at that tipping point where you realise that something physical – and potentially wonderful – might be about to happen. You gaze into his/her eyes, and mixed in with all the lust (or something more, or something whatever) is the fleeting thought that it might be awful, that the strength of anticipation has over-written what could turn out to be nothing more than a fumble in the bushes.

(But when you do end up embraced – you know it’s almost always fantastic. Well, at least you do if you pick your lovers as professionally as you pick your favourite bands).

Songs in A & E is released on May 26th. I’ll be in Fopp the second it opens.

And: If J's new record is even half as gorgeous as the debut Spiritualized release, I'll be one happy galoot.

Three weeks last wednesday

2008-04-18T21:33:00.001+01:00

Listening to distortion and Distortion and my head hurts like the white noise of no wine because I might go to a gig tomorrow or I might be expected at a gig right this very minute and I’m not really certain or care particularly either way because there’s still no wine, or maybe too much wine (is there really such a thing as too much vino?), and early Pastels songs make me happy and having too many media players on the laptop means you can mash Deanshanger into Machine Gun and it either sounds like the future or three weeks last Wednesday.

Falling down the stairs

2008-03-27T23:09:00.001Z

I try to write again

This pen’s tricking me

Scratching lies like always

I turn off the light again

The silence pricking me

And then I’m gone till the morning

I don’t ever want to say goodbye

But if I go first I’ll tell you what its like

I’ll always want to have you by my side

For all time

The Warrender Park foxtrot

2008-02-24T19:35:00.006Z

Sometimes it's hard - dedicating a song to somebody who already owns pretty much every decent album there ever was - including the Betty Blue soundtrack. So sometimes, you just hafta hit that button, do you best - and hope.

(The joker in the pack being a track I sent this old friend, on a C60, back in the early nineties. We're both that old. Whatever happened to Hamish?).

Lush - Untogether

Teengae Fanclub - Here Comes Your Man

Fuel - Wildifre

The Misanthrope’s Guide to a Musical Valentine

2008-02-13T22:40:00.014Z

The following is reprinted from Turntable Bluelight, a fantastic read (and I’m not just saying that as, from time to time, I’ve spotted MfJ's words scribbled all over the website). As with all tracks available for download, these are samples which, if you don’t buy, will leave the artists faced with a welfare Christmas.

Obviously you have you own love songs to champion - exactly what the comment button is for. And yes, the picture's ironic

***

If, like me, you’re neither a florist nor a greetings card manufacturer, it’s easy to despise St Valentine’s Day. Tacky, cliché-ridden and trite, it’s the one day of the year when social convention acquiescently rolls over to the lowest common denominator, to some mercantile-led confederacy of fuckwits. It’s affection that’s prescribed, uniform and detailed to the point of when and how and with what it should be reconciled against. I mean – you can’t be truly loved if you don’t receive at least three dozen red roses and a teddy bear with I WUV YOU strafed across its chest in comic sans every February 14th, can you?

I’ve nothing against florists or greetings card manufactures per se (let’s just say that the day present them with my ill-earned cash for that socially acceptable window of I WUV YOU outpourings will be the day you’ll find me arguing Meatloaf’s “I’ll Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” is a seminal slice of vinyl). No, virtually any store you care to mention is equally complicit in the peddling of this Valentine Day aesthetic. Valentine-themed chocolates and crotchless panties and commodes and coffins and compilation CDs. Especially the CDs. At this time of year, there’s almost an unofficial rule that every gas station, convenience store and pizza parlour has at least one, unavoidably huge display dedicated to “The Best Love Album in the World Ever!!!!!” or “100 Luscious Love Songs for that Chick You’ve Been Stalking Since Halloween!!!!”

It’s just what the world needs, another brainlessly compiled three hours in the company of Celine Dion, Richard Marx, and Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes’ truly hideous “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” (the only occasion in musical history the sound engineer recorded a duo suffering a communal aneurysm, and it won an Academy Award). Where-as heartbreak has a strong and vibrant tradition within popular music (off the top of my head: Jeff Buckley’s “Last Goodbye”; “I Must Have Been Blind” by Tim Buckley; Elvis Costello’s haunting “I Want You”), there appears to be a collective mindblock amongst the songwriting fraternity when attempting to elucidate one of humanity’s greatest – and maybe the purest – emotions. In a world abundant in literary triumphs, visual masterpieces, orchestral zeniths, all liberally flavoured with passion and tenderness and the heart’s rampant urgency, the combination of popular music and I WUV YOU is all too frequently distilled from mawkish sentimentality, sung by some has-been or never-was with the musical legitimacy of a performing nutsack.

