The Joup Friday Album: Gorillaz – ‘Demon Days’

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More and more frequently I find myself wondering whether the world has always been this despicable or if I’m just becoming more conscious of it. Concurrent with this feeling is a realisation that our generation is being increasingly more spoilt with a Pop Culture smorgasbord: the Heroes of our youth dominate the Box Office, favourite bands of the past reform and tour, the best TV show of all time revived after a 25 year hiatus, Comic-Con has gone supernova. One of the few gifts of being a dentally challenged, pallid skinned Brit is an ever healthy cynicism possibly attributable to being of an island nation still living on a pension from a highly questionable Imperial legacy, which during the best of times enables many of us to take a dim view of anything that on the surface seems too good to be true. Back in my teens when I thought ‘The X Files’ was giving me a window into the clandestine machinations of the world’s superpowers my dad calmly and succinctly cut through my teenage distrust of his adulthood by putting it to me ‘hypothetically’ that THEY would love it if we were ‘watching the skies’ rather than paying attention to what was going on in front of our noses.

The Joup Friday Album: R. Stevie Moore – ‘Phonography’

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Down the back of the couch is the savings account you never knew about. I came to a realisation about 8 years ago that it wasn’t that music had suddenly dulled, but that I was stultified by a lot of new things I was hearing by having accrued a callous on my amiability from having studied too much. After having discovered artist after artist that the destiny of your inception dictates you miss, you realise that there’s more than enough music created before you were born to keep you busy until you die. I went through a period of hearing new bands and being able to tell exactly what they had schooled themselves on, and found it all a paltry cap-doff to incandescent predecessors before remembering instances in which respected elders had dismissed the bands that propelled my obsession as being derivative of other untouchables and realised it’s all relative and subjective and you should get on with indulging in what you love.

The Joup Friday Album: Syd Barrett – The Madcap Laughs

Sydbarrett-madcaplaughsHey kids, did you know that if you start playing ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ after the MGM lion growls at some off-screen heel that probably just flicked a filterless cigarette in his mane to make him react at the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, and smoke some pot, that it’s a moderately diverting expenditure of 43 minutes and 17 seconds? It’s awesome because the most ill-fitting song on the album, ‘Money’, kind of almost exactly starts within the five second period of time in which Dorothy opens the door on the Technicolor Munchkin village, not only that, the album climaxes with the showstopping Omega of ‘Eclipse’ while the Tin Man is getting his long overdue oiling – before the Cowardly Lion has even been introduced, let alone the narcotic associations of the narcoleptic poppy field or the psychedelics of the Emerald City itself.

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.

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