(NOTE: If you’re looking for that dramatic Farewell Speech, then you’ll find it here.)
No, I’ve not started blogging again; think of what follows as an act of closure. Alternatively, think of it as an alternative to those “…Has Left The Building” splash pages, for which I lack the graphic design skills. Or there again, you could always think of it as the Troubled Diva Christmas Holiday Annual.
And yes, I know it’s ridiculously long, and that I needn’t have put so much effort into it. But you’re forgetting: this is Troubled Diva. This is how I’ve always done it. Remember me this way.
Or failing that…buy one of my lovely mugs.
Click on the quotes to read the original articles in full.
This article is also available in a printer-friendly MS Word document: THE TROUBLED DIVA CHRISTMAS ANNUAL 2003.
Thus it was that, sitting on my bedroom floor aged seven or eight, I first learnt one of the cardinal rules of fiction. Namely, that happiness is almost impossible to write about for any sustained length of time. Effective fiction needs conflict, struggle, and a fair measure of suffering and misery along the way. Goodness, kindness and happiness are all boring. Evil, cruelty, pain and sorrow are all much more interesting.
However, while happiness may be a poor subject matter for fiction, I would contend that rather different rules apply when it comes to the maintenance of personal weblogs. When writing a personal weblog – where you, the writer, are the central figure – then happiness is a perfectly acceptable – perhaps even desirable – state of mind with which to contend.
January 8th: The Church Of Me.
1979 was, for many of us who were around at the time, our real 1976, the year when the radicalism of the music began to match the radicalism of the manifestos. True, Throbbing Gristle, Cabaret Voltaire, Alternative TV, the Slits and the Banshees were already in existence, not to mention the Buzzcocks and Magazine, or Warsaw on the point of mutating into Joy Division, or indeed early stirrings from the Pop Group, Human League and Gang of Four. But 1979 was the miracle of a year in which nearly all these groups determinedly took off into outer space, burned their “roots” and actually started to make “new” music; things, approaches which you had never heard before. And the one record of 1979 which even more miraculously managed to pull all these strands together (dub, polemics, No Wave noise, dance, ennui) was Metal Box, the second album by PiL, released almost at the close of the year, as if to sum everything up.
Am I right in assuming that person over there is a homosexual?Aya gorreneh?
I would like to avail myself of some of your recreational stimulants.
Shent fookin gerrin enneh.
Either: I do not wish to have sexual intercourse with that person.
Or: I have grown tired of supplying that person with recreational stimulants.
This stripper is taking far too long, and I have to catch the last bus in ten minutes.
January 13th – Uber.
January 17th: The World, Backwards.
No doubt as part of their whole “deconstructing the mystique of performance” schtick, the Flaming Lips helped their own road crew build their set, with the lighting turned right up on the stage. Well, most of the band helped out, at any rate. Singer Wayne Coyne mainly confined himself to rather self-consciously wandering on and off stage, occasionally throwing cheery little waves towards the audience. However, he never actually seemed to do much. He killed quite a bit of time by making tiny little adjustments to his mike stand, and seemingly by checking the stage for uneven floorboards (an all too often overlooked duty, I’m sure). But really, he was just making a great show of looking busy, to cover up for the fact that he wasn’t actually contributing a great deal. As a seasoned practitioner of this strategy myself, who has come to rely upon it to get him through most of his daily life, I can suss out a fellow traveller in an instant.
Why I like Sophie [Ellis Bextor]: because she’s a little bit aloof, a little bit above the usual “Love me! Love me!” pop star nonsense, a little bit more intelligent, and maybe even a little bit arty on the quiet. You get the feeling that there are probably other things that she could be doing equally as well – but that for now, she has chosen to be a pop star, just for a while. You can just about imagine her reading paperback novels from last year’s Booker Prize list, or going to art galleries, or seeing the occasional subtitled European arthouse flick. She’s the cool older sister who doesn’t have to try too hard. Unlike all those Popstars wannabes, she doesn’t strangle the life out of her songs with all that tedious Carey-esque over-emoting. She understands the value of holding back. OK, so she’ll never send you dizzy with excitement, and she’ll never make you break down and cry – but you know what? Not everybody has to. Instead, she belongs to the same tradition of polite middle class English pop which gave us Kim Wilde and Nick Heyward, and I like her for that.