But I can kinda see it from your angle. You’ve got that special somebody coming over for that romantic meal. If all goes well, you might even be licking something suitable – oysters perhaps, or Golden Grahams - from each other’s naked flesh, and if you don’t have something on the stereo to delicately garnish the evening – something that isn’t “Happy Together” by the Turtles or Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now” – you may have to resort to the comic sans teddy bear. Yet it doesn’t have to be that way; lurking amongst the backwaters, the distant shores of the musical spectrum, are enough heartfelt, original and pulse-quickening tunes to simultaneously make you question love, and fall in love all over again. Here’s just a sample of what your stereo should be playing…

Spritualized – “I Think I’m In Love”
- from the album “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space” (1997)

J Spaceman constantly eschews conventional romance, mining instead a deep, almost metaphysical seam that’s both meditation and triptych. Over symphonic, occasionally atonal yet always beautifully crafted guitar buzz, the love is simultaneously directed at his intended, absolution, and the draw of narcotics; the triple helix of a screwed-up mind. “I Think I’m In Love” begins as a paean to a wasted day, before evolving into a counter-pointed statement of intent. “Think I can be your man – probably just think I can”.

Download coming soon

The Ronettes – “Be My Baby”
- from the album “Presenting the Fabulous Ronettes Featuring Veronica” (1964)

Ignore all that earlier tosh about lyrical sentimentally; here’s an example of light and fluffy that acts as a perfect accompaniment to Phil Spector’s immense soundscape.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – “There She Goes, My Beautiful World”
- from the album “Abattoir Blues” (2004)

Cave is a man who could invest the acme of passion into the most debased of advertising jingles. That he also invests his lyrics in rich literary, folk-tale and Old Testament imagery, has one of the finest backing bands in contemporary music, and goes about the whole caboodle as if building to an orgasm, a hellfire sermon or a ritualistic slaying, it results in a large canon from which to choose a potential Valentine song. That I’ve selected this particular single obviously has nothing to do with his throwaway mention of Johnny Thunders.

Live on Later with Jools:

Joy Division – “Love Will Tear Us Apart”
- Single (1980)

Much as has been written about what has become Ian Curtis’ obituary, but even time and ubiquity haven’t stripped away the energy from the dark failings of suburban love. From the understated instrumentation to Curtis’ flailing lyrics, this remains one of the richest records released in the entire decade.

Dusty Springfield – “Son of a Preacher Man”
- from the album “Dusty in Memphis” (1969)

Not so much a conventional love song than a (resigned? knowing?) wink on how love can sneak up and unexpectedly grab you by the balls (or the female equivalent there-of) , performed by an indefatigable Dusty with a glint in her eye.

Ed Harcourt – “She Fell Into My Arms”
- from the album “Here Be Monsters” (2001)

Try to combine heartfelt lyrics with a simple yet catchy piano-based melody, and the chances are you’re going to end up with a nauseous mess that appeals to the aged and the dribbling. Get it right however, as British singer/songwriter Ed Harcourt does here, and the result is a merry ditty that sweeps and slides over your emotional machinery with a yearning grace.

REM – “At My Most Beautiful”
- from the album “Up” (1998)

Winner of the “God Only Knows” of the Year award ten years ago it may be, but if anyone tells me that they “count your eyelashes, secretly, with every one whisper I love you”, the chances are I’d stay for breakfast.

Download

Mint Royale – Don’t Falter
- from the album “On The Ropes” (1999)

“Hey, I saw ya, I knew that we should be together”. Another sun-tinged record whose lyrics are never going to trouble the Pulitzer panel, yet its unpretentious, almost child-like optimism of what a relationship should be is enough to melt the heart of any misanthrope. Well, almost.

