Saturday 8 October 2011
Friday 7 October 2011
Best Pulp songs
A selection of their finest, because I'm on a writing kick and real life is boring.
In keeping with the spirit of things, I've added a prosaically titled 'sex rating' for the horndogs amongst you. As fellow Britpopster Phil Daniels might say, "you love a bit of it."
Sheffield: Sex City: Like the Serge Gainsbourg of South Yorkshire, Jarvis shrieks and purrs his way through eight muggy minutes, as keyboardist Candida rambles on about "the sound of people fucking". Essentially, it's the precursor to Acrylic Afternoons: coated in lust and attuned to the heat in the humdrum, but without all those bits about the tea.
Sex rating: 5/5. It's a bit naughty.
Party Hard: Better than any song with a robot filter has the right to be and forever danceable. While the guitars are reminiscent of Wish-era Cure, the vocal is all Bowie: deep, talky and impossibly alluring. Never a bad thing.
Sex rating: 3/5. It's not exactly spilling over with sauce, but it does feature the line, "he just shed his load on your best party frock." Well, it's raunchier than anything else in the Britpop canon.
Cocaine Socialism: I'm too young to remember the 90s in any detail (it starts and stops at jelly sandals for me), but even I can get behind this acidic critique of New Labour, Cool Britannia and Tony blummin' Blair. Some say its a bit dated, and it's undeniably a product of its time - but then, that's its charm: it captures the zeitgeist and wrings its scaly neck. Nice bit of brass in there too.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless you fancy Tony Blair, in which case it gets a 1.
This is Hardcore: Or as one Last.fm user elegantly put it, "the sound of Jarvis Cocker fucking Britpop to death while Damon Albarn and the Gallagher brothers look on in horror." And what a sleazy, sticky, smoke-stained sound it is.
Sex rating: 5/5. Impossible to pick out just one line: the song is dripping with sex - just desperate, depressing and mostly figurative hate-sex.
O.U (Gone, Gone): Probably the closest Pulp ever came to a conventional pop song: short, sweet and stupidly catchy.
Sex rating: 1/5. "He needed her undressed" is exceptionally tame by Pulp standards.
I Spy: A song that seethes with class-hate, jealousy and the delectable nectar of vengeance. The venom is so palpable you can taste it; the menace so real that it scared the shit out of Luther Vandross when he shared the bill on Jools Holland. So vicious and sinister. So demented and pissed off. So immensely, wickedly delicious, it might even be my favourite Pulp song. God only knows what that says about me.
Sex rating: Anywhere between 0/5 - 5/5, depending on your class status, I guess.
Pink Glove: A charming little ditty about discovering your ex is into leather now, it has so much more heart than it should.
Sex rating: 4/5 for the general subject matter and melodic grunting. If they'd stuck around (any) longer they could have been the band to popularise harmonised moaning - and not in the Smithsian sense.
Mis-Shapes: A rallying cry to the mis-shapes and the misfits, the losers and the nerds, the geeks, the fat one, the "tramp", the boy who got sent to school in a jumper three sizes too big. One for anyone who's ever been laughed at, taunted or slapped around the head by some knob who thought he had it all worked out, when he couldn't even work out his maths. One for all those who are still slightly bitter, and not even ashamed of it. One for us.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless the thought of overthrowing a load of chavs turns you on. On second thought...
Bad Cover Version: It's a bit Christmassy, a bit anthemic and a lot sad. It does make me cry a little, as anything remotely poignant is wont to do.
Sex rating: 1/5. It's just too sad to be sexy.
Common People: Obviously.
Sex rating: 3/5. For all of its class anthem pretensions, it's essentially just a song about somebody wanting a shag, isn't it?
In keeping with the spirit of things, I've added a prosaically titled 'sex rating' for the horndogs amongst you. As fellow Britpopster Phil Daniels might say, "you love a bit of it."
Sheffield: Sex City: Like the Serge Gainsbourg of South Yorkshire, Jarvis shrieks and purrs his way through eight muggy minutes, as keyboardist Candida rambles on about "the sound of people fucking". Essentially, it's the precursor to Acrylic Afternoons: coated in lust and attuned to the heat in the humdrum, but without all those bits about the tea.
Sex rating: 5/5. It's a bit naughty.
Party Hard: Better than any song with a robot filter has the right to be and forever danceable. While the guitars are reminiscent of Wish-era Cure, the vocal is all Bowie: deep, talky and impossibly alluring. Never a bad thing.
Sex rating: 3/5. It's not exactly spilling over with sauce, but it does feature the line, "he just shed his load on your best party frock." Well, it's raunchier than anything else in the Britpop canon.
