The Joup Friday Album – Paleface – ‘Paleface’

a1242855208_10I’ve been taking a vacation from cyberspace. I’ve been feeling like one of those dusty-tummied Cowboys lassoed to the accoutrements of a panicky filly that scatters after getting a bum full of buckshot. I miss information filtering down to me rather than it being Zoetroped in front of my pried-open glazzballs. Of course some of the unavoidable bullshit gets through to you like poo-particles up your nostrils from the methane on the subway train, such as Kanye West’s recent mandate that Beck should surrender his Grammy to Beyoncé. Which was rightly met with condescension and fist-plugged chuckles, because of course what West should have said is that Beck should at least have been mumbling the name Paleface in any acceptance missive that might have trickled through his Thetan-free PR Team.

The Joup Friday Album: Alice Cooper ‘From The Inside’

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Is it better to burn out than to find Jesus and excel at Golf alongside Pat Boone?

Those of us that on some subconscious level bought into the myth that I just misappropriated might be familiar with how glamorously masturbatory it can be to corkscrew oneself into the woodwork every night. But after a few years, as the herculean resilience of your youth begins to desert you, your early thirties turn into a nightmarish rapidfire montage of deeply regrettable bouts of bald-eyed sleep deprivation and burgeoning psychosis. Shredded nerves from screams piercing the wee small hours and shit smeared walls begin to take their toll and you find yourself rocking in a corner questioning who the hell you are. Then eventually the kid gets old enough to go to school and things sort of work themselves out.

The Joup Friday Album: Frank Black and the Catholics – S/T

220px-Fbcs I’ve had it up to my stress-deforested bonce of the Pixies. I careen this horn-honking, screeching-wheeled hipster-admission headlong into your family’s stationwagon knowing full well how I’m going to come off, because this exhaustion is based on their ever-swelling fanbase. Yeah, that’s right I don’t like them because YOU DO! What galls me about this steady torrent of newb recruitment is actually Frank Black’s consistently overlooked solo back catalogue. This slight against Frank-kind deprives me of as prolific a period as he had when he was a Catholic while he predominantly ignores extracurricular activities and gives priority to lining his already sizeable coffers by being endlessly on the road with David, Joey and cardboard-cutout Kim.

Your Fucked Up Childhood #3: The Snowman

tumblr_inline_nfzu25X0UK1qzwijzLooking forward to it snowing this year? No?! Can you pinpoint the exact moment at which your sense of wonder blackened, crumbled and blew away on the breeze? Maybe it was the day you saw Channel 4’s 1982 animated adaptation of Raymond Briggs’ ‘The Snowman’. Every time the subject of snow comes up at this time of year I inevitably end up gnawing on the knuckles of my clenched fist as a means of both plugging my mouth and preventing me from raining a flurry of punches upon those balking at the fact that this astonishing annual phenomenon might prevent them from, wait for it, getting to work.

The Joup Friday Album: Emitt Rhodes

Emitt-Rhodes-Emitt-Rhodes-383053At 64, nobody needs or feeds Emitt Rhodes, whose legacy is unfairly aswim in comparisons to Mr McCartney. In this age of archeological appreciation for overlooked artists, Emitt Rhodes has come agonisingly close to being paid his long overdues but unfortunately fallen short at every opportunity. From inclusion on the soundtrack to Wes Anderson’s ‘The Royal Tenenbaums’ to being the focus of a documentary dedicated to his unjustified obscurity and aimed at setting the record straight, 5 years have passed since it’s plaudit winning appearances at independent film festivals – the stars periodically align but fail to influence a wave of reappraisal.

Joup Confessions

Gary Cherone.
Nuno Bettencourt.
Paul Geary.
Pat Badger.

I wouldn’t advise that last one, they carry Tuberculosis and must be destroyed on sight. My friend Kurt and I were contorted in hilarity paralysis over the Bass player’s name a couple of years ago when we reminisced about our much berated appreciation of Extreme as 12 year old High School starters, then he bought me their second album which I hadn’t listened to for more than 15 years.

“Nuno, Gary, Pat and Paul.” we’d reluctantly submit in tandem to our chief antagoniser when fervently defending the band, furnishing him with the first names of it’s members at his request, to which he spat back without missing a beat:

The Monday Song Poem: Dick Kent ‘Christopher Columbus & The Compass’

 

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