Issue 21 / November 2006
Welcome to issue 21. Are you getting bored yet?
Lots of CD reviews this month. Sorry about that,
but it keeps the second-hand record shops
of Glasgow in business. This issue written by
M. Ritchie and R.T. Quinn, solicitors to the STARS!
You can fuck up your eyesight by reading us online
at www.oocities.org/sniperglue
WALKING
When I'm out walking,
I get that feeling again,
welling up within myself,
telling me I could just keep on going.
Never stop.
Disappear into the horizon, somehow.
Become a part of the trees and the hills,
a part of the roaring ocean,
whose tides could take me home.
Away from the world of responsibilities,
worries, fears,
doubts, regrets.
No one likes to say it,
but being alone is a natural thing.
It feels fine being out here in this landscape,
dwarfed by the sky and the rolling clouds.
What's there to stop me from
taking that last, long walk?
Towards the unknown towns,
towards the unknowable.
Towards the cliffs and the rocks
and the pure, white sands.
Towards the beautiful terror
of the mighty waves.
LITANY
There are flags
and there are flowers
to mark the terrible event.
A young woman’s life
ripped up and discarded
like some worthless thing.
The setting renders it
more shocking, somehow.
This magnificent church,
a place of refuge
for the lost and the broken.
Ghoulishly, I walk by,
craning my neck to see,
although there is nothing to see.
There is only a feeling.
A feeling that we have
evil forever in our midst.
THINGS I'VE LOST
Childhood toys
A bag
Various hats
Jobs
Chances
Books
Photos
Family
Friends
My way
Dignity
Self-respect
Hope
My sanity
My will to live
Things I needed
Things I didn't know I needed
Things I threw away
Things I destroyed
ANOTHER AUTUMN
It feels like the
end of the world.
Rain coming down in sheets
as we huddle in the shelter
of doorways,
gulping down soup,
greedy for warmth.
Most of the insects
are dying or dead,
leaving mainly the ones
in human form.
They buzz around all
that is silent or sacred,
feelers pointing upwards
toward where,
through a gap in the clouds,
they get a brief glimpse of God.
We all have our temples -
the churches, the libraries,
the bookies and the pubs.
Each one a haven
from all kinds of storm.
Quietly we contemplate
at the heart of all this chaos.
For a moment, we feel
some kind of peace.
The lights of the slot machines
are our flickering candles,
drawing us in like moths,
as the streets empty their drains.
Soon, we will be home again,
safe in our temples,
our places to hide from the rain.
CDs
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS – PIZZA DELIVERANCE (NEW WEST)
This is a reissue of the Trucker’s second album, from 1999, with tasty new sleeve-notes by Patterson Hood. It’s more country influenced than their later stuff, not that there’s anything wrong with THAT. As usual, there’s some really excellent story-songs on here – from ‘Uncle Frank’, ‘One of These Days’, ‘The Company I Keep’, the faintly disturbing ‘Box of Spiders’ and ‘Margo and Harold’ to the lovely ‘Love Like This’ and ‘Tales Facing Up’. ‘Zoloft’ is a hilarious stomper about the joys of anti-depressants (‘who needs an orgasm when life’s so fucking great’) and, though I’d expected ‘The Night GG Allin Came to Town’ to be a silly throwaway number, it turns out to be a truly excellent, stirring closer, with swooping pedal steel and some rather nifty lyrics about my favourite dead punk rocker (‘he took the microphone and shoved it up his ass!’). The only real misfires on this album are the jokey ‘The President’s Penis is Missing’ and ‘Mrs Dubose’ (written and sung by Rob Malone, who was also responsible for the only three duff tracks on DBT’s great ‘Southern Rock Opera’ – thank fuck he’s no longer in the band).
SYNONYM (SELF-RELEASED) www.myspace.com/synonymuk
Picked this up in Avalanche Records. It’s one of those free promo CDR thingies people leave lying around in the vain hope that it will end up in the pocket of Richard Branson or Alan McGee. It’s ten tracks of ambient electronica instrumental quirkiness (probably done on a laptop), some of which is in a Kraftwerk stylee. Although it’s not really engaging enough to hold the attention for long, it’s fairly pleasant, inoffensive background hum. Not much of a recommendation, really, but 76 MySpace users CAN’T be wrong... CAN they?!