Our first impressions? They were bloody hard work. You couldn’t get any real sense out of either of them. Ask them even the most straightforward question, and you would get a weird, oblique, often surreal reply, laced in several layers of irony and double bluff, and almost always delivered with a faintly mocking undertone. Essentially, Simon and Andrew – upon seeing our eager, fresh-faced, neatly groomed naivety – had decided to play an extended game of Bait The Straights with us. As we were entirely dependent on their hospitality at this stage, all we could really do was play along. We were constantly being wrong-footed, set up, walking into complex traps which they had laid for us, with the intention of making us look like terminally unhip, gullible ingénues. I think this was partly because they were actually faintly embarrassed by their own hospitality (far too bourgeois), and were trying to plaster over it with their don’t-give-a-f**k Berlin Cool affectations.
February 5th: Blogjam.
February 10th: Ftrain.
Selections from My Name is Blanket, © 2046 Blanket Jackson.
… I spoke about going to college and having a life of my own, like my brother Prince. I wanted to study veterinary medicine. But my questions fell on dead ears. Finally he erupted. “No one else is leaving the ranch! No one!” His legs were shaking, but he steadied himself and walked across the room to a statue of Apollo, flipped open its marble head, and pressed a keypad hidden in its neck. Sirens went off. The sound of deadbolts locking echoed throughout the room, and great mechanical noises came through the window. In the distance, a hippo lowed.
At the end of the clanking, a moment of total silence. Finally, my father said, “We are a happy family, Blanket.”
February 12th: Hydragenic.
… To view the third opening – which is horizontally aligned, unlike the two vertical end hoops – you return to the middle of the hall and go up the steps to a small mezzanine level. On Mike’s advice, we had left this to the end and it was truly the most memorable part of the experience. As you stand on the mezzanine level, you can see up into the structure and along the most narrow part back to the original hoop by the entrance. This is when it struck me: this sculpture has so much sheer presence that it’s almost alive.
This is where I lost the plot completely and started rambling on about it having an organic energy that made me feel like I’d come into contact with an alien intelligence. It truly is like being in the presence of a benign life form, maybe a similar vibe to standing next to a five hundred year-old tree in a quiet, deserted wood. More specifically, the lines running across the structure that accentuate its shape convey the somewhat less benign feeling of being inside the stomach of a large animal (Jonah and the whale?).
And so – in something of a fit of “I’ll bloody show you!” defiance – it came to pass that those tired old tits of mine got flopped out one more time, for the benefit of the whole tavern. Which was, of course, deeply liberating, and blah blah blah blah blah.
Let’s leave me there, shall we? Pissed up, topless, with yet another fag on, arranging myself
around the dancefloor of a shabby South London pub, in the company of some of Britain’s finest online diarists – and increasingly dear friends, I might add – beaming from ear to ear, lovin’ it lovin’ it lovin’ it
Apotheosis of Blog. Re-connection with the Mothership of Queer. Not forgetting a joyful re-acclimatisation with the unsubtle pleasures of Cooking Lager.
Mission accomplished, then. Take me home.
February 15th: Here Inside.
February 16th: meish.org.
On the tube on the way to the demo.
“I dug out my old CND badge for this, look!”
“Oh, that’s marvellous. I found an old ANC badge. It’s not really relevant, but I thought it was in the spirit of things, you know?”
“Oh yes, absolutely”
“I found this one at home, ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ – Jane modified it with a permanent marker this morning, see?”
“I added an exclamation mark, just there.”
“Certainly makes it a bit more relevant! Ha ha!”
1993: I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston. (62)
When you’re heart-broken, to the point you’re actually quite enjoying it, shameless wallowing in this track is understandable. Ten years on, you finally see it for what it is: an insincere, self-promoting, over-indulgent, flaccid, fifth-rate imitation of the Real Thing. Bit like the one who broke your heart in the first place, really. (Nigel R (the UK one))
Decade scores so far (after 7 days).
1= (1) The 1970s (28) — Medallion men! Bra-burning libbers! Shut that door!
1= (2) The 1980s (28) — Red Wedge! Nouvelle cuisine! There is no such thing as society!
3 (3) The 1990s (23) — Monica Lewinsky! Black Wednesday! I’d like to be a queen of people’s hearts!
4 (5) The 1960s (21) — Grosvenor Square! Arts labs! I have a dream!
5 (4) The 2000s (20) — Ring tones! Retro-modern wenge sideboards! I love blinking, I do!
February 28th: FunJunkie.
