The Weak in Tunes

A lot of ill-informed, opinionated, reactionary crap has been written over the years in the guise of music journalism. This is some of it.

NOEL! WHERE'S ME FRUIT PLATTER!
Noel Gallagher is in his late thirties, seemingly still gets his hair cut by his mum with a pudding bowl and tin snips, and plays in a Beatles tribute band called Oasis. Yes, they're still not dead yet. He's been known to be good for a quote on the odd occasion. Usually, though, he just talks bollocks. As was the case recently when he decided to voice his opinion ref. the Strayan Nayshun's latest squadron of canary yellow heroes (except their playing strip is more of a urinary tract infection gold), the Socceroos. Here's the link courtesy SMH.com.au which we will now, in accordance with company policy, blatantly rip off:

Oasis frontman Noel Gallagher has let rip at the Socceroos, saying Australians should stick to sports they're better at. The keen soccer fan saw the Socceroos play at the World Cup in Germany this year and says he wasn't impressed. Gallagher, renowned for his controversial outbursts, said he did not have a great deal of respect for Australians playing soccer. "Stick to the Aussie Rules and the tennis and the cricket and the rugby, you are good at that," he told AAP from the United Kingdom. "Football is the game of the intelligentsia and you are shit at it. You will never win anything so give it up."

On that basis, why have England botherered fielding a team anytime in the last 40 years? Or, come to think of it, why the fuck are YOU interested in football, Gallagher?

The 39-year-old is a keen follower of his hometown club Manchester City and was the unofficial mascot of Italian World Cup striker Alessandro Del Piero.

Is that why he's now so shit?

It was the Italians that dumped the Socceroos out of the World Cup under controversial circumstances, thanks to a hotly disputed last-minute penalty.

Meaning they were beaten by the eventual champions. Meanwhile, Engerland staggered asthmatically past Ecuador, only to lose to the Portuguese diving team. Who went on to be the worst side in the last four by some distance.

"What do they call them, the Socceroos? Do me a f---ing favour, you could come up with a better nickname than that."

OK, fair point.

Gallagher says he has a particular dislike for Socceroos midfielder Tim Cahill, who plays for Liverpool club Everton. "I don't know, there is something about him. I would love to kick him right in the bollocks." Cahill scored two goals for the Socceroos in the World Cup match against Japan and was widely considered one of the country's best players of the tournament. "He has just got one of those faces," said Gallagher, whose brother Liam is also in Oasis. "Don't you find his face really slapable? I can assure you, lots of people in England do."

Noel old son, next time you feel a hankering to slap a Samoan gentleman in the face, might we suggest a night out in South Auckland.

Oasis toured Australia last December and next month release a "best of" album, titled Stop the Clocks. The album features a selection of what Gallagher considers the band's best work, including tracks such as Wonderwall and Morning Glory.

...i.e. the stuff he wrote fuckin' years ago when he was working for the fuckin' Gas Board, as distinct from anything the mouthy Mancker has extruded since. Noel Gallagher hasn't written a decent song in the last ten years. It's well known that before Oasis released their first album, he was sitting on about a hundred songs which he'd written. All the best stuff, the cream of the crop, went on Definitely Maybe. The next best stuff went on What's The Story With My Morning Glory, and the leftover shite went onto whatever the fuck their shitbox third album was called. Then he actually had to try and write some new stuff, which was also shite. That just about brings us up to today, where he's resorting to slagging off Samoan kids in order to try and get someone, ANYONE, to buy his hastily scraped together compilation made up of half of Possibly Vaguely and bits of his Morning Glory.

Despite his outburst, Gallagher said he liked visiting Australia and that he was "gagging" to get over for the Ashes cricket series. "The last time was just brilliant so the sooner the better for me," he said.

Yeah, Noel, us too. My old man, he told me, England will not bat till tea. With a nick-nack paddy-whack give-Patsy-Kensit-a-bone, pasty Pommies FUCK OFF HOME.

Meanwhile, Manchester City, as of press time, have won just one away game since last December, and in last weekend's round of games, managed to lose four-nil to Wigan Athletic.

I think there's something in that for all of us. There certainly was for Wigan Athletic.


HORSE DE COMBAT
This year's Melbourne Cup took on a J-Pop feel with the result at the end of 3200 metres a musical 1-2 for Japan, with Nippon nag Delta Blues edging out stablemate Pop Rock. Owners and connections of pre-race favourite Efficient apparently paid $153,000 to get their horsey a late start in yesterday's Big One; not that Efficient at all, particularly when the conveyance pulled up lamer than the Ronnie Johns Half Hour on race morning and had to be scratched. Short priced favourite on the NSW tote at race start, Metropolitan/Caulfield Cup double-winner and well-known typographical error Tawqeet, responded to the favouritism by rarking up in the gates, then 'running' like he'd been fed on a diet of Rohypnol, cement, and Phillip Ruddock's speeches. Some on course found the musical overtones of the Japanese quinella somewhat ironic given that Japanese music is utterly, utterly shit; however, more controversially, it appears that the result of this year's Cup has actually been foreshadowed in every album released by John Spencer's Blues Explosion (as made famous by the D4's Blues Explosion Drinking Game*) in the past ten years. In an exclusive post-race interview, Spencer declared "The BLUES is STILL NUMBER ONE!" and staggered off to find some Colombian go-fast. If not some Horse. Ahem.