CAITLIN CARY – WHILE YOU WEREN’T LOOKING (YEP ROC)
This is a quite wonderful album from ex-Whiskeytown member Caitlin Cary (mean fiddler and co-vocalist with Ryan Adams before he went off and became a mega-famous solo star). The one and only time I saw the ‘town live, Cary WAS the front-person, as Adams was seemingly too fucked-up to converse or even acknowledge the audience. While I enjoyed the few tracks she had on the first couple of releases by her old band, I was amazed at the stunning quality of this, her solo debut from 2002. The first three tracks are all completely faultless – ‘Shallow Heart, Shallow Water’ and ‘Please Don’t Hurry Your Heart’ have a marvelous country rock swagger (provided by various OTHER ex-Whiskeytown folks) while ‘Fireworks’ is a simply divine ballad with the yearning strains of Cary’s violin prominent in the mix. ‘Sorry’ is gorgeous and recalls the ethereal beauty of the great Sandy Denny while other tracks (such as ‘The Fair’ and the aching ‘I Ain’t Found Nobody Yet’) have the folky flavours of Linda Thompson about them. ‘Pony’ is an uplifting and clever (and slightly pervy – ‘my baby is a pony.. he’s the one I love to ride’. Cor!) love song and one of the best things here, but this album is an embarrassment of riches, for sure. Who needs Ryan Adams?!
LEONARD COHEN – SONGS OF LOVE AND HATE (COLUMBIA)
This is an album I’ve always THOUGHT I’d heard, but that’s only because there’s been a postcard of the cover on my various bedroom walls since 1994. In truth, most of the songs on this were unfamiliar to me (all bar ‘Last Year’s Man’ and the classic weeper ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’). I don’t know why I’d left it so long to get a copy of this – I must have seen it a million times, in a million dusty record stores over the years, with THAT title, THAT photo of a young Len looking like a demented tramp on the cover… HOW could I have resisted? I’ve always had a great love for Cohen’s earlier, acoustic-driven stuff (his latter period releases, from 1988’s ‘I’m Your Man’ onwards, sound a bit too much like Barry White for my liking, albeit Barry White with really amazing lyrics). On the beautiful ‘Avalanche’ and ‘Love Calls You By Your Name’, he does that complex-sounding finger-picking originally showcased on his debut album’s ‘Stranger Song’ (one of my all-time favourites, alongside ‘…Raincoat’). ‘Dress Rehearsal Rag’ is a wordy and brilliant strum-along, ‘Diamonds in the Mine’ really SOUNDS like the work of a demented tramp, with some NAUGHTY lyrics and shit (ooh, he’s so NAUGHTY!) and ‘Sing Another Song, Boys’ sounds like it was recorded live. This being a Leonard Cohen album, of course, there simply HAS to be some overwrought chicks singing backing vocals and they make an appearance on several songs here. ‘Joan of Arc’ starts and ends with a rather bizarre double vocal but unfurls nicely and is an elegant and lovely closing number. Yeah, a beautiful album.
MICKY SAUNDERS / DAN SUSNARA – FISHBOWL WORLD (SELF-RELEASED) Contact – Dan Susnara, 7806 Kilpatrick, Chicago, IL 60652, USA
This time last year I was selling insurance over the phone to poor saps and hating myself for it. Now, after nearly 12 months of ‘resting’, my glamourous life of unemployment is beginning to get rather old, so what better way to cheer myself up than listening to the annual summer single from California’s Micky Saunders and Chicago’s Dan Susnara? Can’t believe a whole YEAR has passed since the last one, actually, but that only proves that I’m getting on a bit, I suppose. Three tracks here, one unlisted on the nice, colour CD cover, for some reason. The title track is a groovy mid-paced psychedelic jamboree comprising (according to the lyric booklet) ‘David Byrne-isms, Starships keys’ and ‘junk collection’. It’s a myth that goldfish have short attention spans, you know. Only today I was reading about tests that have been done proving they can be trained to do simple tasks and remember them months later. ‘Get Away’ is a feel good poppy number which combines vocals from both Micky and Dan to fine effect. Love the guitar solo on this track, too. The trippy, ambient instrumental piece ‘Lava Lamp in D Minor (Movements 1-4)’ rounds off the disc nicely, in an Art of Noise kinda fashion (I used to fucking LOVE that band!) Roll on next summer, I say!
