Cape Canaveral, Florida to Nashville, Tennessee; 740 odd miles in 90+ degrees F in a car with no AC, no fuel gauge, leaking break fluid and no radio. A cheap Bluetooth speaker spits out spike tin-whispers of anything with treble enough to push through the wind, windows full down, seats wet from heat. Sweat gathers neatly in all troughs of skin and that cheap tin of wasps keeps on humming.
Every daytime we get closer passes fine / It’s in darkness were it tears the tear inside / Each twenty-four hours closer that we get / I sleep less and I re-measure my regrets…
It’s bigger here, faster. SUV bumpers ride up to my hips, steaks come in slabs as bloated as fists and talk runs at rates that I can’t penetrate. Wide open spaces with every bit packed up and built on and everyone got to get first. Southern Rock dominates each bar I find, bloated like those steaks but with half less to chew on.
Exit to Mexico Beach. Highway 98 so long, straight and one-laned a road that it’s easy to drift down its high-pine lined stretch. Got told it’s a shifted down, stripped down beach front, without the rude lights and the half builts and built up. Air smelt a little cleaner there.
From white sand that drops steep into warm green sea water I caught earshot of whoops and applause. I dried off to move to the source.
If a Maybe’s all the will or won’ts
And Sometime’s as good as any
Or it’s not
If Perhaps is all the promise
That you’re after
Maybe Someplace, hurting hurts
But not a lot.
Two legends post transformation.
Underworld have electrified, moved, soothed and tranced. Iggy has lived in and outlived his rivals plus his protegees and remains. Reincarnations, incantations, reflect… and what got grown here came out somewhere in next. Both acts can be tracked through their tectonic shifts and this single ripped right out from nowhere.
It’s harder than thought to get out with speed, even rats still got room to tuck tail. It’s the downside of putting down feet and planting your legs in cement for too long. Stick your collection of eggs in one casket and one unlucky step sets it off.
I got sick of the view. Office windows and spreadsheets launch into my dreams. Paunches and dustballs have […]
I didn’t know Brix and co. existed before an all day event at Rock City a year or two ago, I’ve been grabbing hold of news and new songs ever since. J&MC I got introduced to by way of a Psychocandy record being leant to me by a friend in a red Paddington Bear duffle coat in a south Wales college clique of uber-cool PVC musicfreaks. I caught the Mary Chain last at Latitude just gone where a broken effects pedal reduced their set to half hour. Needless to say I jumped at the chance to review these two bands.
I’d been consuming this desolate Dadaist ‘tronica since first offered the review. Blancmange’s newest album is a wide room to walk through, you can pick up and put down pieces of each song and move on to examine the next piece you fancy; A crystalline beat, hook or texture, a word. It’s flashy because it’s unflashy. It towers with no overcrowding. It’s open and wide and almost afraid of its own empty space.
It’s 2018 in the Rescue Rooms, Nottingham. It’s ’77/78 in CBGBs for an hour.
Im going to go ahead and namecheck from the off. Ramones, NY Dolls, Patti Smith, HeartBreakers, DMZ, Television… Reads like a grubbed up punk bible in a dirt-black hard-back CBGB sleeve. Snort off the face of it, tear out the pages and roll up a whatever, there’s enough blood and sweat in there to keep it all stuck.