Left: John Spencer
(not to be confused with Don Spencer who sang 'Bob the Kelpie')

* How to play the Blues Explosion Drinking Game:
1. Go to one of their gigs.
2. Every time John Spencer randomly bellows "BLOOOOOZE EXPLOSION!!!", drink.
3. Fall over.


WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN CHEESES
The Britpop civil war of the '90s has finally reached armistice. Peace has been declared. Where once pitched battles raged across the stages and the pages of the British music industry, there is now rapproachment between the two warring tribes of Britpop, between those who follow the Mancunian Brothers Gallagher and those who set their star by that floppy haired tweek who went on to sing for Gorillaz. Oasis versus Blur, people. Get with the program.

Anyway, as some old dead fucker from Liverpool once wrote, war is over. And the peacemaker? Not a fairly shit action flick with George Clooney and a dubiously un-ginga Nicole Kidman (why did the last 10 minutes on the big nuke timer go for twenty on-screen?) but... cheese.

Our story begins with former Blur bass player Alex James who has packed in the London celebrity gig and fucked off to the sticks. He lives in a house (a very big house) in the country, doesn't drink smoke laugh takes herbal baths in the country... Sorry. Anyway he's got a farm in the Cotswolds and makes cheese. Not dick cheese either, the proper stuff.

And it seems, if Sources Close To The Band (i.e. some cunt from the NME who made this shit up) are accurate, cheese was the glue that held Blur together for so long. "Cheese was the glue that held Blur together so long," A Friend was quoted as saying. "Damon (Albarn, aforementioned tweek) and Alex (James) have always been enthusiastic about cheese. But it wasn't until recently that Alex discovered Liam (Gallagher) and Noel (Where's me fruit platteh) shared their obsession." Who this Friend Of The Band is, other than a tedious name-dropping arsetard, remains a mystery, but pretty safe to say it's not Graham (Coxon), former guitarist for Blur, who is still of the opinion that Damon (Albarn) and Alex (James) are a pair of (fuck)tards. Oasis, for their part, are no strangers to producing their own cheese (insert Be Here Now joke here, pause for editing.)

Anyway Farmer James has invited Albarn and the Gallaghers up to his cheese factory to jointly develop a special edition cheese for the upcoming BRIT awards. James, whose life has "transitioned completely from hard drugs to soft cheese," has remarked, "It's amazing, the friends you can make, just through cheese. People get very emotional about it!"

Maybe not a complete transition away from the 'hard drugs' side of the ledger then methinks? Someone tell him to stop mainlining the Gruyere.

YOUR MOTHER'S ON THE TOP OF MY 'THINGS TO DO' LIST
Anyone who saw, heard or even heard of Wolfmother's shambolic, discordant performance at Splendour In The Arse could have guessed things were on the cusp of going pear-shaped in excelsius deo. One review suggested 'drummer Chris Ross and bassist/keyboardist Myles Heskett were playing one show, while Andrew Stockdale fronted Andy Andy and the Andy Andy’s, an imaginary band more interested in the adulation of an intoxicated festival crowd than playing remotely in time with his actual rhythm section'. Oooh, feel the burn. Next day the press release (in itself an oxymoron) hit the streets annoucing the band's disintegration. These announcements are always great fun as a drinking game; skol for every mention of 'artistic differences' or 'by mutual consent' or other bits of wank. The Wolfie presser is a particularly fine example of the breed. "Longstanding frictions"... "extended break"... "irreconcilable personal and musical differences"... "focusing energies on new projects"... In fact, everything short of the closer-to-actual-factual "Andy Stockdale got LSD (Lead Singer Disorder, a condition first diagnosed by Dr Edward Van Halen in chronic sufferer David Lee Roth in 1985) and the other two decided they'd rather play Kraftwerk-style electronica than churn through another year of touring with the insufferable big-'froed prat." Wolfmother will continue in name with Stockdale and an entirely new supporting cast - hey, it worked for Lemmy over the years - but it's hard not to see this as another case of band emerges, band records enormous fuck-off album, band gets huge, band disappears up lead singer's arse never to be heard from again. Or alternatively, in the case of the Darkness, band disappears up lead singer's nose.


KNIGHTS PUNT JOHNS
Buggering up an otherwise fairly tops weekend for the one-time steel capital of Newcastle (go the Jets), the city's third-favourite Johns boy, freelance ponce and Heath Ledger impersonator Daniel, and his former kiddie band Silverchair were summarily given the arse by pommie Pink Floyd channellers Muse in the battle of the Almighty Hunnert on Straya Day, with the latter's stupendously overblown Knights of Cydonia outpointing the Chair's Straight Lines by some 13 votes, the democratic equivalent of a pubic hair. Which appears to be what young Danny is sporting on his face at present, in the form of the most-glued-on-looking goatee in Christendom, in 'landing strip' style of course. Presumably Ms Imbruglia ditched him because he kept scouring the bottom of the shower recess for fresh ammo for the Advanced Hair people after she'd been in for her daily ablutions. Or maybe it's because even after ten years in the spotlight he still looks like a snotty-nosed tween brat from Newy's bogan west (or north, south or east for that matter), as likely to be able to grow his own facial hair as to be able to write a decent rock song.