PERNICE BROTHERS – LIVE A LITTLE (ONE LITTLE INDIAN)
There was a time when I wouldn’t even hesitate about buying a new release from Joe Pernice. I’d been in awe of his music ever since a friend taped me ‘Television’ by Scud Mountain Boys, a beautiful love song to a TV set! Their magnificent ’96 album ‘Massachusetts’ was an instant classic for me and it’s impact has not dimmed over the years. The Scud’s previous two records, ‘Pine Box’ and ‘Dance the Night Away’, were pretty much impossible to find, so I was ecstatic when Sub Pop reissued both as a double CD set. Then head-Scud Joe Pernice went and shattered my dreams when he dissolved the band who, on top form, soared close to the dizzying heights of The Greatest Band of All Time, American Music Club. But all was not lost, as Joe instantly formed Pernice Brothers, who put out a couple of fine seven-inch singles before releasing the wondrous (and, one suspects, ironically titled) ‘Overcome By Happiness’ album in ’98. The sound here was more pop oriented than the countrified textures of the Scuds, but Joe’s top-notch, tearful songwriting and heart-on-sleeve voice were still very much to the fore. More surprises followed, as the Pernice Brothers moniker was ditched for the next two albums (which were issued under the names of Chappaquiddick Skyline and Big Tobacco). To confuse matters further, these records sounded sonically very much like the Scuds, a sound Joe had claimed he wished to escape! I just naturally assumed he was a contrary bugger, much like Will Oldham and his ever-changing band names. He didn’t want to be famous, this suggested, so would keep people guessing by constantly finding obscure new names to release his records under. But, since 2001’s ‘The World Won’t End’, Joe has stuck with the Pernice Brothers name. I’ve seen him play live a few times and always loved his music. Until, that is, I started to notice how each record seemed to grab me less and less. The last one, 2005’s ‘Discover a Lovelier You’, was reviewed in issue five of this zine and I was really enthusiastic about it. That opinion proved to be a tad premature though, as I’ve barely played it since. It’s not that I don’t LIKE it, it’s just that it doesn’t feel as VITAL, as LIFE-AFFIRMING as Joe’s previous records. In short, it sounds like a FORMULA is being followed. Anyway, ‘the past is another country’, as some clever fucker once said, so… I was initially disappointed with this album, thinking it was just more of the same, but it’s proved to be quite a grower. None of these songs are as tearfully beautiful as Joe P’s earlier stuff, which would seem like an unfair comparison, only he does rather invite it since the final track is a rather pointless Teenage Fanclub-style re-working of ‘96’s ‘Grudge Fuck’ (a great song, but why re-visit it now?) Still, there are many moments of literate pop joy here, especially ‘Zero Refills’, ‘How Can I Compare’, ‘PCH One’ and ‘High as a Kite’. There are NO duff tracks, so maybe I’m falling into the obsessive fan boy trap of judging every new record by my favourite artists against the incredibly high standards of their past work (and writing overlong reviews about them even though nobody else is really all that interested).
THE TWILIGHT SINGERS – POWDER BURNS (ONE LITTLE INDIAN)
I’ve always thought Greg Dulli had something of the night about him. He looks like the sort of guy who’d be fun to have a drink with but, get on the wrong side of him, and you might just find yourself feeling the business end of a blood-stained pool cue. Or lying in a gutter being injected with bad smack. His former band, The Afghan Whigs, spent the 1990s releasing albums of occasionally excellent dark soul rock ’n’ roll. Great stuff for playing just before you leave the house for a night on the tiles. Typically perverse, I used to play a couple of Whigs’ tracks at about seven o’clock in the morning, while swigging cider and readying myself for my office job in 2002. This latest album from Dulli’s post-Whigs outfit blends warm electronica with balls-out rock to fine effect. ‘I’m Ready’ is a stonking tune to kick-start the album (even though the OFFICIAL opener is a short ‘n’ sweet instrumental piece) while ‘There’s Been an Accident’ has a certain Eastern mysticism to it and ‘My Time (Has Come)’ appears to be about vampiric sex! Wow! Dulli’s romantic side is showcased on songs like ‘Candy Cane Crawl’ (which contains whispery, seductive backing vocals from Ani DiFranco), ‘The Conversation’ and the lovely, jazz-tinged closer ‘I Wish I Was’. This album makes me want to dig out some of my old Afghan Whigs tapes. All together now – ‘Don’t forget the alcohol, ooh baby, ooh baby!’
