Pretty Beats

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Allow me to set the scene for you ladies and gentleman.

*clears throat*

SCENE ONE:

There you are; in a pub; drunk. You're friends bounce around the jukebox like gerbils on speed. Bon Jovi. He sure knows how to pull in an aggressive, unintelligent cock-fest, does he not? You semi-bob along, taking frequent, steady gulps of your alcoholic beverage in the hope that with each sip you may lose a little of your vision, hearing and (fingers crossed) standards.

But then, you glance down to the golden ale in your hand (or for the ladies and gays, perhaps a gin and tonic). You realise you are running low, a little too low. In fact, you are down to your last gulp. It's time for a refill, you decide and off you trot/stumble, towards the vomit scented bar.
It is now that the unexpected happens. You catch a glance of something in your peripherals, causing you to jerk your head back around for a second look.
There he/she stands: The pearl in the oyster, the diamond in the rough, the….eh you get the picture. Anyway, you quickly wipe the dazed look off your face (and the drool from your chin) just in time to notice that this person is looking at you too.

SCENE TWO:

You jiggle your keys in the lock and fall through the door of your apartment. He/she falls in after you. Wow you think, I have no recollection of having ever spoken to this dream boat, but now I appear to be in my apartment with him/her. You give yourself a mental pat on the back.

Now, this is where your story could take a turn for the worst, or, if you play your cards right, you might just get lucky. It all comes down to one thing:

The Music.

He/she excuses him/herself to powder his/her nose.
He/she makes her/his way to the bathroom.

You dive towards your CD collection in a sudden state of panic.
You need to find the perfect album. But what is it?

Never fear friends. From this point on, you will never find yourself caught in the same predicament.
For I have a list of "The Top Ten Albums to Get Hot and Heavy to" right here, before your eyes.
Starting with the best at #1:

1.Mazzy Star – So Tonight That I Might See
2.Portishead – Dummy
3.The Presets – Beams
4.Peaches – Fatherfucker
5.Kaki King – Dreaming of Revenge
6.Prince – Controversy
7.Bjork – Homogenic
8.Goldfrapp – Black Cherry
9.The Rolling Stones – Out Of Our Heads
10. Jeff Buckley - Grace

I encourage you all to add to the list.

Thank you and good night.

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Portishead, Third

May 29th 2008 01:07

"Silence" creeps into my ears with a distorted rat a tat tat. An intoxicating wave of strings, squeaks and a steady riff melt me down into submission and this is where I will stay until the last raging horn of "Threads" moves through me like a chill in a dark room.
Third, need I say it, is the third album for trip-hop band Portishead and like so many other fans, I have endured the ten agonising years it has been since Portishead first silenced themselves.
After a ten year wait, it is fair to say high expectations have been place upon this album.
It is also fair to say that through this long wait, I have allowed my imagination to roam with wonderment, dreaming of just what this album might sound like. My imagination can at times be like that of a child, lulling me into magical places, and yet not even my imagination could pull me to the places I have now been since listening to Third.
Third is many things. It is dark, sexy, haunting, sickening. It is not, however, anything like the bands first and unforgettable album, Dummy; an album that was the soundtrack for so many indy kids growing up in the 90's.
Like professional chess players, Portishead have made a brave and courageous move to stray from their king (the sound of Dummy); a move that has shown the world that this is a band that means something, and will always mean something.
Gibbons voice is the only familiar thing about this album. She wails and whispers her way through each track like a dark spirit, crying out her agonies to the raging skies.
Her voice has always had some what of an effect on her audience and, though fairly monotone, it seems to wrench at the heart and leave us bruised and sore like submissive lovers.
There isn't one track on the album that falls below the mark. Each affects the body and mind in its own way. "Machine Gun" punctures through the chest and tears through the veins like a shot of adrenalin. "The Rip" warms and overwhelms, capturing us first with a folk like sound and then growing into something that makes me feel somewhat nostalgic, although I'm not quite sure for what.
Overall, the album is one that should, and most likely will go down in history.
It may not be trip-hop; in fact, I believe it steers closer to dark electro-punk. But whatever it is, I like it, and I thank Portishead for giving birth to such a sad beauty.

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Bjork, Sydney Opera House

May 26th 2008 08:41

Bjork. She is finally here in front of me, dressed up in raging colour like a tribal warrior, accompanied by brass blowing children, surrounded by fire and musical instruments that glow like creations from outer space.
I tear my eyes from her for a moment to search the other faces in the crowd.
I see in their glazed eyes, the reflection of the full moon, who, she shouts "has gatecrashed our party".
We are all in a trance, under this crisp night sky, worshiping the God who dances before us.
Wise and amazing, and yet small, she moves like an excited little girl, and at once we are all in love with her.
At once, we have found our faith, and it flies into the air, riding on the back of every note that shoots out of her mouth, straight from the very depths of her chest.
I wonder, does she know what she has created in us? That it is possible for a mere human being to conjure up such a storm of wild thoughts in another.
There is no doubt: she is a revolution, and through her unique sound, she has saved our souls.

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Music To My Ears

May 26th 2008 08:02

My ears.
Pressed against speakers, shouted at through raging crowds, delicately seduced by ivory fingers. They have been damaged somewhat by music, but just as the heart is damaged by love, they have grown from the beauty they have heard. Whether it be in a vomit scented Sydney pub, blaring out through crackling speakers in my old Daihatsu, or in the opera house soaking through my tingling skin, music has always been the one true love of my life.
Born without musical talent, but with more passion in my heart that an oiled up Spaniard dancing the Paso Doble, there is only one thing left for me to be in this life: A poor, penniless writer, with a desire for music that will never die

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