In new music we trust? (Or, radio killed the really good bands)

I love music. I listen to music all day long, every single day. Radio in the morning while I'm getting dressed; cassette tapes in the car (CDs weren't invented when my car was born); Internet radio at work; side two of the tape on the way home in the car; iPod in the gym; CD at night when I'm reading in bed.

I'm a slave to music.

In fact, sometimes I like to pretend that the music is actually the soundtrack to the movie that is my life. And I'll change the songs on myPod according to my mood and/or current situation, as one would expect in the movie. For example, if I'm feeling particularly down, I'll put on some really lonesome tunes, and imagine the camera panning out from my face as I stare disconsolately out the window, the rain lashing down outside, and the sound of a blues guitar wailing the background.

Yes, I am sad; no, my real life isn't fulfilling enough; yes, I have an over-active imagination; and, yes, I have far too much free time on my hands. Thanks for asking.

However, I've started to notice that new music is crap. And not in the good way. I like plenty of crap music, for example, Good Charlotte (they're hilarious, and they look so ridiculous that I'm convinced they're just doing it for a laugh!) and Fall Out Boy (I love the fact that they're fugly, pot bellied little things, with lamb chops on the sides of their heads, and they write great lyrics - "loaded god complex/cock it and pull it"). But I don't see why people feel justified in ridiculing my taste in music, while at the same time, jumping on the Arctic Monkeys/Dirty Pretty Things bandwagon.

Don't they realise that the only reason these bands are "famous" is because the likes of Radio 1 hypes them up so much?

Let's take a couple of prime examples - Coldplay and Franz Ferdinand. Remember when Coldplay used to be good? I know, it was a LONG time ago, but just try to remember.... The first album? Something about Parachutes..? No? Well, it was a really good album! But then it got played so much on radio that it became painful to listen to. Then, the band started believing the hype written about them (I read something about Chris Martin saying they were going to be the next U2... Why anyone would actively seek to become the next U2 is beyond me.), and now they're just another bunch of pretentious posers with shite songs that all sound the same.

Same thing with Franz Ferdinand. Their first couple of songs were quite good. But, again, they were overplayed and talked up to the point that when I did actually see them live, they seemed to expect the audience to prostrate themselves in glorious wonder before them as they wowed us with their Scottish accents and funny straight-legged trousers.

The Arctic Monkeys make me laugh. And not in a good way. In a cynical, bitter, "You think you're great, but you'll not last the year, you one-album-wonderless maggots" kind of way. They released one song (which was actually quite good) and next thing they're nominated for about ten Brit Awards, knocking Kaiser Chiefs off the charts. What's that all about? According to Radio 1, they're the best thing since sliced bread, and yet their last single sounded like somebody gently placed an out-of-tune guitar against an amp, turned it all the way up to 11, and then stood about five feet back, shouting nonsense into a microphone. What rubbish! That's one band seriously in danger of disappearing up their own arses in a vain attempt to find the sun that supposedly shines out of there.

And now all this hype about Dirty Pretty Things, who are only famous 'cause one of them used to be in The Libertines with Pete Doherty who used to shag Kate Moss and is now addicted to heroin and is in court every day, but keeps getting off 'cause he promises to be good. Or something.

As for Gnarles Barkley.... Now, I love Zane Lowe. I think he's done wonders for new music in this country, and I'd have his babies tomorrow if he asked me to. But, god help me, if I ever see him in the street I'll break out the pimp hand and give him a taste of my knuckles for introducing that bloody "Crazy" song. Of course, I'll offer to kiss him better afterwards...
Then you've got people like James Blunt; "singer/songwriters" who get overplayed so much that they pretty much destroy any hopes of real talent (such as Paddy Casey or Josh Ritter) making a breakthrough into the charts.

*sigh*

It makes me sad that my gorgeous baby niece will grow up in a world where lyrics and sound doesn't matter half as much as who the lead singer is dating, and what drugs he's currently trying to snort up his nostrils. Where radio DJs have the power to make or break a band, depending on the amount of airplay he's willing to give them (for a price, of course).

When it comes to new music, I think the Kaiser Chiefs said it best when they said "Every day I love you less and less".

<--------------------- END RANT -------------------->

"And that was the latest effort from blackie, who's slipped a further five places in this week's chart. Next up, Beyonce, with another song that sounds exactly like all her other ones! Time now is ten past eight..."

Cereal offenders

Sometimes I wonder if the Truman show could really be real, and if I am actually, unwittingly, starring in my own reality TV show called "The Blackie Show", and if everyone and everything around me is just one big act.

Then my boss yells at me to get back to work, and the fantasy of hitting him with a brick and strolling confidently away because I know they won't put the star of the show in prison evaporates as fast as the water from my milky tea.

Anyway, part of the reason that I wonder about this is because sometimes I kind of feel as if there are lots of people watching me. Other times, I think someone's having a bloody laugh at my expense. I think they're deliberately provoking me, in very subtle ways, to see what kind of reaction I'll give. It's sort of like some sick kid's science experiment, and I'm the guinea pig.