JONI MITCHELL - MILES OF AISLES (ASYLUM)
Joni Mitchell is a Goddess who can do no wrong in my eyes, so it’s a quiet mystery that I never really liked this 1974 live album much until very recently. Maybe it was the sax solo on ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ (I fucking HATE sax solos in pop/rock music) that did it or maybe it was the rather shite calypso version of ‘Carey’. Anyway, I’ve since revised my opinion and now conclude that this is a mainly GREAT live album. The versions of ‘Rainy Night House’, ‘Circle Game’, ‘Blue’ and ‘Real Good for Free’ are stunning and weepsome and brilliant.
BMX BANDITS – THE 53RD & 3RD YEARS (AVALANCHE)
Aw, I couldn’t resist this one. Sure, it’s silly and twee and I already have most of this stuff on vinyl but I LOVED this band back in my fanzine-reading, anorak-wearing youth. If songs like ‘E102’ and ‘The Day Before Tomorrow’ don’t put a smile on your face then you’re a po-faced CUNT who probably works in a bank. They were a fun band to see live, too, and singer Duglas T. Stewart was a brave man to face pissed-up Glasgow audiences with Barbie doll stage props. I’ve heard that he no longer does all that (incredibly, this band are still going!) but I see him around town quite a lot and he always says hello. Sometimes nice guys DO come out on top.
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS – A BLESSING AND A CURSE (NEW WEST)
This band have been my discovery of the year, for sure, and this is their most recent album. It’s shorter than all the others but still contains 11 tracks and is a winner all the way, with each of the band’s three songwriters contributing moments of greatness throughout. There are the upbeat, Wilco/Stones style rockers like ‘Feb 14’ and ‘Aftermath USA’ (co-written by the album’s producer, David Barbe, who used to be in Bob Mould’s brilliant post-Husker Du band, Sugar) and lovely ballads like ‘Little Bonnie’ and ‘Space City’. Then there are a couple of songs from Jason Isbell which sound a bit like The Smithereens only, astonishingly, BETTER (‘Daylight’ has a chorus to DIE for). Final track, the pedal steel led ‘A World of Hurt’, is fucking beautiful and had me in tears, playing on ‘repeat’, when I was coming off my last bender.
MAGNOLIA ELECTRIC CO – TRIALS & ERRORS (SECRETLY CANADIAN)
Jason Molina used to do that solo singer/songwriter, Will Oldham type thing rather well, but for the last few years he’s taken to rocking out with this band, who sound as if they’ve been mainlining Neil Young albums since birth. They also remind me of a band who existed a few years back called Nadine (who, themselves, were massive Young fans), especially on first track ‘The Dark Don’t Hide it’. This is a live album, recorded in a mystery location, and some of the songs even have the audacity to rip off Neil Young lyrics! Talk about wearing your influences on your sleeve! I detected lines from ‘Out on the Weekend’, ‘Tonight’s the Night’ and ‘Walk on’, although there may well be others. The thing about ripping off Neil Young is that at least you always manage to sound pretty good, as this album DOES. Having said that, it gets a bit samey after a while, although the addition of a trumpet on a couple of tracks helps break the monotony.
LAMBCHOP – DAMAGED (CITY SLANG)
Apparently, head Lambchopper Kurt Wagner recently went through a serious illness and this album contains songs about the experience. The promo copy even comes with a sticker quoting him as saying it’s his most personal album to date. Well, I thought I was being a bit of a thickie at first because I found it hard to detect any of this on the first few listens to these long, slow, meandering, lovely songs. They didn’t appear to deviate much from Wagner’s usual eccentric lyrical devices - stories told through small details, life explored via bibles, birdbaths and handguns. On closer inspection, however, there ARE odd, oblique references to shaven heads, flowers and hospitals, although it’s hard to really get a handle on the subjects of Wagner’s songs. They’re impressionistic and vague, but all the more alluring for that and the fact that they are all delivered in a hoarse, croaky whisper. Musically, the album is awash with strings, piano and the occasional pedal steel guitar. Not much of a party record, then, but this should do nicely for the comedown.