Download

War Monkeys (part deux)

2008-02-07T12:46:00.001Z

Remember this? Like any other dignified sceptic covered in vegetarian ravioli stains and servicing sailors for loose change, MfJ didn’t give much credence to the whole animals in modern warfare caboodle. Now that warfare has evolved to the level of bombing shepherds from some honeymoon suite of a bunker 500 miles away, the only interaction you need with the enemy is when it comes to the comedy torture photographs.

But wait – news reaches us that those sneaky Ministry of Defence types have been pressganging submariner goats (it’s in the Daily Telegraph, so must be true), and are only quitting as the Royal Navy doesn’t want to end up in the European Court of Bovidae Capra Rights for – well, infringing a goat’s rights I guess. Those compensation claims can, after all, be rather hefty when you're dealing with a creature that'll eat practically anything.

Especially submarine parts.

So, what MfJ is stood on Whitehall* demanding to know is: what other straggling limbs of the armed forces currently have less than 100% human quota? News when we get it…

*not really on Whitehall. Glasgow (s)miles better. See what they did with that slogan?

***
Naivety corner

I understand that creating a climate of bourgeois apoplexy at this plague of feral children slowly dragging society towards total apocalypse (or something) ensures maximum attention, and that even the most ardent war fanatic can grow a little battle-weary, but surely the fact that we’re still occupying, or possibly at war with, two different countries deserves some kind of media focus?

***
Sounds of the suburbs

Continuing with the theme that it’s still not 1988 yet, here's Prolapse, the greatest band ever to be spewed out of my home city (and a the subject of an entire future post all of their own, I dare say), shouting about 1990 being almost a fine year for music. Pointless Walks to Dismal Places belongs in your record collection (and Turk - message me if you ever read this).

Doorstop Rythmic Bloc

(.wma file)

And whilst you're out shiplifting: Hot Chip for album of the year anyone?

1988

2008-01-31T11:52:00.000Z

When drifting aimlessly in your early thirties (okay - mid-thirties – just keep it secret squirrel), how much of a fashion cul-de-sac is it for a boy (okay – old codger) to have long hair? “You look like you haven’t evolved since 1988. You resemble the bass player in a dodgy shoegazing band. Even your music taste resides the wrong side of the 1990’s”. Did the bloke in the newsagents actually say this? To be honest I’m never certain, but can easily disprove the music statement. Even if one of the greatest singles ever released, on Creation records no less, was released in 1988:

Momus - A Complete History of Sexual Jealousy (Pts 17-24).mp3

And so what if a fine record from the nineties was written and performed by the lead singer from one of those era-defining eighties bands:

Edwyn Collins - Keep on Burning.mp3

And the fact that one of last year's best albums was released by a band who sound like it’s still 1988 means nada:

Camera Obscura – Lloyld I’m Ready to be Heartbroken.mp3

See? Statement disproved.

Busby Berkley in the urinals

2008-01-30T15:55:00.000Z

How do you sleep? When dawn empties its payload above the drizzle of this cityscape, will you remember the delicate ghosts of your dreams? I’m with him sometimes, from a distance. Keeping tabs on, you could call it. I watch as he buys his cigarettes, sit next to him on the subway. I follow him into bars where, at the nadir of the evening, he rests his head against wall tiles of the GENTS, THIS WAY and stares down into the trough as if startled by an impromptu Busby Berkley set-piece amidst the urinal cubes. It’s a rare opportunity we have here, the nurturing of a little havoc to etch into this squalid little routine. The elevation of ordinariness. I’m going to fuck him up.

Relocation (a.k.a. more regular updates coming soon)

2008-01-29T21:16:00.000Z

Incessant rain.

The urban decay dribbles through every postcode, so broad canvas.

Locals that snarl and growl, incomprehensible, or perhaps just borderline psychotic.

I wish I’d have come here earlier.

(Aye, I’ve finally found the time to update this a little more regularly. I’ll even add some more music. And maybe unearth some hip new mime artistic who’ll pretty much revolutionise the artform – stay tuned. And et cetera).

music. and stuff. though mainly music.