The Great Goose Egg Experiment.
So, yesterday I asked you lot how I should prepare my most enjoyfully anticipated Goose eggs. It seems I made a mistake in telling you that the most popular method would be employed by me, for my dinner.
You all voted that I should cook them with a hair dryer. You bunch of bastards…
Which decade is Tops for Pops? VOTING IS NOW CLOSED.
All five decades are sitting anxiously in our Green Room, waiting for the first of the final eliminations to take place. By the end of today, four of these decades will be going home disappointed, while one of them will be officially declared Best! Decade! Evah!
Obviously, the mood backstage is very tense – although there has been the most marvellous cameraderie between all the decades. Well, all except the Eighties, that is. The “Me Decade” has been keeping noticeably aloof from the proceedings, disappearing into the toilets at regular intervals to re-apply its make-up and re-lacquer its hair.
Ah, there are the Sixties, handing round the cocktail snacks. Over there are the Seventies, slumped into bean bags and, er, mellowing out. Meanwhile, the Nineties seem to be hugging everyone and telling them how much they really, really love them, and how these friendships are for life, yeah? Are you looking forward to the results, Nineties?
“Yeah, nice one, top one, sorted. We’re mad fer it!”
And how about you, Noughties? Feeling tense about the first elimination?
“Well, at the end of the day, one of us has to go, right? Which is obviously really sad, but those are the rules of the game, and we all knew that we when we came in here, but at the end of the day, it is just a game show, and we’re really lucky to have got this far, so…”
Yes, thank you Noughties. Love that freshly ironed hair, by the way. My compliments to your stylists.
March 5th: My Ace Life.
Thursday, 13:00. A lightbulb flashes on in my head. Yes, why not try for the longest ever comments box discussion – but make it a sponsored attempt for charity? Hang on – tomorrow is Comic Relief’s Red Nose Day! Now that my job is secure once again, what could be a more apposite way of repaying my karmic debt? OK, let’s investigate further. The current record holder for bulging boxes must surely be the American super-blogger Wil Wheaton. I take a peek at the front page of Wil Wheaton Dot Net. Good grief! There’s a posting there with 234 comments! (It’s a flame war about “freedom fries”, incidentally.) Right then: 235 is my target.Thursday, 13:13.
Comment #38 introduces the project. 235 comments by midnight on Friday, and I’ll pledge £100 to Comic Relief. But there’s going to be one key feature: I’m not going to come out of hiding to promote this in any way. Too obvious, too easy, too – well – desperate really. I’m not about to start whoring myself for hits. No – I’m going to test the possibilities of effective meme propagation instead. The only allowable publicity for this caper has to come from my readers. In other words: I’m comment-whoring by proxy. I’m comment-pimping, with my readers as my bitches. This is the sort of dysfunctional relationship which appeals to me. God, but what if nobody bothers? This could end up looking really pathetic, couldn’t it?
March 14th: World Of Chig.
Other people in the crowd had stopped pogoing. They were now nudging each other and tittering. For there, on stage was a seven foot man with three feet high hair, in brightly coloured velvet loon pants, happily giving his all vocally, but with his zip now forming an oval shaped hole and, yes, you guessed it, his willy had popped out. Using the word ‘popped’ is actually exaggerating the drama of the moment and giving the doctor more than his due. With most men, I would have expected to use the word ‘flopped’, but no, not here. We stood. We stared. For there, nestling like a single egg in a bird’s nest, was the tiniest penis I ever saw (until the internet, at least).
Saddam Hussein is a brutal, corrupt dictator. He isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. We are not generally given to overthrowing brutal, corrupt dictatorships by bombing their countries to pieces, and nor should we be.
The war will further provoke anti-Western sentiment in the Arab world, thus increasing, not decreasing the risk of future terrorist attacks against the UK and US.
Thousands will die, and many thousands more will suffer.
If the US succeeds in this action, then a terrible precedent will have been set, which I believe will form the basis for future unilateral actions against other regimes, in order to further equally illegitimate interests.
Plus all the usual conspiracy theories and amateur psychology, obviously. Obviously.
The only hope I have left: that I’m proved completely and utterly wrong, and end up feeling like a complete twerp in six months’ time. Frankly, nothing would bring me greater pleasure.