NIGEL JOSEPH – 2 LAYER TEPPICH FRESCHER BULLSHIT (MHW) www.myspace.com/philreadsbooks Don’t know if that title is correct, as this CDR has no cover (well, the cover I got with my copy was for a Doors CD). I’m told this is intentional and can only guess that it has something to do with that much misunderstood pastime known as ‘art’. Anyway, Nigel Joseph’s name has been floating around the noise scene for several years now but, as regular readers will know, I don’t usually have much time for noise, preferring a nice cup of coffee or throwing electrical appliances into my bath water. There are a couple of REALLY long tracks on this that would test the patience of a more patient patient than ME. There are beats and bleeps, bizarre noises and bleeding eardrums, the slightly disturbing wheezings and loopings of asthma patients, etc. I expected to HATE this, so it’s rather surprising that I didn’t at all. In fact, the first track was a rather enjoyable accompaniment to typing up some mind-numbingly dull shit I had to type, which is not to say that the ‘music’ contained on this disky was or is in any way ENJOYABLE. Track numero deux is a sample of Alec Guinness from ‘Star Wars’, slowed down and looped till it takes on Satanic proportions and becomes incredibly annoying and troubling. It could go on for the ENTIRE duration of the CD but I switched it off after about 10 minutes, I think. I was starting to question my sanity by this point. On a lighter note, I recently bought a brown hooded top (4 quid from Primark) which I think makes me look like Obi Wan Kenobi (I practice my Jedi mind tricks trying to evade my fare on trains) and some daft bitch spent a whole evening in a pub recently calling me that very name, only she meant the Euan MacGregor ‘version’, not Alec Guinness. It was the half-ginger beard, I think.
GIG
PATTY HURST SHIFTER - CATHOUSE, GLASGOW, 12TH OCTOBER 2006
Today was John Peel Day. Woke at 9.10. Had a shower. It was nice and sunny - a total contrast to yesterday. Watched some telly then went for a two-hour walk around the West End. Got some scones in Morrison’s and a cheese salad baguette in Sainsbury's and walked down my old street in Hyndland, then killed another hour or so in the flat – the new mono-browed freak was still in his pyjamas at 1.50pm - before my dentists appointment. I was kept waiting nearly half an hour. Had to go over my 'details' with the receptionist, and stupidly gave her my mobile number too. 'Got' a new dentist - a Spanish (I think) woman called Maria, who seemed nice. She said I needed a filling patched up and some x-rays to determine if anything else needs doing (which I'm sure it will). After that, I walked into town and went to the Horseshoe. James was in, so I had a few pints with him. He'd been to a neighbour's funeral the other morning. That guy Gus from Shawlands sat at the next table for one pint of Guinness. I saw him in the Crystal yesterday too. Before leaving, I shared my last two scones with James, then we walked to Union Street and I went over to the Cathouse, 'cos I had intended going to see Patty Hurst Shifter, but the place was shut! I phoned Grant, who'd left a voice message for me, but he was in Carluke. I asked the bouncers in this new place just down the street if they knew why the Cathouse was shut. A long shot, I know, and one which didn’t pay off, either. So I went for a pint in Times Square instead. Went back to check if the Cathouse had suddenly opened, but it hadn’t, so I got a subway back. Had no dinner. Wow. Was back at 8.50, in time for the three good comedy shows on BBC2. Then I went to bed but John knocked my door at about 11.30. At least I was his first choice to be drunk and loud and annoying with. He ended up with James across the hall (I assume). NOT with the door open tonight but still audible enough for me to lose sleep and have to put my headphones on. AAARGH! It went on much later tonight, too, and I think other cunts were chatting in the kitchen. It’s like trying to sleep in a railway station. So, I heard some of Janice Long and Alex Lester on the radio. Alex’s catchphrase is ‘It’s the best time of the day’. No it isn’t, mate, it’s fucking 3am!! Heard a good new Ben Folds song, though. Download only, of COURSE.
