bibio silver wilkinsonThere are a couple of things that generally herald The Great British Summer.  Mostly, it’s the phrase “Since Records Began”, although it’s generally a mixed bag as to which record is going to be broken during any given year.  Early days yet as it’s only May, but “moodiest” seems to be an early contender.  Not that any of this matters, as if there’s something us British types are good at, it’s plugging along regardless then moaning about it at a later date.

What some of us are also good at is creating our own sunshine out of whatever happens to be around.  Silver Wilkinson, the latest album from Wolverhampton-based Bibio, follows in that fine tradition of parting the clouds and repainting the skies for the benefit of the rain-dampened masses.

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noIt’s probably about time for me to admit that I haven’ the faintest idea what I’m doing with this blog.  After over three years, one would have thought that I would have settled into some sort of happy little groove, but I haven’t really.  If anything, this is all going backwards – and much I should probably blame poor writing for this, the little graphic at the top-right of this that has appeared on the Facebook Page that accompanies this site recently should also shoulder a good chunk of the blame.

This blog is tiny, and I guess I got lucky at the start of the life of whatever this is when one or two posts started to get passed around and retweeted… I even managed to garner a few comments on posts (albeit about 50% negative), and traffic was uniformly high, certainly higher than anything I could have expected from miserably scribbling away.  And then this happened on the site where most networking occurred.

Facebook is a business (even more so now it’s gone Public) and businesses need money, but in its voracious desire to hoover up every cent from everyone and by treating piddly little sites like this with the same approach as they do General Motors, Coca-Cola etc, they’ve strangled all sense of community.  Because every view is now so precious to everyone, bands and artists are now so focused on pleading with their fans to comment, like share and retweet every snippet of info, they’re not noticing so much when people do say something about them.  Especially when things can’t be soundbitten down into a meaningless arbitrary score (“This record was the soundtrack to my losing my love and my subsequent descent into drinking and drugs, so I rate this 8/10!” – and this record exists but I’m buggered if I’m going to tell you which one it is), it does sometimes feel now that everything’s getting a bit insular and territorial now, and that does nobody any good.  Word Of Mouth is just as important for blogs such as this as it is for the people that blogs such as this write happily and freely in favour of – it means that there is an outlet of positivity that they haven’t had to pay or beg their fans for, and this symbiosis also requires participation, otherwise that $10 per day to get one’s musings out there starts to look worryingly inevitable…

 

So why continue, if it makes me so angry and despondent at times?  Because sometimes it’s as good an outlet for my pettier, nastier side as it is for my enthusiasm and joy.  And as I don’t spend time here writing about what I think are bad records (because I don’t buy bad records as a rule, it’s kind of a waste of money to do so), I need a slightly different target to vent my spleen .  And when I hear that someone has bought something, or even just taken the time to have a bit of a listen, based on something that’s been written here, I can’t explain just how good that feels.  On the rare occasion that a conversation is begun that sends its participants off to a record store on the basis of something that someone said, it’s brilliant.  When artists take the time to pass something on or even get in touch, it’s a fantastic feeling and I am so utterly grateful for every single time that I see something of mine appearing on Facebook or Twitter or on other people’s sites and messageboards.  Hopefully I can keep bungling away here until the pendulum swings back towards a relationship that’s much closer to “us” than “them”.

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Black PuddingWaste not, want not.  Black Pudding is one of those foodstuffs that is fairly ubiquitous worldwide, yet one of those things that doesn’t always spring to the forefront of culinary conversation.  It may be that the high fat content is considered a bit of a no-no in these health-conscious times; it could well be that the current meat scares affecting the nation are making us wary as of the possible corpuscular origin; it could even be the fact that this delicacy has actually been known to kill.  But it’s probably because the chief ingredient is blood.  Still, it makes for a lovely breakfast.

This coming together of Mark Lanegan and Duke Garwood has been something that has been bubbling away for some time now, and the thought of what they might come up with together has been an intriguing one – Duke has opened up more than a few shows for Mark so there’s an obvious kinship at work there.  But how would this translate musically?  Rather well as it turns out.

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Elektrik KarouselThe imagined village of Belbury is an idyllic location not too dissimilar to Trumptonshire.  Jolly, eccentric and full of character, the Parish has become rather adept at producing a bunch of uniquely English-flavoured electronic psychedelia.  Unlike Camberwick Green and its environs however, there is a sense of ‘otherness’ about Belbury that brings to mind church clocks chiming at funny times, Women’s Institute gatherings devoted to invoking all manner of friendly spirits and an off-licence dispensing many a curiously-coloured liquid for the discerning customer.  Welcome to the strange and wonderfully parochial (in the nicest sense of the word) world of Ghost Box Recordings.