Take for example, breakfast cereals. Someone out there is having a competition to see how bland they can possibly make breakfast cereals before I explode. And, let me tell you, they're coming damn close.

Now, I eat breakfast because I'm a good girl, and that's what all the magazines and tv shows tell me to do. "Eat breakfast and you'll be happier, smarter, thinner, live longer", etc. I also eat it because I'm always bloody starving in the morning. Thing is, I don't have time to eat fancy breakfasts. I don't have time to peel and prepare bowls of fruit. I don't have time to boil eggs and make soldiers out of toast. I don't have time to grill bacon or tomatoes and arrange them on plates with cups of freshly brewed half-caf-skinny-lattes. I certainly don't have the time (or the funds) to go to Starbucks every morning and buy a proper coffee and a muffin. So, the only choice left to me, really, is breakfast cereal.

My first memories of breakfast cereal are of my mother trying to shove lumpy porridge down my throat before kicking me out the door to school. I still, to this very day, feel physically ill at the mere sight or smell of porridge. Since then, I've pretty much stuck to the Kellogg's-type cereals.

Every now and then, I try to be good and eat healthy cereals. Bran Flakes. All Bran. Weetabix. Not all at once, of course. God, I'd spend all day "powdering my nose" if that was the case. But, you know, I tried to do the right thing. And then I remembered that those cereals, unless you drown them in sugar, taste like cardboard. So I stopped eating them.

Then I decided to indulge my inner brat, and I bought things like Frosties, Coco Pops and Ricicles. I'd wolf down a bowl and then tootle off to work, with my teeth feeling like each one was wearing a sugar jacket, and then they all fell out (metaphorically) so I stopped eating those.

Next, I went for muesli. And quickly stopped that.

Rice krispies - I was starving about half an hour after I'd finished. They really are little puffs of air!

Special K - the grown up breakfast. Expensive, and completely not worth it. The first mouthful is alright, and after that it all tastes like newspaper.

Shredded Wheat - holy jesus on a pogo stick, could they make a cereal more disgusting? Obviously the reason it's shredded is that it contained some highly confidential information (such as that fact that it tastes like shit) and somebody somewhere didn't want that info to be leaked to the press. That's one cereal that should remain in the bin.

The list goes on....

And then I had an epiphany. Crunchy Nut Cornflakes - my last bastion of hope in an endless aisle of breakfast hell. And it was a miracle! I ate the first bowl and practically had an out of body experience from sheer pleasure. Honey! Nuts! Brown sugar! Is there anything more delectable on this planet? I don't think so!

Of course, in the ads for Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, they say something like "so good you have to have it twice" or some such drivel. And it's true! They're so sodding tasty that you have to have another bowl. Pretty soon, you're eating four bowls a day, and that's with you holding yourself back!

And then it happens. One day, out of nowhere, you get up, pour yourself a bowl of heaven and you think "I dont think I can do it. I dont think I can stomach another bowl of this delicious cereal". For, you see, the old saying is true - all good things must come to an end. After about three days, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes have become bland. The horror! The horror!

And so I'm back to square one. I've returned to the one breakfast that I can rely on. The breakfast of champions - instant coffee and a banana. If I was a smoker, there'd probably be a few ciggies thrown in there too, for good measure.

My head hasn't exploded yet..... not yet....

P.S. If the producers of The Blackie Show are reading this, I need some new batteries for the TV remote. Thanks.

The tale of the culture thief

So, when I got to Scally-land, we went out for a few drinks, as one is wont to do, particularly when that one is me. And, lo and behold, I met a culture thief in the very first pub I went to. One of those people who illegally assumes the identity of another's culture just because he has neither the wit nor the intelligence to find out about his own heritage.

Anyhoo, I'm in the pub and this bloke overhears me speaking. He ambles over and, in the broadest Scouser accent imaginable, proceeds to tell me that he's Irish. 'Course you are, love. You and half of the United States of America.

I have a couple of points I'd like to make about this:

Point number 1:

If you were born in Ireland, then you are Irish. If you were born in Liverpool, you're English. And if you were born in the United States, then you're American. It may not be pretty or interesting, but it's the truth.

I really hate these people who, once they figure out I'm Irish, proceed to bore me to death about how they're also Irish 'cause their father's cousin's friend's dog is called Patrick and 'cause their sister's boyfriend's uncle's brother's co-worker's daughter once visited the Emerald Isle, and showed them all the photos.

Having a t-shirt saying "Sláinte" or "Póg Mo Thóin" does not make you Irish. It makes you a idiot.

Drinking green beer all day on Paddy's day till you puke green pavement pizza does not make you Irish. It makes you an alcoholic. Which, incidentally, does not make you Irish either.

Point number 2:

If you're so desparate to fit in somewhere that you've started telling people you're Irish in the vain hope that they might think you're a bit of craic and start hanging out with you, then at least get your bloody facts straight.