As I progressed down the page, I entered a strange, split-level state of consciousness. My rational brain (or what was left of it) was aware that it had not even the faintest idea of the literal meaning of the poem – nor even whether it was good, bad or indifferent. Nevertheless, my instinctive brain could still, somehow, pick up on an overriding mood, or flow, or structure – or something – despite the fact that my sensually perceptive brain was by now so comprehensively battered that every letter on the page appeared to be in a different colour. At the end of my recitation, which had been received in total silence, there was a brief, respectful pause, followed by a flutter of soft, almost post-coital murmurings: “Oh…wow“, and “You read so beautifully“, and – from the host himself – “Thank you so much for doing that”. I felt simultaneously like a a gifted lyrical interpreter and a big fat fraud.
How to blend with the English – a bluffer’s guide.
2. Sartorially, either go for anonymous muted tones from Marks & Spencer (you will think of this as your “classic” look), or else adopt a suitable street-style which “expresses your individuality” in some way.
3. Your sense of humour should be evenly divided between gentle self-deprecation, wry observation and bitter, withering sarcasm.
3a. If you consider yourself to be a person of breeding, then you should also add “hilarious” impersonations of regional dialects to the above list.
March 27th: Anna, guest-blogging.
The main differences between roses and spoons.
11. Spoons don’t smell nice. Unless they’ve been somewhere nice.
12. Roses always smell nice. Unless they’ve been somewhere horrible, like up an animal’s bum or something.
13. At the end of a ballet, people don’t generally throw spoons at the stage.
I think they should.
14. People don’t wander from pub to pub, selling ‘a spoon for the lady, sir?
You know how people keep banging on about “A-list bloggers”, like the A-list is some sort of abstract concept – a mere figure of speech? Well, these people are wrong. The A-list is – of course! – a real list, written down on a piece of paper and kept under lock and key in a secret location. Because why on earth would the A-list be an imaginary list? That would be just stupid.
So, (now gather round closely, and not a word to anyone, and if you do then I’ll only deny it) get this: our intrepid little group had managed to discover the location, sneak in, pick the lock, and steal the A-list
. Look, here it is! Except…it’s not the A-list any more. Oh dear me, no. We have replaced it with a new list. Our list. Ahahahahaha!
Our very own Chardonnay Lane! Only much classier, of course. Perhaps we should call her Viognier Boulevard instead. Viognier – a thoroughly good sport who has neither eaten raw fish nor visited a gay bar before tonight – throws herself into her new surroundings with gusto, bellowing along to the strains of the Grease Megamix with the best of us. By the end of the night, she has learnt a lot about The Ways Of The Modern Homosexual. Particularly about, um, that particular activity that some of the more adventurous amongst us like to do with their, er, hands. So that at the end of the night, when a young employee of the bar politely asks us to finish our drinks and make our way outside, she is able to inform him, with an air of some authority, that he really ought to trim his fingernails. “Because I’ve heard that it’s very important…“
April 23rd: Invisible Stranger.
American Life. (from American Life)
Even more stark, even more stripped-down, and only not what we were expecting because, frankly, we were expecting something rather more unexpected than this. Inspiring more accusations of being another unimaginative reduction/re-tread (and the stylistic similarities with Music
are indeed undeniable), this is by turns awkward, stroppy, pissed-off, cryptic, confusing, mocking, self-obsessed and just plain daft. As album openers, Erotica
said “Let’s indulge ourselves” – Survival
said, “I’m still here and I’m still smiling” – Drowned World
said “This is the new me” – Music
said “Let’s all party” – and American Life
says, flatly, “F**k it”.
May 12th: Diamond Geezer.
But in the morning, with all done and dusted, and what remained of the spell completely broken, this awful quietness and retreat descended upon the room. A shuffle back from intimacy to cordiality. From “oh yeah, me too, absolutely” to “do you want a shower now, or wait till you get back?” From new best mate, to cipher, to statistic. No phone numbers. No point. Respective little black books already bulging, with page after alphabetised page of half-smile memories, mild accusations, slowly fading obligations. Was that all it was, a way to pass the time, a virtual reality wank in a Glorified Travelodge? Yeah, see ya, take care. He slipped ahead through the lobby, tacitly adhering to the accepted drill for shady interlopers the world over, while I tactfully hung back on the half-landing before striding purposefully on down for breakfast.This was the best piece of writing that I posted on the blog all year. If you only pick out one article from the archives, then make it this one.