ALBUM REVIEWS IN BRIEF
John Butler Trio, Grand National
It's a John Butler Trio album. What the fuck do you expect it to sound like? Def Leppard?

Lost Prophets, Liberation Transmission
Snotty emo kids trying to do '80s hair metal, and failing appallingly. Fucking woeful. Don't. Just don't.

The Dandy Warhols, Odditorium or Warlords of Mars
The Verve are a pack of lying bastards. The drugs do work. And judging by this incoherent lot of flotsam, they work bloody well thanks very much.

The Datsuns, Headstunts
Like most old Datsuns, dependable and reliable but gradually becoming more crap with age.

Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
Yeah... it's a'ight... can't really see what all the fuss is about though.


FORGET THE LYRICS
While it may be true that, as the Divinyls put it, there's a fine line between pleasure and pain; it's more pertinent to note that as David St Hubbins from Spinal Tap observed, there's a fine line between stupid and clever.For those who would question the above, I give you Choad Kroeger and Nickelback. And their mainstream rockchart hit (with a capital 'S'), 'Something In Your Mouth':

Got to meet the hottie with the million dollar body
They say it's over budget but you'd pay her just to touch it
COME OWWWWN!!!

For. Fuck's. Sake. And it gets Even Betterer:

You're rip'n up the dance floor honey
(You naughty woman)
You shake your ass around for everyone
(You're such a mover)
I love the way you dance with anybody
(The way you swing)
And tease them all by sucking on your thumb.

Anyone else see where this might be headed?

You're so much cooler when you never pull it out
'Cause you look so much cuter
With something in your mouth.

Now if that's not the lardiest slab of spray-on lyrical cheese since Kurt Cobain killed off the last of the Sunset Strip hair farmers, I don't fucking know what is.

Rank and venal hypocrisy, I hear you cry. This from the responsible grown-up behind such lyrics as 'I wanna be Angus Young, he's thunderstruck; I wanna be Angus Young, half his fuckin' luck.' (You wait until we get to Beef Week Queen. That's a fucking pearler...

I want the Beef Week Queen
She likes her red meat if you know what I mean
I want the Beef Week Queen
She’s dressed for success, and relatively clean
I want the Beef Week Queen
Knows her Brahman from her Limousin
Not so hot but I don’t care
She just wants it medium rare...

The point is, and it's a horrendous one to have to come to terms with as it's a desperate indictment on society today:

Choad and his Canadifriends aren't actually taking the piss.

Angus is taking the piss - both the fake one and his elderly namesake. Most of the Sunset Strip hair farmers were taking the piss too, or at least were aware it was all a big fucking joke. Choady Boy, as near as I can tell, is dead serious when he gurns like a constipated wrestler, 'You look so much cuter with something in your mouth.' What, pray tell? Chewing gum? Dentures? Her retainer? At least he could have added 'Take out your fuckin' retainer, put it in your purse.'

Nickelback need to be driven into the sea at the sharpened point of a thousand bayonets. This is scientific fact.


MUSIC NEWS UPDATE: ALL THE NEWS THAT'S PRINTED TO BE FIT, INNIT
(with special correspondent Mike Skinner from the Streets, apparently)

• Powderfinger guitarist Ian Haug is suing Jupiters Casino, claiming their hired goons roughed him up in 2006 when he was celebrating a birthday at the neon-stained pit of human suffering that deserves one day to sink into an unholy vortex of pitiless evil in proportion to itself. The Fingerist, whose members have had a long history of kicking off and creating havoc when out on the turps, claims his wrists were “bent, twisted and restrained with significant pressure and excessive force” and that because of the incident, his playing technique has been forced to change. Which may explain why their last album was so desperately fucking ordinary.
  

• China have told Oasis to fuck off, labelling the act 'unsuitable'. Ostensibly this is the result of the band playing a Tibetan freedom gig 12 years ago, but the fact that both Gallagher brothers are gobby twunts (particularly Noel) of no discernable talent (particularly Liam) who haven't released a decent album since Definitely Maybe/Morning Glory (an argument in itself) possibly informed the Central Committee's thinking on the issue.
  
  
• Les Paul passes away aged 94; to be buried in sunburst maple coffin with trapezoidal pickups.
  
  
  What, too soon?
  

• Bono says Chris Martin from Coldplay is a wanker. Jesus, where do we start with that one, we could be here for days. A sanctimonious self-aggrandizing cock sledging a marshmallow-soft arriviste ponce - neither of which Your Correspondent would piss on if they were on fire - for the International Pot-Kettle Heavyweight Championship.
  You know what, fuck it, write your own material for that one.

• Maroon 5 have a new album out.
  Music has officially ended. Everybody get the hell out.

The Doctor is getting the hell OUT.