“That probably deserves some kind of public service award…”

I’m a big fan of legitimate free music downloads, if only because I’m probably one of four people in the whole southern hemisphere who hasn’t used a torrent or P2P service for the last seven years.

It’s not what almost everybody else I know does (and I’ll confess that over the years I’ve spent a tear-inducing amount of money on music that may not always have been up to scratch), but like almost everyone else I also still have my shame pile of unlistened to music. That's because I occasionally go through spates of looking for new music by hunting for free downloads provided by bands, which means I end up with a pile of MP3s in a forgotten folder on my desktop.

One such small collection of tunes that my computer tells me has been on my desktop since January 6, 2012, consists of three free tracks from American electronic goths The Crüxshadows. Founded in 1993, they’re not a band I know much about and I guess they play what would pass for the equivalent of modern darkwave.

 Serious business.

To start, I only owned three tracks from various compilations so when they released three free Christmas tracks (go HERE and download them from the right hand column) it doubled the length of my Crüxshadows playlist.

It got me thinking about this band, and made me realise that there are a couple of things I really like about them, even though I don’t know their music anywhere near well enough to consider myself a fan.

First, from what little I know, they seem to have some variety going for them. Yes, it’s that electronically driven synthy darkwave sound that has been done a trillion times before, but they also seem to make use of some cool sounds. They use ‘real’ violins during their recordings and main (male) vocalist Rogue seems to have a fantastic, almost operatically clean voice. The track Citadel (from a Fiend Magazine sampler) is a good example in my view of a track that uses what could be an old-school synth, or at least a modern one that sounds pretty retro.

Secondly, I like that they have dancers. This makes sense in the live setting given that a major component of the music is electronic (it’s hard to jump around on stage holding a big synth), and for all the pretentiousness — be it the umlaut, the main-man’s pseudonym, or the fact that they’re successful goths — I’d like to think this adds something to their shows, in the same way that The Prodigy’s human stage presence was basically made by two guys who couldn’t sing.

The fact that they’re not-at-all-unpleasant-to-look-at dancers certainly helps, as does the fact that they thankfully seem to have a sense of humour (below).

The above video from an Ayria show (another superb electronic artist who is very underrated, plus she’s from Canada so that has to make her 50% better to start) has the dancers bust out of nowhere and do a full routine.
Check out their mad moving skillz.

The third and by far my most favourite thing I love about this band which, as I said, I really don’t know very much else about, is the fact that once upon a time, back in the United States of America in 2006, for one very brief moment in time they did the unthinkable and managed a number one Billboard single with the track Sophia.

I own the (radio edit version) of this track and I really didn’t think that much of it. Yet that's merely a matter or personal taste and I throw my hat in the air for these guys — an independent band that was virtually unknown by the standards of the commercial music industry — for managing to outdo corporate-backed mega artists.

Never mind the fact that it was a short-lived blip, or that it didn’t break their career and propel The Crüxshadows into mega stardom… for one fleeting moment back then and now forever frozen in time, a song by a bunch of mopey-looking people with funny hair wearing corsets and fishnets was officially at number one — and in September 2006 this meant it outranked P. Diddy.

Take that P Diddy.

To quote Iron Maiden singer Bruce Dickinson, when the Bring Your Daughter… To The Slaughter single did much the same after sitting for one week (and one week only) on top of the UK singles charts, where it consequently knocked Cliff Richard off his perch: “That probably deserves some kind of public service award.”

Look what the cat dragged in

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. And sometimes there's selling out... and then there's Bret Michaels from Poison releasing his own line of pet products. Yeah... It's all here.

This is my favourite part. It seems there's a promotion to win a one-on-one with Brett Michaels. And according to Bret, it involves the following: "Afterwards we're going to sneak out to that rock n' love bus, have a little party, and talk about pets." This man's career just keeps going from height to height...

Mexican madness

The great thing about having good friends is that they’re, well, rather good to have around. A common interest, for example, is highly conducive to spending hours talking about a mutual favourite topic. And if your residences happen to be geographically close then the likely instances of sharing those interests thoroughly increase.

I have one particular friend who lives just three minutes’ drive away and when I called him the other day the conversation went something like this.

“Hello?”

“Hey mate, how’re you going?”

“Good. You?”

“Yeah pretty good. Hey listen, do you have a spare sombrero I could borrow?”

“Sure. But I’m leaving in 10 minutes.”

“No probs, I’ll be there in three.”

Admittedly it was more like four minutes — the one traffic light on the way delayed me — but I got there in time and he was more than obliging in allowing me to choose one of his half a dozen hats. The occasion was Fiend Fest Festival: the biggest gothy industrially darkish alternativey festival ever held in Australia, consisting of a long streak of bands, an extensive dark fashion show, and the always-awesome twice-annual (I think) event that is The Black Market.