It was a proper Grown-Up’s evening, almost like the dinner parties which my parents’ generation would have thrown. Like the dinner parties at which I used to sit quietly, all those years ago, the archetypal neurotic, misunderstood adolescent, inwardly squirming with self-consciousness. Unfortunately, I was all too aware of the echo. Slowly, unstoppably, a strange sort of mist started to envelop me, as I begain to retreat further and further back inside myself. As the mist grew thicker, and as the internal diaologue grew louder, and as the voices of the people around me grew fainter, and harder to latch onto for any longer than a few seconds at a time, so I found myself increasingly desperately trying to claw my way back out.
Before we know it, two strapping young firemen have jumped out of the vehicle. Oh my God, Latvian firemen!
They have stripped down to their underwear. Oh my God, Latvian fireman in their pants!
Ordering us to stand well back, and with one of them clutching a thick grey blanket, they wade out into the waist-deep water. Oh my God, Latvian firemen in wet pants!
(Meanwhile, just as a little side-show to the main action, their driver is, with much languid stretching – ooooh, it’s just too hot to be wearing this sticky uniform one moment longer – slowly stripping down to the waist. I scarcely know which way to look.)
May 30th – June 2nd: Naked Blog.
After a few more minutes of general banter with the throng, The Wogan announced his retreat.
“Well, at least you lot will be spared from having to listen to my commentary tonight.”
Oh, the twinkly-eyed gentle self-deprecation! Eurovision wouldn’t be Eurovision without!
Last year, I gave you a detailed song-by-song critique of every entry, as performed on the night. This year, I fear such a task is beyond me, with the 26 songs passing by in a delirious vodka-fuelled blur. For this is how I see it: if the rehearsals are for chin-stroking, connoisseur-style evaluation of each song’s chances, then the finals are for putting all critical faculties on hold, going stark staring bonkers, singing and dancing in the aisles (there was a pleasing lack of heavy-handed security, and the aisles were nice and wide this year), flag-twirling, whooping, screeching and generally Surrendering To The Madness. I expect that you get much the same sort of thing at the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party. (Yes, it’s to time wheel out that hoary old chestnut, The Strange Cultural Affinity Between Teenage Girls And Gay Men. See Juile Burchill columns passim
June 12th: Wherever You Are.
As the afternoon wore on, I found myself slipping into dealing-with-the-public-courteously-and-informatively Tour Guide Mode with an ease that bordered on the alarming. Do feel free to step up this way…do feel free to step up this way….yes, that’s a Rambling Rector…yes, lovely, isn’t it…yes, we’re so pleased…do feel free to step up this way…do you know, I hadn’t picked up a hoe until seven weeks ago, and even then I held it upside down, ha ha ha!
(Upon hearing this last comment, Mark from the Boutique Hotel rolled his eyes suggestively at me, muttering seditiously that maybe you should think of a way of re-phrasing that
June 24th: prolific.org.
July 22nd: Frizzy Logic.
July 26th-27th: The Search For Love In Manhattan.
Gay dating haikus.
How is it you knew
I wasn’t faithful? Oh, yeah.
Bite marks on my ass.
You’re cruel and petty
And you like to make me cry.
When can you move in?
“I need time away,
To figure out who I am.”
I can tell you that.
It’s our second date,
And I’m not sure I love you.
It’s time to break up.
“Let’s have a drink first.”
Excuse me? I didn’t join
Interviews and photo-shoots.
The readers of Menstrual Moments
might be ready for Challenging New Design Concepts Which Successfully Fuse The Period And The Contemporary – they might even be ready for Swanked Up Poofs Flagrantly Sprawling At Each Other’s Feet – but they were clearly not ready for Cutting Edge Casual Footwear. The horror!
Meanwhile, this post probably generated more reaction than anything else I wrote all year (until the Big Farewell Speech, that is). It’s the one that people always remember, at any rate…
Secondly – that Jagger fellow. I found him strangely obtuse. Yes, he was the consummate showman. Yes, his energy levels never dipped for one second. Yes, he threw every classic Jagger-esque shape in the book, and then some. And yet, I could never quite shake off the feeling that behind the performance, astonishing and compelling as it was, there was something of a void. With Richards, Wood and Watts alike, you could readily, visibly, sense their huge and genuine enjoyment at being onstage. They would catch each other’s eyes and grin. They would lose themselves in their playing. With Jagger, however, the mask never slipped. I couldn’t help wondering whether his onstage persona had long since ossified, and that all we were seeing was a perfectly executed sequence of stock postures.
September 2nd: Scaryduck.