BOOKS
CARRIE BORZILLO - EYEWITNESS NIRVANA (CARLTON)
Charity shops are GREAT for cheap books. This one was only 99p from the Salvation Army place on Dumbarton Road and it’s a nice companion piece to the new Nirvana biog by Everett True, which I’ve been dipping in and out of in the comfort of various bookshops. This is much more of a prosaic read. Factually pretty accurate, I’m sure (Borzillo certainly seems to have done her research), but with hardly any of the personal musings of the eccentric Mr. True or the other Nirvana/Kurt books I’ve read.
SEAN HUGHES - SEAN’S BOOK (PAVILION)
Another charity shop find (this one was 59p!) and another book that’s easy to dip in and out of. Perfect for reading on the toilet, in fact. Don’t know why I didn’t buy this at the time it came out (in 1993), ‘cos I was pretty obsessive about Sean Hughes back then. I watched his Channel Four sitcom ‘Sean’s Show’ many times on video and even went to see him live once (and I HATE going to see live comedy. The only other comedian I ever saw was Victoria Wood… unless you count Ivor Cutler as ‘comedy’). This book comprises poems, sketches and short articles on such subjects as sex, death and living alone. All the hot topics! Perhaps most interesting is the juicy little snippet that Morrissey’s dad was to have made a brief appearance on the BBC2 series ‘Sean’s Shorts’, but grumpy old Mozza forbade it at the last minute. What a rotter! To be honest, Sean’s writing in this book is pretty half-arsed a lot of the time. He seems a stranger to simple things like punctuation and sentence construction. Quite amazing to think that this was published after he had a hit television series. Quite ANNOYING, too. Nothing here is laugh-out-loud funny and his attempts at pathos mainly come across as self-pitying teenage angst (from a man in his late twenties, to boot). Thankfully, his writing improved greatly in later years, as his funny 1999 novel ‘It’s What He Would’ve Wanted’ attests to. I bet he had an editor for that one, though.
FILM
THE HISTORY BOYS
Tom rang at 9.30 and woke me up. We chatted for a while then I got ready and walked into town. Stopped off for a quick whiskey and Coke in Lauder’s and was in the cinema at about 12.10 to meet Kenny, who was already there. I bought my ticket for the film (which was £3.80) and we went up in the lift after a brief chat in the foyer. Continued our chat throughout all the ads and trailers for other films but not a single word passed between us during the actual film. It took a while to get started but was really good once it got going. It had a great soundtrack of early '80s indie music and some witty Alan Bennett dialogue (best line was probably 'History's just one fucking thing after another'). Some of the actors were hamming it up a bit, especially the guy who played the headmaster but I enjoyed it on the whole. Told Kenny afterwards that, if it'd been 18 years ago, I'd have totally LOVED it. We went for lunch in the Counting House and had a veggie burger and chips each. I also had a pint of lager. Then, pretty soon, it was time for me to go and meet Tom. We met in the Horseshoe at around 4pm. He'd been hanging around outside for a while, I think. We had a drink then moved on to a Haddow's, where he bought a bottle of Buckfast for us to share and some new Airwaves gum for me to try. We had another drink in Alfredo's and Tom remarked how the bit leading up to the bar resembled a catwalk. He also defaced a placemat. Then we walked up Sauchiehall Street and drank some of our wine. Went into the Brunswick Cellars for a drink and he rang his mate Wendy, who said to meet us in the Hengler's Circus. So that's what we did. Her boyfriend was also there. We had a drink and a chat, sitting on one of their comfy sofas
and then it was time for them to go to the Guillemots gig at the ABC (which Tom told me the next day was crap). I stayed and finished my pint then got £6 noodles and walked back to the flat. Stopped off for a bottle of cider on the way and was back at 8.10pm. Put on some GG Allin videos and rang Gary in London on an impulse (maybe it was the Buckfast, which I finished in my room). We chatted for a while, till the credit ran out on my phone. It was a good conversation, even though I didn't recall much of it afterwards.