This guy in Liverpool at the weekend started telling me all about what his name meant. Now, his name was something like "Bob O'Reilly" (I can't remember exactly for I was a little inebriated and also had the rage). In old-time Ireland the "O" in a surname meant "son of". Therefore, Bob O'Reill would mean "Bob, son of Reilly".

This muppet in the pub, however, insisted on telling me that his name meant "son of, proud of".

The conversation went a little like this:

Muppet man: "I'm Irish too, you know".
Me (suitably unimpressed): "Oh yeah? How's that?"
Muppet man: "Well, my name's Bob O'Reilly".
Me: "Uh huh, but you have a Scouse accent."
Muppet man: "Yeah, well I was born in Liverpool, but I'm Irish cause my grandmother was Irish. My name means 'son of proud of'".
Me: "Eh....what?"
Muppet man: "Well, in Ireland, the 'O' means 'son of'. 'Proud of', you know?"
Me: "Actually, it just means son of, as in 'Bob, son of Reilly'"
Muppet man: "No. It means 'son of, proud of', as in 'proud of my son'. I know, 'cause I'm Irish."
Me: "Eh... I was born in Ireland, you numbnuts. I speak the language. It means 'son of', nothing to do with being proud of anyone".
Muppet man: "No, my name means 'son of, proud of', I'm tellin' ya".
Me: "So your name is 'Bob son of proud of'"?
Muppet man (proudly): "Yep".
Me: "You fucking muppet".

Point number 3:

People who steal another culture's traditions in a bid to make themselves cooler are as bad, if not worse, as the muppet man above.

Take, for example, the skinny white guy with the Maori tattoos, or the 'bohemian' ginger guy with those horrible things in his ears that stretch the lobe, as is seen in some African cultures. Those tattoos or that jewellery means nothing to these guys. They have no idea of the significance or power of these images in their native culture. Therefore, they have no right to wear them, and they especially have no right to reduce them to the status of a handbag or a pretty pair of shoes, i.e., just another "must have" fashion item.

Why not just be proud of your OWN heritage and culture?

Driving Miss Crazy

A friend was over from Ireland at the weekend to see her man, who lives in Scally-land (that's Liverpool for all you people fortunate enough not to live in this country). And I got invited along to play gooseberry, which suits me fine because in his house, playing gooseberry means I get unlimited wine and access to his extensive DVD collection whilst they canoodle on the sofa. Hey, I have no shame.

So, anyways, I thought, great, a chance to hang out with my mate and her man, and so I set off at 2pm on Saturday afternoon for the half hour drive.

Six hours later, I finally arrived at his house.

What went wrong? Did I drive through a Bermuda-type triangle near Warrington? Did aliens abduct me, perform strange (yet sort of exciting) experiments on my nether regions before spitting me back onto this godforsaken planet? Did I just drive REALLY SLOWLY in the granny lane all the way? Nope, nope, and nope again. I got lost. That's what happened.

Now, I know all the guys reading this are snorting and thinking "But, of course you got lost, for you are female and everyone knows that girls are shite at directions, navigation and driving in general". But youre wrong! I'm really good at driving! I'm quite nifty at navigating. I'm a whiz at reading maps! I've driven across most of Canada and the United States without getting lost once, goddamnit!

And yet, I cannot understand driving in England. I get lost ALL THE TIME! Even on routes I drive every bloody day. At first, I'll admit, I thought it was me. I thought that listening to Radio 1 every morning had finally caused my few remaining brain cells to leak out my ears, rendering me vegetable-like and unable to negotiate getting from Point A to Point B, even though its a straight road between the two.

But then, I realised, that it wasn't me (of course! Ptsh! As if!). I realised that it's actually England. Or, more precisely, England's road signs. Let me demonstrate with a recent example of a journey of mine.

Not long ago, I was going from somewhere to somewhere. I can't remember exactly where, so we'll call the two places Point A and Point B. I was travelling from Point A; destination Point B. I set out, and saw a road sign, pointing straight ahead for Point B, Point C and Point D. Great! Ill follow that sign.

Couple of miles down the road, another road sign, pointing straight ahead for Points B, C and D. Fantastic. We're sucking diesel now, boys and girls!

Next thing, I get to a T junction. Theres a sign. Arrow pointing left for Point C, arrow pointing right for Point D. No sign of B. Nowhere. Nada. Zip. Not being a native to this country, I had no idea whether B was nearer to C or D. So, basically, I was fucked.

As luck would have it, I turned left (one of my life philosophies has always been "If in doubt, choose C", and it's always worked for me), and a bit further down the road, I saw another sign for Point B, so I was ok. But, what on earth is up with those road signs? Is it some sort of sick joke that the British government has come up with to piss off foreign people so much that they'll leave the country, never to return? I think it might be. And I think it might just work!

Course, I was relating this same tale to my beau, who is English, and he just rolled his eyes, made some sort of piffling sound and intimated that I shouldnt be allowed to drive anywhere by myself because I'm just a girl and girls are stooopid.

Then he got lost the other day driving into Manchester..

It doesnt happen very often, but every now and then I'm reminded that life is just and sweet ;)