Price I Pay

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and here are three more of them. 

The worst thing about adverts is that they're everywhere. On the tube, at the cinema, during RuPaul's Drag Race... they're inescapable. Here are three more shitverts* (* thanks Charlie Brooker)

1. 

"You get what you pay for" is clearly a terrible slogan. It implies either high expense or low quality, neither of which you want associated with your product. Perhaps they realised, because the slogan has mysteriously disappeared from the advert...

2.

Lidl: it almost tastes the same as actual food! 

1.

Cortana: when Clean Bandit call, remind me to lie in front of a train.

Welcome to the Jungle

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and here are three more of them. 

Another month, another slew of unbearable adverts, each more cynical and saccharine than the last. For instance:

3. 

How's this for a true story that hasn't happened yet - I go to the house of that bastard woman dressed as a dinosaur and traumatise her arsehole child. Bring back Anthony Head!

2.

An unlistenable, anodyne cover of a rock song. How original. 

1. 

The idea that banks are our friends, or part of the community, or remotely interested in bringing people closer is one of the most cynical advertising ploys of the last few years. Besides, it's an ugly fucking scarf.

Everyone's A Winner

Welcome back to my Grateful Dead and RuPaul's Drag Race blog. Today, or as we say in the UK "yesterday", marks the 45th anniversary of another of my favourite Grateful Dead shows.

https://archive.org/details/gd1970-05-06.sbd.gans-hall.95.shnf

Essentially a warm-up for the following night's show, this jam session on Kresge Plaza at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was part of a student demonstration on 6 May 1970. Just two days before, soldiers had opened fire on peaceful protesters at Kent State University, killing four students and wounding nine more.

This performance marks a rare political statement for the bunch of hippies, who were never activists. Unless you consider having LSD for breakfast a form of activism. This was a time of massive cultural upheaval, embodied by the Dead more than anyone.

The show, relatively short for the Grateful Dead, is full of anger, passion and energy. This recording is a historical document, as well as a blisteringly exciting 90 minutes of music. It opens a few seconds into one of their best renditions of Dancing in the Street, and the show fizzes spectacularly on from there.

After Jerry Garcia's announcement about a lost kid named Frank who's probably about 50 now, the band launch into one of my favourite Dead songs, China Cat Sunflower. The recording then cuts out before rejoining the action at the start of I Know You Rider. What this tape lacks in completeness, it more than makes up for in raw quality.

I'm the first to admit that the band's vocal harmonies aren't always, you know, in tune. But Jerry and Pigpen totally nail it for the bluesy Next Time You See Me. Then comes arguably the greatest version of Morning Dew, which is surprisingly heavy and completely beautiful.

Good Lovin' starts with a brilliantly unique drum intro, and the drumming is so tight that you forget there's two of them. Apparently Bill Kreutzmann was once asked how they were always so in time with one another, and he replied that Mickey Hart had been hypnotising him. 

In any case, it's a great version of Good Lovin'. Mostly because Pigpen shouts: "This microphone over here don't work so fuckin' good you guys!" Then Casey Jones rips along, and the crowd go justifiably crazy.

The set ends with a barnstorming St. Stephen into Not Fade Away, and the whole band is on fire. Bob Weir closes the gig saying: "We're gonna split, and we'll be playing for you tomorrow night but it's just too fuckin' cold."

One of the Dead's most electrifying performances, this show comes towards the tail end of their scorching, psychedelic, acid phase. As opposed to their heroin phase. As the Vietnam War sparked mass demonstrations across college campuses, this was and remains an invigorating musical protest. Particularly on the eve of an election where we have the chance to not elect a bunch of warmongers. No prizes for guessing how that works out.

As a slight change of pace, I'll leave you with my favourite Hot Chocolate song in memory of Errol Brown who passed away earlier. Yes I have a favourite Hot Chocolate song.

There's Mosquitos on the River

As you know, I love everything in the world, with the exception of three things. One of those things that I love is the Grateful Dead.

The only reason I'm still writing this blog is an obsessive need to keep posting once a month, so I might as well do the inevitable and turn it into a Grateful Dead appreciation blog - after all, on this day in 1977, the Dead played one of my favourite shows.

https://archive.org/details/gd1977-04-23.mtx.seamons.97596.sbeok.flac16

23 April 1977 was a rainy day in Massachusetts - I wasn't there (or born), but I have been to Massachusetts and I've experienced rain, so close enough. The Grateful Dead walked on stage (again, this is all speculation) at the Springfield Civic Center Arena, now called the MassMutual Center - named after an insurance company, like all good rock venues.

The band kick off with a beautiful Sugaree, and the Matrix recording (above) strikes the perfect balance between crystal-clear music and excited crowd sounds. Straight away, the audience are having the time of their lives, and I hate them for that. Then it's time for a stunning Cassidy - say what you like about Donna Jean Godchaux (and Deadheads often do), but her harmonies with Bob Weir are gorgeous.

The next song is arguably the highlight of the show - the best version of Loser I've ever heard. The painfully slow tempo, that desperately low groove, Jerry Garcia's electrifying solo... perfection. When it comes to evoking the Old West, the Dead are up there with Sergio Leone - you can almost feel the dust on your skin. 

I won't mention every song, though I easily could. Let's skip to the phenomenal Scarlet Begonias, whose ka-ka-ka intro is one of the best ways to start any song (see also The Joker by the Steve Miller Band). The segue from the upbeat party sound of Scarlet Begonias into the spaced-out majesty of Fire On The Mountain is a thing of beauty.