2007-10-18T00:27:00.001+01:00

(Beach House… Spiritualized *sigh*… the lord el Moz *double sigh* … Chapterhouse… Ed Harcourt)

Louder Than Bombs – A Eulogy for a Record Store

2007-09-24T10:40:00.000+01:00

“An eviscerated hulk” howled the email, “it’s nothing more than a sorry, eviscerated hulk”. So of course I had to rubberneck. No thinking required – my feet knew the way. That oh-so-familiar backstreet location (it always had to be a backstreet location; stranded at the rear of the multi-story car park, the wrong side of the bus station, unpretentiously wedged between tobacconist and taxidermist). Louder Than Bombs; a record store, the record store, my record store. Think John Cusack in "High Fidelity", amplified by the dreams of someone forever just a boy.

And there it was; boarded up, vacant save for empty racks, a guilty apology taped to the doorframe. “Closed for business”. Closed, closed.

I gifted my adolescence to Louder Than Bombs. It’s what people like us do. To outsiders it was never anything more than a vaguely maleficent influence, a misconception hawking t-shirts and posters and slabs of vinyl that no one in their right mind had ever heard of, to skulking people that no one in their right mind would ever want to associate with. To us however – in a strange way it was everything we could have wished for. Echo & The Bunnymen. Low era Bowie. The Go-Go’s, all go-go. I vividly recall my first visit. Nine or ten, fundamentally aware that some of the things I’d heard on my parent’s radio touched me like nothing before, I stood outside enraptured by the posters in the window, the indigenous stereo a muffled enticement permeating beyond the storefront. What was that record? What is it? How can I get it?

Eventually I plucked up the courage to enter. And never looked back (even now, twenty years later, there are so many songs that anchor me to that time, that place). As I shuffled in: row after row, rack after rack of the most soul-affirming music I could imagine. Depeche Mode. Hüsker Dü. Led Zep: One thru Four. A small store that somehow transmitted the atmosphere of the auditorium. Punters older and far cooler than myself flicked through the vinyl, and yet as soon as I made my first purchase I felt I’d somehow been initiated into a secret society that understood who I was, or who I was becoming. It wasn’t long before I was spending far too much of my time – and even more of my allowance – elbow-deep in the merchandise.

It isn’t spectacularly long ago that every malilluminated fleapit of a town had its own version of Louder Than Bombs (larger settlements had two or three; grander cities – manifold). Not for us the sterility of the Virgin Megastore, of Tower Records, of HMV. The independent record store fulfilled some kind of civic function, a sanctuary for the dispossessed, the nerdy, those for whom sleep was an impossibility without that rare 7” single, the Japanese import, the only copy of White Light/White Heat for sale within 50 miles. Discovering that singular record you’d read about in the music press, or you’d heard on FM whilst getting ready for school – the thrill in discovering it corporeal in your local record den was – well – pseudo-sexual in nature (I’m only half ashamed to admit). It pressed buttons. Sometimes even the hair on the nape of my neck stood erect as I held a record in my sweaty palms.

And the merchandise was only ever half the story. The staff, they knew their stuff, pointed you in directions to musical vistas you’d never stumble upon in the monochrome real world. The walls would be spattered in adverts for gigs, from every band who ever needed that singer/guitarist/drummer. You got to know the venues where bands played – and the band themselves – if you read closely enough. In this symbiotic environment, I joined my first band due to Louder Than Bombs (and I’ll never forget the thrill of finding my second band’s record on the shelves; it almost made up for the fact we were dreadful).

The public service your local record store lovingly provided became obsolete – or as near to obsolete as matters once you’ve counted the store closures – when its core constituency connected those wires, discovered the Internet. Ignore the perceived wisdom about Wal-Mart, about Blockbuster, about supermarkets and that whole pile-'em-high, sell-'em-cheap aesthetic; the disambiguation of music retail was never relevant to the music connoisseur, a genus never comfortable around mainstream retail, let alone one who’d consider purchasing cheap chart product from a store ill-dedicated to our obsession. Supermarkets only ever cater for the causal purchaser (or as I’d have it – people who don’t really like music) – people for whom crossing the threshold of a serious record store would be completely alien. The Internet, however, completely realigned the access of music, however obscure. The record store rapidly found itself irrelevant (or as good as) just as soon as Limewire and eBay and Amazon and a million other sources, both legal and illicit, flashed up on the screen. Suddenly records became instantaneous. Warehouses with ranges way in excess of even the best indie store sprouted beside the freeway, shipping that rare record at low, low prices. Bob in Des Moines wanted to sell his signed copy of the Ramones’ first album, and no matter how good Louder Than Bombs was, it was never going to spin into Bob’s orbit.

