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Laddish for beginners juicer
(n): the pub |
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Dispossessed,
dehumanised, . |
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MUSIC As time goes by, the use of music on Any Programme You Care To Mention increases almost daily, the subtext being that we lumpen viewers simply don’t have the attention span to cope without such ambient backdrops. Even happens in soaps now too. And of course it all goes to boost the ‘value-add’ of the overall broadcast package. At the current count, Zero 7 tracks had been used 89,000 times to illustrate some stereotypical holiday programme piss. The other day, there was one of those re-enactment progs to cover the gunpowder plot. The overall effect was sullied by the wail of Britney Spears interrupting Guy Fawkes’ conspiratorial mutterings. Inconsistency. Quoi? ... As for adverts, we’ve recently had FSOL’s Papua New Guinea vs Something Or Other (cheers guys), Spoony’s voice-over vs Andrex and other wicked audio-visual soundclashes. Indeed, Cull hasn’t worked too hard to fill this page as you only have to watch smellyvision for an evening to get totally fucking annoyed at the presentation of products ... The pop single by those crazy cats Madhouse (not a tie-in in with the cheap jeans company, come on guys, you missed some synergies there), manages to combine the old House of God techno motif, Madonna's Like a Prayer and the riff from Music Sounds Better With You. And it’s total cack. I mean, it SOUNDS funky, but this is really too obvious, like the packed floor that greeted my mate playing a funky tune THAT THEY KNEW the other night. Doesn’t matter that the previous, unknown tunes were funky as fuck. As for that Madhouse: you SHOULD STOP DANCING IMMEDIATELY if you’re unfortunate enough to be in a place where it gets played. I’m just fed up with this prescription obvo-house ... As for the pharmacological side of things: a Chief Cullhead was walking down to Kentish Town in that frazzled but still high state on a Sunday afternoon as a man in his mid-50s approached him, going the other way. Clearly, not of the same persuasion as that Warrington 60+ man who died while on four Es and shitloads of coke, the elder grunted "DEFINITE DRUG USER" as our man walked past. "Fuck off you prick", came his reply. See, he’s high but still sentient enough to give it back to this sad labeller of what he sees as the degenerate clans (therefore by his superclassification he’s ok) EEE ... The Best Corporate Clubbing Ever II & The Amicable Sanitisation of Youth Culture (see WC#2): recent revelations. Ecstasy does not provide the psychological arena for essential truths and the exchange of ideas in the way LSD did/still does. This is why Radio Bum et al can get away with barely masked references to being ‘on one’: ecstasy is happy escapism and ultimately an end in itself. The DJ is an individual; although sharing his interpretation of a diverse range of music and musical styles with a wider audience, the attention of a whole venue/audience is focused on this one individual, who is at once both a cultural dynamic and an object of aspirational projections. These are incompatible and explain why dance music genres are more splintered than Jonathan Aitken’s spanking paddle. Experiencing feelings of friendliness towards strangers in these circumstances are completely false as they only occur in a proscribed environment with the systematic presence of requisite substances ... Such endless labelling and cod genre-defining does the culture no favours, as all this chill-hop, nu-funk, house hop & bass piss is LITERALLY UNBELIEVABLE CROSS-POLLINATION. A Metro advert for a club promised "downtempo jazz, cinematic house and mucky-funk" the other day. Whatever that is. It gets confusing. Hybrids yes. Lies no ... that’s not to say we’re not feeling lots of new stuff here at Cull Trade Centre ... Likes? Derrick Carter’s new album; Freaks’ Washing Machine — not a cover of the Fingers Inc classic but a belter all the same; a ‘trance n bass’ Mixmag freebie that incorporates trance sounds into jungle without any of that dreamy, ‘I wanna be free’ female vox; MC Pitman’s recent hip-hop seven-inch satires: straight outta Coalville — East Midlands ... Garage-rock seems to be spluttering with some-quite-average-actually offerings — The Vines, Datsuns and the rest and others can all kick it over a single or live rockgig but were found wanting on the long-play ... in this context, Nirvana’s best of will alert still more as to why K Cobain was a genius. Heart-shaped box and Negative Creep on the same release? unfortunately not, but this is self-hate non-catharsis sans pareil ... WhoreCull name-inspirers Whitehouse played a London date recently. The general consensus both among new and oldhands was that Whitehouse were pretty good — and very funny. Very little in the way of conspicuous physical mayhem as of old, but much more punitive, finely honed walls of sound. Plus some hilarious "My cock’s on fire!" mugging from mainstays William Bennett and Phillip Best ... From the Suspect DJ: "I can think back to the time I first thought of writing something for this lefty wank mag. I had it all figured out … I was listening, while commuting (the global corporate hatred building nicely) to my job in marketing (yes, marketing — A PROFESSION TRULY WORTHY OF MANDATORY SUICIDE) to the dub remix of the Gorillaz album. It is a truly shite record. It will not warrant re-examination in the future of any kind. The marketing juggernaut running out of control. Going to work, listening to this shite, thinking how I’m going to write this clever piece on the overmarketing of the slightest nuance of a decent idea in today’s society. However, in true dissenting style — my favourite drug lethargy kicked in. Fuck all got written. That was about eight weeks ago. I am now on holiday + I thought while I’m away will be an idle time to cast my thoughts over the globe’s problems and come up with some mind boggling solutions. No fucking way. The sun is starting to set and I am standing/swaying on the beach. I’ve got headphones on rockin to sounds of 70’s flutes, funky guitar, emotionally ridden strings — all of these of course interrupted by the good old trusty acid squiggle. I’m standing here thinking — wow — this really is it. This is the moment of clarity. Sitting on a sunchair, listening to crazy, ray baretto acid-soaked latin drums. I’m thinking these people have it sussed. Life IS fuckin simple + all that shit we throw in the way of achieving this simplicity is so unnecessary… I must have the new Nike trainers…Oh fuck, are jogging pants in this winter? Do I want to be a mod now it’s cool (well, Top Shop say it’s cool, Armani says it's cool — so it must be fuckin cool — the word ‘mod’ kills me — the biggest bunch of none ‘modern’ dudes you could ever meet — wearin their grandad’s clothes …Water rolling gently over your feet, a beautiful sunset on a tropical island while listening to some Schifrin strings on mini disc — simple eh ? But shit, I see they’re bringin out a newer version of my MD player — wot the fuck am I gonna do now? My shoulder is sore now …did I tell you I’ve got a sore shoulder? … gonna be a cunt to commute with" ... |
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