I love the fact that this kind of subculture even manages to still exist, let alone manifest itself as a big all-day party, but I wasn’t actually attending the last two components. Specifically, I was seriously looking forward to Mexican electro-industrialists Hocico (if you haven’t heard of them, make an effort to look them up) which also happens to be the reason I acquired a sombrero. I covered mine in industrial tape because, you know, that would make it an industrial sombrero.
Yeah, not many people got it.

This sombrero is industrial.

There’s a lot to be said about Hocico and it deserves a lot more space than I’ve got here. There’s the fact that two poor, Mexican teenagers who just happened to be seriously into their Skinny Puppy subsequently became one of the most influential acts in aggrotech or terror EBM or whatever the kids are calling it today.

There’s the fact that they do a very cool and unique blend of what I think is particularly dark and energetic electronic music, which somehow still remains awesome despite its generally un-polished production.

And then there’s the fact that they are reputed to do amazing live shows. Legend has it (in other words, I can’t confirm this story) that Hocico’s first European tour saw them support several better known bands who, after witnessing Hocico’s ball-tearingly awesome and energetic performance, are said to have unanimously decided that they take the top spot for the remainder of the tour.

Yeah, there’s probably some extreme embellishment there but I still like that story. And even if it’s not true, the fact is they are a major drawcard on the European festival circuit in this kind of music.

That last point — the quality of their live performances — was seriously hyped up before the gig and so I, along with almost everyone else there with even a half-arsed interest in the band, had some very big expectations. Most of them would thankfully be met, but the whole caper came perilously close to unravelling as a result of some serious audio gremlins that had started before I even got there.

I’d hate to be accused of spreading lies and rumours so I hope I’ve got this right. It would seem that one of the earlier bands on the bill had their PA die after three songs; another band had another serious problem with a foldback speaker (subsequently, the main area had a noticeable whiff of electrical-fire smoke); and there may even have been further assorted audio problems. It seemed the venue worked around the problems as best they could but it all caused considerable mayhem to the band schedule. Consequently, Hocico started late.

Not that it mattered much to the crowd. The noticeable sense of expectation was all there, but then within two songs the dreaded audio bug reared its ugly head! I imagine that the sound mixer along with the stage manager were by now chowing down box-loads of maximum-strength aspirin, as the speakers seemed cut out. For a moment there the punters parked at the front of the stage directed their displeasure at the audio booth, but interestingly enough — and a sure sign that the crowd was filled with appreciation — everyone kind of started clapping in unison to those beats, almost as if to compensate for the drop in audio. Fortunately it got fixed, and that’s when the fun really started.

And the fun seriously begins (pic: Tarley).

There we were, with a blinding blaze of strobes, disturbing backdrop visuals, and a little Mexican guy jumping around in some rather large almost GWARish or Lordi-like shoulder pads. And that’s when I realised what made this band so great.

When you see live bands that you don’t avidly follow, it’s so often a case of getting into those songs you recognise and maybe even liking a few you don’t recognise. “They’re not bad,” is as absolutely stock-standard behaviour at a gig as is having a vaguely appreciative and not-very-responsive crowd for much of the time. But not so with these guys. I own a few Hocico releases and yet I can honestly say I recognised all of two songs that were played. Yet at every moment there was this powerful you-had-to-be-there energy, this awesome, dark, killer world complete with sensory-depriving lights and visuals. At the risk of running off an old cliché, it was much of a case of you could “feel” it rather than just see and hear it.

Cool backdrop (pic: Tarley).

The only down-side for the night? Other than Hocico playing a short set and not getting around to doing an encore?

My back.

I groaned vigorously the next morning at my fiancée about how my lower back ached. I couldn’t figure out how it got so sore until she pointed out that (along with me getting old, of course) I did my fair bit of jumping around. It was the only plausible explanation I could think of until, still buzzing from the gig, I swayed back and forth mildly (I think I was brushing my teeth and was reminiscing about it all) when oh boy, that’s when it hit me. Sharp, jabbing pain, right there where I’d been moving around (not jumping) all night.

You see, the thing about a sombrero, even one wrapped in industrial tape, is that it’s kind of light. You can’t headbang like you’d normally do because it will fall off, so instead you have to do a kind of keep-your-back-straight-while-moving-your-head- forwards-and-backwards-type of motion. Turns out, doing this repeatedly is very bad for your lower back.

Anyone who is genuinely into dark and heavy music knows that a concert-induced injury is worn as a badge of honour. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I got cut from a spike or bruised from someone’s boot or even severe whiplash from too much headbanging (though not to the extent experienced by Jason Newsted and Tom Araya, who both had to stop headbanging due to nasty neck injuries).

No, my latest concert injury came form wearing a hat.

Yeah, I must be getting old.

I'm at the bottom right of the shot, slowly receiving a mild back injury (pic: Tarley).

Not necessarily funny this time

A sneak preview of the Paul Stanley from KISS “1974” action figure. Yet another product from the never-ending stream of merchandise from this band-turned-corporate-mega-brand. Did you know Gene Simmons is said to be worth $300 million?