And is my hard drive full of tunes weird and wonderful? Of course – I’m as complicit in record store death as you. Do I feel guilty?

There will always be Louder Than Bombs. They’ll hide in the big city backstreets, owned by serious music connoisseurs with a philanthropic bent and a large bank balance. They’ll survive, just; the Internet itself has created what retail analysts call new revenue streams for the indie record store, specialization a key tool in any arsenal. These days, we download, grabbing electronica electrically, buying our records online – even those rare Japanese imports. We find our band members through social networking sites, head to gigs we’ve spotted on MySpace whilst listening to our iPods. And none of this is necessarily a bad thing – needing a hit at three am is far more convenient when you can simply hit a few buttons to get your aural fix (I still remember queuing outside, waiting for the store to open on new release day – how quaint, how twentieth century). The loss of so many record stores however – it’s a lost world, full of so many possibilities – and the planet is a poorer place every time shutters are rolled down for the final time, and another town becomes quieter than bombs.

Outside a closed record store, I gazed wistfully through cloudy windows at the detritus of another music casualty, and then walked home slowly through the rain.

***

As published on TurntableBluelight... but as MfJ wrote it, I guess I can stick it anywhere.

Shiny, shiny musak

2007-07-19T22:50:00.000+01:00

Anyone who knows Misanthropes for Jesus will appreciate that, as July 19 is easily the worst day of the calendar, publication of that savvy yet half-written article will have to wait until blood/alcohol levels return to something approaching human. However, because MfJ loves you all, it did find a few sounds to keep you entertained and spiritually topped up in the meantime.

And don’t forget, all MP3s on this site are for sampling purposes only, and available for a limited time. If you like - buy. And if you really like, feel free to stalk the artist, imprinting the outline of your naked flesh all over their patio windows…

In the know, then you're no doubt bored with proclamations re: the brilliance of Metronomy:

You Could Easily Have Me

Plus
Howling Bells - Blessed Night

And
Garbage - Cherry Lips

How to Win the War! On! Terror!... first, take a dog and a monkey...

2007-07-15T20:31:00.000+01:00

"We can categorically state,” announces Major Mike Shearer, Basra-based military spokesgoon par excellance, “that we have not released man-eating badgers into the area”.

Yes, you read that correctly. The British Army are not, repeat NOT deploying kamikaze taxidea taxus in whatever Iraqi backwater the British Army are currently worrying the locals. Having confirmed that the Pythons haven’t reunited, and that Spike Milligan is currently a little busy adventuring in the underworld, Misanthropes for Jesus can only admire the Major’s delicious, Beckett-worthy slice of subterfuge. “What ho! Pitkins, those damn natives will never suspect we’re flooding the city with giant, rabid rodents if we persuade that gimp Shearer to categorically deny it on the BBC. Dimbleby was at Eton with me, you know; he’ll fix airtime for us”.

So, are killer badgers the surprise weapon in the War against Terror? Suad Hassan, a 30 year-old Basra housewife certainly thinks so. After updating the gathered newshounds of her age and profession, she confirmed that one particular badger had “the size of a dog but his head was like a monkey”, which sounds more like an acid flashback than any member of the animal kingdom MfJ has ever spotted (Suad Hassan – can I marry you?) Obviously, Misanthropes for Jesus requires far more concrete evidence than the sighting of a lab experiment gone wrong before it hides in the wardrobe from the latest militaristic weapon of destruction – although it does recall a conversation with a professorial old gent a few years back…

“I was at Bannockburn, laddie, and I tells ye, them canny English bastards, rode into battle on horses the size of double-decker buses, they did. Horses with gills, huge spikes on their antlers… and instead of their faces…”

(Confession – this bloke smelt a bit, hadn’t moved from his park bench since 1997, and had maybe sampled a few too many cans of Special Brew – but at least I think this is what he said).