CUNT ROCK: An innovative musical genre that aims to slash the Cock from Rock & Roll
(A report by R.T. Quinn. Nurse by day, Fly by night).
Bubbling under the mainstream, like lava not Lambrini, an anarchic undercurrent spearheaded by the enigmatic Vicky Vulva, lead singer and guitarist with the incredibly frenetic all-female band Pennies 4 my Clitoris sharpens her diamond tipped stilettos and points them steadily in the direction of what she venomously terms ‘The impotent lies of Cock & Roll.’ She is angered by my referring to them as an all-female band, preferring the label 'a band of bleeding parts and hearts'.
I ask her what she means by Cock & Roll? She clarifies: ‘A conspiring misogynistic movement designed to obliterate women from the music scene, with the exception of Elton John.’
Your reporter laughs at this only to be met with a piercing glare and I am in awe at the passion and conviction of her diatribe.
She continues: ‘Some women assume that they are anarchic and anti-establishment, but they too are vacuous and unaware that they are being manipulated. Take Hole for example. Why not Cunt? I'm not into euphemisms and resent self-censorship! I'd rather be in a bunch of cunts than fall down a hole any day!’
I ask if there are any female artists within the 'music' scene she can relate to and she immediately quips: ‘Bob Mould.’ Again I chuckle nervously and she informs me that she's deadly serious!
Realising that there is no way whatsoever that she will recognise and validate ANY female artist (she referred to Madonna as Malcolm), I ask her about her forthcoming album 'Snatch Pussy and the Joy of Electric Eels'.
‘This album will break new ground and inevitably we hope a few faces! Our new single 'Lawrence of No Labia' de-constructs the feminist ideology. I too was excited by the 'Vagina Monologues' particularly the bit about re-claiming the cunt. Then it occured to me, what's to re-claim? My cunt was never claimed and also it was never clean.’
By this stage of the interview I realised that it was foolish to try to antagonise this formidable woman. I asked about the other album tracks, particularly the motivation behind 'Discharge over Daniel' but unfortunately our engagement came to a premature end when Ms Vulva began to urinate in front of my assembled team. I mockingly said ‘Oh how very punk-rock! How cliched!’ Unfortunately this only served to further infuriate Ms Vulva who had to be escorted from the premises as she now had produced a photograph of Elvis from her person and proceeded to defecate on it, much to the dismay of our producer, an avid Elvis fan and
President of the Elvis Appreciation Society, Brixton Branch. (www.deadelvisappreciationsociety.org)
Technically the album has a distinctive sound, energetic and extremely loud. However, any attempt on comparison with established musicians was met with derision and potential violence.
The album 'Snatch Pussy and the Joy of Electric Eels' by Pennies 4 my Clitoris is available on download only from the following url - www.vulvavolumes.com
LEAVING HOME
It’s 7.30am and I’m sitting in the Necropolis, a huge graveyard that stands high on a hill in an isolated area in the centre of Glasgow. I spend most of my mornings here, looking out over the city. Luckily it isn’t raining or I’d be fucked and would probably have to hang about in Buchanan bus station till it’s time for work. I’ve been doing this for a couple of months now, getting up at six and leaving the house half an hour later. I tell Marie it’s because we have a lot on at work, but the real reason is I can’t stand being in the house anymore. It’s not that I don’t LOVE her, it’s just that, since we got married, I’ve felt like my life’s been slipping away. It’s as if my identity’s slowly being eroded and I can’t do anything to stop it. It isn’t Marie’s fault. She’s always been a perfectly reasonable person, but maybe that’s part of the problem. I’ve always been a dreamer, wrapped up in my own little world most of the time. What did she ever see in someone like me? It’s easy to tell you what I saw in HER. I could go on for hours about her brilliant personality, sense of humour and knock-out legs. Maybe what they say about opposites attracting is true, because I’d class myself as dull and ordinary and rather plain, if truth be told.
I like this time of day. It’s quiet. Last night’s clubbers have gone home and it’s still too early for all but the most diligent office workers. Maybe, like me, they’re also trying to escape their home lives. Every morning, I see their ashen faces, sitting in the windows of coffee shops, scanning the newspaper headlines, while I’m on my way to the Necropolis. Only then, when I’m all alone, wandering through the weather-beaten gravestones, can I start to really breathe.