Cocaine Socialism: I'm too young to remember the 90s in any detail (it starts and stops at jelly sandals for me), but even I can get behind this acidic critique of New Labour, Cool Britannia and Tony blummin' Blair. Some say its a bit dated, and it's undeniably a product of its time - but then, that's its charm: it captures the zeitgeist and wrings its scaly neck. Nice bit of brass in there too.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless you fancy Tony Blair, in which case it gets a 1.
This is Hardcore: Or as one Last.fm user elegantly put it, "the sound of Jarvis Cocker fucking Britpop to death while Damon Albarn and the Gallagher brothers look on in horror." And what a sleazy, sticky, smoke-stained sound it is.
Sex rating: 5/5. Impossible to pick out just one line: the song is dripping with sex - just desperate, depressing and mostly figurative hate-sex.
O.U (Gone, Gone): Probably the closest Pulp ever came to a conventional pop song: short, sweet and stupidly catchy.
Sex rating: 1/5. "He needed her undressed" is exceptionally tame by Pulp standards.
I Spy: A song that seethes with class-hate, jealousy and the delectable nectar of vengeance. The venom is so palpable you can taste it; the menace so real that it scared the shit out of Luther Vandross when he shared the bill on Jools Holland. So vicious and sinister. So demented and pissed off. So immensely, wickedly delicious, it might even be my favourite Pulp song. God only knows what that says about me.
Sex rating: Anywhere between 0/5 - 5/5, depending on your class status, I guess.
Pink Glove: A charming little ditty about discovering your ex is into leather now, it has so much more heart than it should.
Sex rating: 4/5 for the general subject matter and melodic grunting. If they'd stuck around (any) longer they could have been the band to popularise harmonised moaning - and not in the Smithsian sense.
Mis-Shapes: A rallying cry to the mis-shapes and the misfits, the losers and the nerds, the geeks, the fat one, the "tramp", the boy who got sent to school in a jumper three sizes too big. One for anyone who's ever been laughed at, taunted or slapped around the head by some knob who thought he had it all worked out, when he couldn't even work out his maths. One for all those who are still slightly bitter, and not even ashamed of it. One for us.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless the thought of overthrowing a load of chavs turns you on. On second thought...
Bad Cover Version: It's a bit Christmassy, a bit anthemic and a lot sad. It does make me cry a little, as anything remotely poignant is wont to do.
Sex rating: 1/5. It's just too sad to be sexy.
Common People: Obviously.
Sex rating: 3/5. For all of its class anthem pretensions, it's essentially just a song about somebody wanting a shag, isn't it?
Thursday 6 October 2011
Pointless reviews of things you don't care about*
*with pretty pictures.
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
Gary Oldman searches for a mole. Not a bodily one - that would be weird - but a rogue agent spreading fear and doubt through a circus of spies in '70s Britain. Surprisingly, pacing isn't a problem; keeping up is the hard bit. It's a film that relies on its audience having an understanding of subtext, and more than one brain cell each. Sadly I'm deficient in this type of thing so it was all a bit of a slog, though a thoroughly absorbing one. I have it on good authority (Dad) that the period detail is spot-on: greys, browns, bad architecture and a general air of oppressiveness and paranoia. The performances are as good as you'd expect from such a cast and everyone gets their moment, which is a rare occurence with an ensemble but always nice. Take your brain, take your dad; don't take a toilet break.
*
Drive
Impossibly sweet and unbelievably brutal, Drive is the sum of so many mutually-contradicting themes, scenes and quirks that it should be an incoherent, silly mess. Of course, it isn't: it's the most elegantly violent thing since Oldboy and the best mood piece since Lost in Translation. Ryan Gosling plays the getaway driver who deigns to help a brother out, and comes to pay for it. Cue kick-ins, amateur dental surgery and lots of weirdly gorgeous synthpop. I'd love to write a proper review but it would take 2,000 words and a detailed Venn diagram to merely describe the tone, so instead I'll say just this: it's the cutest film of the year, and the most brutal. How does it work? I don't know. But it's so much fun, I don't need to.
Impossibly sweet and unbelievably brutal, Drive is the sum of so many mutually-contradicting themes, scenes and quirks that it should be an incoherent, silly mess. Of course, it isn't: it's the most elegantly violent thing since Oldboy and the best mood piece since Lost in Translation. Ryan Gosling plays the getaway driver who deigns to help a brother out, and comes to pay for it. Cue kick-ins, amateur dental surgery and lots of weirdly gorgeous synthpop. I'd love to write a proper review but it would take 2,000 words and a detailed Venn diagram to merely describe the tone, so instead I'll say just this: it's the cutest film of the year, and the most brutal. How does it work? I don't know. But it's so much fun, I don't need to.
*
Tomorrow I'm seeing Crazy, Stupid, Love. I know. I hope you're sorry, Gosling.
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