So, have the British military been secretly splicing all creatures great and small in weird and wonderful ways, and setting them loose on 30-year old Basra housewives? If they have, it does segue elegantly into the whole War on Terror aesthetic. A war upon an abstract concept, against an enemy that may or may not exist (Al-Qaeda? Eurasia? East Asia? the cast of 'Allo 'Allo?) led by a hirstuite Bond villian (Bin Laden? Papa Smurf?) unseen for half a decade, and lacking popular support, obvious objective or any chance of success? Seems to MfJ that demonic quadraped conscription is the logical next step…

In lieu of proper post...

2007-07-12T20:56:00.000+01:00

Update: 15 July - Hosting issue sorted

Random tracks from the Misanthropes for Jesus playlist

Chic electropop from one of MfJ's old haunts
Temposhark - It's Better to Have Loved

Man + piano shouldn't sound this shiny
Ed Harcourt - Bittersweet

Irony?
The Teenagers - Homecoming

NB: Downloading MP3s from the interweb be bad and deprives rock stars from being able to pay their bus fare, and thus perform at stadia benefits for dead princesses or global harmony or to highlight the plight of cheese farmers or something, so be good, blah blah blah....okay?

When the drugs do work...

2007-07-08T15:02:00.000+01:00

To Medway Rock City, the provincial shithole...err...adorable market town that Misanthropes for Jesus has called home for the past year (prizes are available for anybody who can explain exactly why); where – as I type – the world’s greatest pharmaceutical pelaton, the Tour de France, is threading itself around the abandoned shopping trolleys in the High Street. (MfJ had planned to be there for you, clapping like a goon and waving a flag – but then it remembered it really didn’t give a shit about cycling, so it stayed in bed instead). Pro cycling is curious in that it’s the only sport that has never really got to grips with the scruple-free approach athletes take to achieving that competitive advantage. The world’s leading cyclists have been injecting themselves silly with a whole range of increasingly complex chemical compounds, growth hormones and testosterone for at least the last fifty years (British cyclist Tom Simpson had so much amphetamine in his system that, during 1967’s event, he elected to curtail his tour early by slumping from his bike and being, well, dead). Not that cycling is the only sport to have a history of rampant drug abuse; Misanthropes for Jesus has fond memories of 60s footballer Jimmy Greaves admitting to pre-match pep pills, amyl nitrate and – erm – Player's Navy Cut. Cycling does, however, appear to be the only sport that’s continually failed to culturally eradicate this scourge (even baseball has woken up to the fact that it’s most effective sluggers have biceps more at home in a Popeye cartoon).

Performance-enhancing drugs = cheating, kids.

And makes your john thomas shrivel.

Or rather, that’s the standard wisdom (the cheating thing, not the tiny cocks). Standard wisdom however, (being about as familiar to Misanthropes for Jesus as getting into work on time or the contents of the National Enquirer), feels incredibly shortsighted. And well – so much less fun. Drugs haven’t vanished from sporting menu because they provide a competitive advantage; otherwise, why do corporate sportswear manufactures, Formula 1 teams, horse breeders et cetera, invest millions in technological advancement, if it isn’t all about competitive advantage (married to, of course, selling product)?

No, drugs in sport is taboo, illegal and very, very naughty because:

i) Having your best athletes drop dead at a stupidly early age isn’t the strongest marketing campaign

ii) If you’re at an impressionable age and your sporting idol is hooked on magic monkey juice, you might decide to turn to the dark side yourself, arriving at school so pumped up that an orgy of school-yard stabbing is a more plausible option than sitting still and attentive in class

And, most importantly of all:

iii) Sports administrators have no concept of fun.

Therefore, Misanthropes for Jesus is officially launching the campaign to allow sport stars to ingest whatever performance-altering chemical they so desire. In fact, we should go further, and make drugs compulsory for athletes. Just think how it’s going to enhance those dull sporting events, tedious football matches, badly-scripted big fights. Think, for example, of the adrenalin-inducing thrill of attending a track and field event during the javelin competition. And, of course, no more processional, yawn-inducing grand prix. Instead, each driver will be randomly issued with a narcotic of my choosing (…”high drama here at Silverstone, where the driver on ketamine stalled on the grid, three LSD fiends parked their motors, upside-down, in the crowd, and one stoned backmarker was last seen heading away from the track in the direction of the nearest twenty-four hour petrol station…”)

So, readers, I suggest you grab your placards, contact your local politician without delay, and demand, demand, demand. You know it makes sense.