It doesn’t last long. Soon I’m in the office, listening to Sandra moan on about her bunions as she makes tea, distractedly spilling sugar onto her flowery nylon skirt. Then there’s the usual round of business meetings where ridiculous phrases like ‘integrated market structures’ are bandied about. Sometimes I’d love to shout ‘SHUT UP! No one talks like this in REAL LIFE,’ but of course, I never do. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that everyone knows EXACTLY how meaningless all this stuff is, but we can’t say it, because what exactly would we do THEN? So, I find myself agreeing to submit a report on ‘Effective Forms of Communication in the Modern Workplace’. I will get this to John, my line-manager ‘ASAP’, I tell him. Inside, I’m screaming.
Five o’clock can’t come quick enough. I’ve wasted most of the day staring at my computer screen, which shows either a blank spreadsheet or the bare bones of my stupid report. I alternate between the two when my eyes grow tired of staring at the same thing for too long. I don’t bother calling Marie. She knows not to expect me home until at least eight these days. Of course, she thinks I’m still in the office (or DOES she?) when really, I’m in the Black Lion pub round the corner.
I blend in nicely with all the other shirts, ties, raincoats and briefcases. It’s our uniform and, as long as we’re wearing it, nothing else matters. Not age, race, religion or sex. Having said that, most of us are white and male (although the few female patrons fit in perfectly, in their smart business suits) and a fair bit of good-natured ribbing goes on about football which, in Glasgow, is the only religion that REALLY matters.
I try to tune out of people’s conversations, as most of them still chatter away in the inane business-speak I’ve grown so sick of. No one I know is in tonight, so I stand silently at the bar with my pint, eyes glazed over, not looking at anything or hearing anything apart from the vague, faraway hum of people’s talk. They sound like farmyard animals or battery hens but I can’t make out a single discernable word. It’s as if I’m on a distant island, as if I’m a million miles away.
“I used to be in a band, you know,” the guy next to me rasps in a Cockney accent. He looks about fifty, with a three-day beard, unkempt clothes and long, greasy hair. You'd think to look at him that he'd stink of BO too but he seems to have that aspect of his personal hygiene under control.
“Really?” I reply, wondering what he’s doing here and why he’s chosen me to talk to. Can’t he tell from my body language that I don’t want to be bothered?
“Yeah. We were nearly on ‘Top of the Pops’ once, but some bastard fucked us over. It’s these queers, you know. They’re everywhere. You’re not a queer, are you?”
I tell him no, I’m not a queer, and show him my wedding ring. I instantly regret doing this. What the hell’s the matter with me? I don’t have anything to prove to this retarded old prick.
“It’s a bit poncey in here, ain’t it? All these suits and ties. Not my scene at all.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
He shoots me a look of pure, unfiltered disgust.
“I’m waiting for my son. He’s lending me some money.”
Then he walks away into the crowd and I’m left alone with my thoughts again. The more booze I pour down my throat, the more I begin to think that I actually ENVY the old guy. I, too, used to be in a band, but you’d never guess it to look at me now. All my clothes are clean and neatly pressed; even the clothes I wear at weekends are the sort favoured by off-duty business professionals - sports slacks and pastel-coloured polo shirts. I find myself wondering what ever happened to the person I used to be.
It’s nearly nine when I turn my key in the door. I’ve had seven or eight pints and a couple of whiskies and feel pretty good. Good enough to finally go home. Marie’s lying on the couch, engrossed in a book. Classical music plays on the hi-fi and the room is bathed in soft, flickering candlelight. Marie doesn’t hear me and I stand in the doorway and watch her for a moment, her face set in concentration as she reads, absent-mindedly biting her lower lip. I feel like bursting into tears, but instead, I cough loudly.
“Oh, hello,” she says, putting down her book. “I never heard you come in.”
She smiles and I smile back. In a minute, she will ask if I’ve eaten and then we will tell each other about our day. A warm easiness will fill the house and we will laugh and she will tell me that I look tired, that I really shouldn’t work so hard. Things will be alright for a while. For tonight, at least, things will be just fine.