millionreasons: (Default)
You know the worst thing about the Olympics? Not the ubiquity, not the armed police on the streets, and not being able to use public transport or cycle down the canal, not the branding or the mascots or the sandwiches confiscated to make people eat at McDonalds, the worst thing about the Olympics is going to be Boris Piffle Johnson flopping his hair around and going: "Fnaarrr! Whiff-whaff, marvellous, what?  Errrrrrr, best of British, wonderful effort, whoopsie, harrrrrr, oh sorry just accidentally impregnated an Italian show-jumper, huuuurr." when it should have been Ken, making a lovely speech. All that fucking effort he put in, all that flying around and impressing people and shafting the French and having to do his post 7/7 Churchillian* speech whilst wildly hungover, and he probably didn't even get tickets to the archery. Poor Ken.

*
In other news, I am stuck in 1990, obsessively listening to the Sundays. They were such a tewibbly middle class band (from Reading, met at Bristol Uni), singing about cardigans, feeling a bit poorly, the lavatory, miserable weather, hideous towns, writing letters and going for tea. But oh that voice, and oh the jangle (the wonderful spooky guitar sound at the beginning of Can't Be Sure) and the over-riding yearn of it all. So, so English.



This has also been on repeat.



There was an odd time between Madchester and grunge when all was noise. Whereas post-punk was more interesting than punk, post-baggy (The Mock Turtles, the Farm, bloody Northside) was awful and there was a guitar-fuelled backlash to it. Away with your samplers, bring me my wah-wah pedal!. You can call it shoegaze if you like but the ferociousness of this MBV-inspired song is far from the rather tedious 12 minute noodling of Slowdive et al. I love the way the guitars hold the tension before the drums and effects pedal bash you into 2 minutes 20 of relentless guitar battering tempered by the dreamy, druggy singing before leaving you far too early, breathless and wanting.....more.

* as in good at making speeches, not as in sending the army in against the striking miners or ordering force-feeding of imprisoned suffragettes or letting the Sydney Street siege jewel robbers burn. Ken wouldn't let anarchists burn. He'd shaft them in a secret deal with the Trotskyites but not leave them to a fiery death.
millionreasons: (spike)
Yesterday, [livejournal.com profile] commonpeople mentioned awful post-Brit pop band Bennett (I seem to remember that I vaguely knew their manager) and I thought of other late 90s bands that were just floating around there without really fitting into a 'scene', or indeed being remembered at all. Instead of singing about Iceland, Bawl wrote about Safeways. I love the twangy chords and the violins.


Scouse folk-hippies Ooberman wrote this dreamy, fey shanty.


Does anyone else remember either of these bands? I asked this of Facebook, but it was during the dead hour of between 5 and 6.

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