***
What’s that? Life not complete without having seen the infamous bench song from Snuff Box? Consider yourself sorted, courtesy of Misanthropes for Jesus (and Youtube – what did we ever do before the internet?)

***

Missed Live Earth? aye - me too. I did however hear the song that Madonna wrote for the occasion. Called Hey You, Misthropes for Jesus couldn't hide it's disappointment that it wasn't a cover of the Quireboys classic...

MfJ, the blog that will always stand by its man, like the other girls can...

***

The above was written whilst watching the 1945 version of Great Expectations. Reminds MfJ that early David Lean, before he became far too preoccupied ensuring blades of grass and specs of dust fulfilled his cinematic vision, was one of the finest directors of the twentieth century.

(Interesting fact: Martita Hunt, the actress who played Miss Havisham, enjoyed wine, delivery boys and cab drivers. Way to go, girl.)

Don't panic - they're here to save the planet on our behalf

2007-07-06T22:16:00.000+01:00

Hot news from The Sun’s Victoria Newton (no, me neither), whose exclusive interview with Al Gore (presumably Paxman was indisposed) provides what can only be described as a valuable insight into how careless we’ve all been with our carbon emissions. Oopsie. Yet hold on – just before you start building that ark and taking a perverse interest in collecting pairs of local wildlife, Al’s here to tell us about tomorrow’s Live Earth, the latest parade of multi-millionaires updating their record-buying public on what causes they should believe in. And in this instance, it’s the big event horizon. The one in which our beloved stars of the hit parade prove that they’ve always been at the cutting edge of environmental concern. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, those private jets, the cocaine and seventeen bedroom mansions are obviously a subversive statement that, after all, “we are the world, we are the children”.

Or something.

Anyway, far be it for Misanthropes for Jesus to be cynical, so I’ll let Victoria herself sell you the concept:

“Wembley Stadium will host a sensational line-up including Madonna, James Blunt and Red Hot Chili Peppers on July 7”.

I can’t wait. Or even be arsed to mention phrases such as “regular trips” and “Malawi” and “bizarre circumstance child adoption” or “synchronizing width of ego to girth of carbon footprint”.

The joys of this hypocrisy-free Live Earth merriment is, you’ll notice, but a week after Wembley - a stadium that exceeded it’s construction budget in a manner that suggests Elton John was holding the purse strings - volunteered itself as the venue for the life-affirming emotion-fest that was the Gig for a Dead Sloanie (or the Concert for Diana, as it was known in less imaginative circles). Misanthropes for Jesus would never countenance dancing upon anyone’s grave (or at least not before eighteen pints and regretting its membership of the SWP lapsed back in 1993), but it must admit it can’t quite grasp the raison d’etre of Lilly Allen, Tom Jones and the afore-mentioned Reg Dwight (who else?) bigging it up for the masses on what would have been the People’s Princess’ forty-sixth birthday. Alas, at no point did any greased-up international playboy, or fake-concerned TV journo perform a medley of Wham! Songs. Which is, after all, what our Queen of Hearts (and quite possibly Misanthropes for Jesus) would have wanted.

But before we go any further, this blog must concede that, whilst toying with the TV remote and pining for an episode of Murder She Wrote or some such, it inadvertently caught a few minutes of said concert (Wills and Harry apparently too hungover to make it to the post office in time to mail MfJ’s backstage pass, leaving it at the mercy of television). And well, the image of Prince William, our future liege and godhead, clapping out of time and sashaying to some generic RnB act as if one of his grandmother’s corgis was wriggling through the royal sphincter… well, it was enough make Misanthropes for Jesus wish that Henri Paul hadn’t have been quite so pissed that night in Paris.

Incidentally – one of the presenters the BBC trusted with its outside broadcast was Jamie Theakston. I don’t really need to add any more there, do I?

Anyway, I’ll allow the intellectual behemoth that is Ms Newton to give this article the big finish:

“My first impression as I walked into the room was just how tall and imposing Mr Gore is.”

Quite.

***

This post was written whilst waiting for the pizza that Misanthropes for Jesus had ordered over the internet to be delivered. How fucking decadent.