September 8th: Baghdad Burning.
– So you’re not into singles, then? What about the Top 40 – do you follow that?
– (with authority)
I think the Top 40 is really silly.
Because there are only about 2 or 3 people in our class who buy singles, and they’re all the same sort of person anyway. What’s that CD you’re playing? Can I take a look?
[picks up Yes CD (“Fragile”) and examines booklet]
– Eurgh! They’re all really ugly! (amused) Did you really listen to that stuff when you were young?
Gracious in defeat.
I’m sorry, but having only sixty people who LOVE ME
is a bitter blow indeed. Some might even go so far as to say that it is a paltry reward for the major
contribution which I have made over the years. I, of course, could not possibly comment.
September 18th: Uborka.
Right at the end of the Tillmanns exhibition, a video installation piece. Inside a large, pitch black room, pumping techno music blared out. Bloody good pumping techno music, at that. Grade A stuff. Mid-nineties vintage, at a guess. My era, in other words. It drew me in, like a moth to a flame, even as K started nervously looking at his watch. (“I’m not sure we’ve really got time for this…“) The far wall was a giant video screen, showing various images of club lighting. The lights were synched perfectly to the music. The camera never panned down to the crowd below.
I was transfixed…
This piece, which describes exhibitions at Tate Britain by Bridget Riley & Wolfgang Tillmanns, is another one of my favourites.
September 23rd: Fauxhemia.
September 23rd: Kill Your Boyfriend.
· Each player in turn will experience a sudden sensation of euphoria and light-headedness, possibly accompanied by a giggling fit, and repeated exclamations of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
· If these effects are not judged to be sufficiently powerful, then the player may optionally move on to Emergency Stage Two.
September 27th: k-punk.
October 7th: Robin, guest-blogging.
Divorced Beheaded Died,
Divorced Beheaded Survived.
My son thought it referred to two queens, both cruelly treated but one luckier than the other. I suppose that is what got me thinking about the poem again and marvelling at its balance, brevity and utility. Six famous women who, albeit unconsciously, gave us a classic of school literature. Think about it. If just one of those six queens had failed to play her part we never would have had that poem. I take inspiration from that.
October 11th: Mr.D., guest-blogging.
Restaurant – an eaterie where you complain endlessly about the poor service (after you’ve left)
Colourant – a whinge peppered with salacious adjectives
Vagrant – a moan which meanders aimlessly
Expectorant – a very vocal grumble where the topic eventually coughs up at the end
Tolerant – a tirade which is nonetheless considerate of its subject’s sensitivities
Immigrant – a foreign diatribe
October 13th: Aunt Cyn, guest-blogging.
October 15th: quarsan, guest-blogging.
October 20th: Fiona, guest-blogging.
October 21st: Zena, guest-blogging.
October 28th: Danny, guest-blogging.
October 29th: Asta, guest-blogging.
November 17th: londonmark.
November 20th: orbyn.com.
November 24th: Acerbia.
“Were you watching this?”
Of course I wasn’t watching this, it was only the news. I’d rather exist in a misinformed guess-world composed of my own flawed perceptions of the events that surround us gleened from my intuitive methods of reading tealeaves! By all means lets watch four idiots with a nailgun rampage through a house with floral wallpaper and abominable taste in furniture in a race against time to see who can cause the most hideous case of color-blind MDF drive-by interior devastation.
November 25th: Zena, guest-blogging.
November 30th: Mad Musings Of Me.
December 2nd: It’s Funny Because It’s Shit.
I drift off, accompanied. The disc ends. I sleep on. So far, so good. Some 13 minutes later, I am horribly startled by an entirely unfamiliar hooting and scraping: it is The Hidden Track. What in the sweet and blessed name of ARSE is the point of these things? They are the musical equivalent of…. no, they don’t even deserve the creative effort of a decent simile. They are a shit idea, shitly executed, of invariably shitious music. This was no exception.
“Ok, that’s the mix nailed down. I think we’ve done great work here”
“What about the hidden track?”
“Aww, man… do we have to have one of those?”
“Yeah. People LIKE surprises. It’s cute and fun, and we’ll probably make it onto some list in Q Magazine.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, something shit, obviously. No point in hiding good stuff. Let’s do a cover version of the 4th movement of Bruckner’s 7th, with Ginster’s pasties instead of instruments. It’ll be hilarious.”
December 2nd: Rogue Semiotics.