After a break (and a round of America's favourite game, "Take a Step Back"), Keith Godchaux rolls his fingers down the keyboard into a transcendent Estimated Prophet, whose deep bass and unusual time signature envelop us entirely. 

Bertha is at once dancey and laid-back, a seemingly incongruous combination that characterises the Dead's unique style. This continues in the disco-inflected vibes of The Music Never Stopped - though no disco song ever started with the lyric "there's mosquitos on the river."

Then comes the centrepiece of this second set - Help On The Way > Slipknot! > Franklin's Tower. The rhythm section drives this mini musical journey, from the locomotive effect of Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart's drumming, to Phil Lesh's basslines winding all over the place but somehow holding the whole thing together.

The show rocks to a close, ending with One More Saturday Night as an encore (it was a Saturday - stop me if I'm getting too technical here). It's a song that shows the Dead's ability to cease their psychedelic jamming and a deliver punchy rock 'n' roll number. 

1977 is generally considered the peak of the Dead's powers, moving so effortlessly between psyched-out jazz, cowboy songs and sometimes even rock music. Whatever it is, they make it look easy - and on more drugs than Rob Ford at a disco. Most people that high would struggle to even find their guitars, but the Grateful Dead played the roof off theatres every night.

Festival Time Part II: Kanye Believe It?

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is Glastonbury. Again.

Last year, I wrote a blog on the Glastonbury telecoms festival, and how furious everyone was about Metallica headlining. Well, they'll be pleased by the announcement that this year, the headliner is none other than God's Vessel himself, Kanye West. So everyone's happy. What's that? They're not?

Oh, apparently there's another petition, this time to stop Kanye West - ordinarily something I'd gladly get behind. But I'm baffled by the illogic of buying (very expensive) tickets for an unknown lineup, and then complaining when it's announced. You might as well get angry about a tombola prize. "Radox?! Fuck off."

I'll shut up now, because I'm boring myself. The point is - and this may come as a shock - you don't have to go to Glastonbury. And you certainly don't get to pick the lineup. If you can't accept that, then maybe a festival isn't for you. What you want is a Mumford & Sons gig.

Everybody's Got A Thing

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is advert music.

Believe it or not, the worst thing about adverts isn't the nauseating sentimentality. Nor is it banks pretending to be our friends. It isn't even the exploitation of human tragedy for corporate gain. The worst thing about adverts, it turns out, is the music. Here are three examples:

1. 

This VW ad embodies everything that's wrong with adverts; it's twee, it makes no sense (Woofwagen??) and it features the worst song ever written. Never before have I felt such a strong urge to beat a singing man to death with his own guitar. Me and you, just bleeding from the brain / me and you in agonising pain.

2. 

Here's my impression of a lazy advertising person: "Let's just use another soulless cover of a recognisable song *snort*." Speaking of cocaine, it's hard to miss the point of Kiss. Smirnoff, however, have managed to do so in spectacular fashion, with this hopelessly drippy cover of Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Nights; a song essentially about having crazy nights. Apparently advertising people's idea of a crazy night is sunsets and confetti. A crazy night with Kiss is more a case of: "How am I going to get home?"

3.

Using the most commercial rock band in the world to sell alcohol (or ALCOHAAAWWWWLLL as Paul Stanley would say) is one thing; exploiting '70s funk is another matter entirely. Funkadelic's I Got a Thing, You Got a Thing,  Everybody's Got a Thing is about overcoming our differences to help one another; Levi's version is about selling jeans made in sweatshops. Everybody's got a thing, and my thing is a burning desire to kill those responsible for this ad-rock cover of a song I love.

Tools of the Trade

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is people with two first names.

You've seen them, hogging all the first names while some poor bastards (like Tempestt Bledsoe) don't even have one. Look at David Cameron. Go on, I dare you. He struts around with more than his fair share, while others have nothing. Right guys?

But for once I'm not going to just whinge without offering a solution. I'm not Russell Brand. I'm proposing a Swap Shop style system, mercifully without the involvement of Noel Edmonds, who only has one first name but that's still one more than he deserves.

Under my groovy new collectivist system, someone with two first names could trade with somebody in need. For example, David Cameron and Tempestt Bledsoe could swap. So she's Cameron Bledsoe (and we know Cameron can be a girl's name because of Cameron Diaz) and he's David Tempestt, making him infinitely more electable.

My friend Harry Graham, the first name-hogging idiot, could swap with CNN host Wolf Blitzer. So he'd be Harry Wolf or Harry Blitzer (I'll ask him which he'd prefer). That would make the news anchor Graham Wolf or Graham Blitzer - both of which sound much more like the respectable name of a serious journalist, rather than a Power Ranger.

And I know what you're thinking - what about Ron Howard and his brother, the actor Clint Howard? Why should they be punished? What if they want to keep the familial link of the Howard name? Well, I admire your support for the Howard family, but I've thought of that.

The solution to the Howard Question, as it's known, lies between Channing Tatum and Stockard Channing. If Clint Howard trades with Channing Tatum, they can be Clint Channing and Howard Tatum, respectively. Then Ron Howard can swap with Stockard Channing, making them Howard Channing and Ron Stockard. 

Voila - Clint and Howard Channing keep their family connection, and Howard Tatum is a pretty good name for the Foxcatcher star. Everyone's happy - apart from Ron Stockard, but she can tell people it's short for Rhonda or whatever.

Now, who has Wolf Blitzer's phone number?