And quite frankly that’s the best intro I could come up with to set the scene for something that exists in its own little universe, obeying its own rules and wandering off in whatever direction it feels like, as they continue in marvellous form with this one from The Focus Group.

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It's a TinyWorld!This is taking a while to type as my right arm, as is its wont, is dangling somewhat uselessly and painfully to the side of me.  That I am having to take extra care and consideration about what I type means that not only is this taking a lot longer to do than usual, there’ll probably be fewer spelling mistakes as well as I’m paying proper attention.

I could be wrong, and I can’t be bothered checking, but I think this might be the first Sunday Whatever on here for over six months.  It may be because Sundays are a pain in the backside at the best of times (and I now work six days most weeks, thankyou Austerity Measures making us work longer for less, and us having to be grateful about it), or maybe I’m not quite as excited as I used to be about stuff as I was three years ago.  The reasons for me wanting to do this haven’t changed though, so I’d better just shut up and plough on; temporary physical/psychological disabilities and crap traffic be buggered.  I need to be getting back into the swing of these again.

 

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psbThere is a strange cultural happening going on in Great Britain today, and it’s a rather welcome one.  As entertainment continues to be dumbed-down left right and centre, there’s a backlash of TV programming and music aimed at inclusively celebrating the fact that we’re not as stupid a nation as the Fourth Estate would have us believe.

There is also a definite yearning for all things Nostalgic, which I guess is part and parcel of what happens during times of financial uncertainty.  Yet in amongst the interminable ‘comedy’ reworkings of the Keep Calm And Carry On posters is this record that revels in reminiscence as a way of pushing things forward, as something that celebrates the humanity of everything whether it’s pushing the boundaries of scientific or personal endeavour, or merely joining in with the fun as someone files a report whilst drunk.  Much as I’m doing right now.

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umojacketv1It’s a strange thing, scribbling about music.  Translating sound into words in the hope that the person at the other end can vaguely translate it back again in their own minds is akin to typing out a recipe in one language, babelfishing it into another, and then getting someone to translate it back again with a different web-based translation tool and hoping that they don’t poison themselves or their entire family with the resulting culinary creation.  And I’m sure that the people who make perfume adverts know exactly what’s going on when they come up with visual campaigns that essentially try to sell an indescribable smell; it’s just that by the time it gets to us mere consumers, it’s all a bit weird and arty.

Anyway.  The reason for that mad preamble is that this record is something that I am in no small way struggling to describe.  I could cheat and read the reviews of others who do know what they’re talking about, or I could plough on regardless and see what happens.  Could be fun.

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ribThis is one that I’d wanted to go over here pretty much from when I first started doing this.  It was going to be a gleeful recollection of a youthful discovery that made the most brilliant sense to me in so many ways, and how it also went on to define the way I listened to music, which is the same way I do now.  It was to be about finding my place in the world at a time when I previously had none and forging bonds of friendship that still hold today in many cases.

But Jeff Hanneman died yesterday, and now it all feels that the shine’s been taken off it because I feel somewhat sad for the passing of someone I never met, which is always a strange thing to get one’s head around.  Now’s a good time to be doing this though, as I have to admit that I hadn’t realised just how deeply this record has resonated with me over the years before last night.

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brThere’s just something gloriously mad about Blade Runner, as it’s a film that is almost impossible to explain to anyone who has never seen it, especially if they start asking awkward questions like “so, why is he called a Blade Runner then?”

It’s one of those films that has very slowly and carefully created a legend around itself, largely by being utterly baffling until a Director’s Cut appeared several years later to explain it without need for a voiceover and a terrible happy ending.  But even when we had to rely on Harrison Ford sardonically spelling the plot out, Blade Runner had that unique something to keep the audience spellbound, which was that there was simply nothing like it.  And now, even though the images have been (ha!) replicated ad infinitum, there’s still almost nothing that sounds like it.

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006Because, quite frankly, my previous post was basically me spending the thick end of 800 words about hanging about outside a shop, when the best bit was spent hanging about briefly (there was a queue behind me!) inside one as well.

Yes, I bought some records.  It would have been frankly rude not to have done so.  I just wish I could have spent a bit longer rummaging in the B racks, but that’s the joy of hindsight in the face of some of the best marketing for a band’s return that I can think of.  Anyway, instead of 20 seconds of Numbers Station-related guerilla hype, I bought a bunch of other stuff – and lest we forget, Record Store Day isn’t just for Christmas as much/most of the below stuff is still available to pick up instore without having to pay through the nose to flippers, and online from this weekend if it looks like it might rain.

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