Then there's this video is very much in the vein of some funny flash animation videos that became particularly popular on the web some years ago. Basically, foreign-language songs would receive additional phonetic English subtitles and matching animated photos and images, often with hilarious and crazy results. The most famous at the time was called French Erotic Film (originally a Dutch song with no lyrical connection of any kind to its new title); one version of the infamous Numa Numa video did it momentarily by superimposing an image of fettuccine over a vaguely similar-sounding moment in the original Rumanian lyrics; and there were a few others I believe, with the craziest spoofs being Japanese songs.

Now here’s another one in the same glorious tradition, in the form of alternate lyrics for the instantly recognisable O Fortuna epic. Except, I find this one particularly interesting because of the choice of music. Specifically, I own at least three releases that were later retracted because the bands sampled O Fortuna, including Ministry, Apoptygma Berzerk and Apotheosis (in this last case, the release was actually called O Fortuna and ended up shooting up the Belgian charts at the time, so that was something of a giveaway).

Personally, I feel this militant hunting down of copyright violators is morally stupid, seeing that the lyrics that appear in Carmina Burana consisted of “previously published” material — specifically, a large book of poetry written by Medieval monks which Carl Orff transcribed for his composition. Hell, I even knew some people a few years back who got a take-down because they posted a short YouTube video of them dicking around at home, set to this music. It couldn’t possibly have attracted more than a few hundred views and that got them some unwarranted attention.

So, I seriously wonder if this fantastic video is going to be around for long.

Oh, and last but not, Axl Rose is still a douchebag. It seems he’s now banned fans from wearing Slash t-shirts at his gigs. I wish I could think of some appropriate Guns N’ Roses lyrics to make some ironic point about this total douchebaggery but nothing’s forthcoming. What an arse.

You spin me round like a 50 cent record

 

Dead Or Alive front-man Pete Burns is best known these days for his disastrous experiences with plastic surgery (do a Google image search for Pete Burns if you’re brave) but once upon a time in the that mystical, glorious period known as the eighties he was a hand grenade of outrageousness and flamboyance actively subverting pop culture with his unique brand of trashy decadence.

Well, that’s what I told myself when I picked up a second hand copy of Brand New Lover. The 50 cent sticker was a warning that I promptly ignored.

 He's changed a bit since this photo was taken.

I’d hoped that when I picked up this record from 1986 — which is like, totally more than 20 years old — that it’d be a nostalgic treasure from when ‘the eighties’ were yet to be invented and a gender bending ex goth / post punk performer could somehow find relevance in the mainstream pop charts.

Alas, the thing about this release is that it was a catchy radio-friendly tune transformed into a nine-minute remix. The operative word here is “was” — it’s done in that instantly recognisable analogue eighties style that nowadays seems so very primitive and limited. Nine minutes of the stuff, seemingly stretched for the sake of filling a whole a-side. Simple and unnecessarily repetitive and unimaginative extending of music. Was it considered crap for the period? Who knows. The music industry was profitable back in them days so record labels could presumably afford to offload more rubbish.

The b-side is not much better. It features a shorter albeit instrumental version of the title track which I guess must have taken the studio engineers all of three minutes to put together as they removed the vocals. It’s followed by a live version of the track In Too Deep.

Assuming this is a genuine enough recording and not a blatant overdub, this last track probably has one redeeming quality. Namely, you can really make out just how strong Burns’ voice was. If Wikipedia is to be believed, he was asked to join a band purely on the merits of his outrageous attire. The strength of his voice was supposedly discovered later.

The rest of this record, unfortunately, doesn’t do it much justice.

This is the greeeeatest moment in my liiiAAAAAGGGHHHHH MY SPINE!

I recently moved house and was going through some old boxes when I found some ticket stubs that over the years were at various times proudly affixed to my wall with Bluetack. They’re from two gigs played over a weekend in October 1997, when I was 15 or 16.

I was devoutly into metal at the time and I just loved going to gigs and jumping around to heavy music. Being underage, my choice of venues was severely limited, so every Thursday I’d religiously scan the entertainment pages in The Age newspaper and also watch Recovery on Saturday mornings on ABC TV with Dylan Lewis (who was something of a douche) in the hope of catching a three-minute segment called All Things All Ages or some such. It was often a futile pursuit as there were very few all-ages gigs and even fewer all-ages metal gigs, which is how I ended up at a Millencolin gig.

I was young and didn't know any better.

I’m being a tad sarcastic when I say I’m not much of a fan of Swedish pop punk. In fact, my knowledge of this band is limited to one track on an obscure punk compilation. But it was an all-ages gig and a mate had invited me to come so why the hell not. It’s what you do when you’re 15.

From memory there wasn't much worth repeating from the gig. The Living End were one of the supports and were still vaguely cool back then — while writing this update I worked out that this gig was played just one month after the release of the Second Solution / Prisoner of Society EP. Apparently (and by apparently I mean Wikipedia told me) this release became the highest selling Australian single from the ’90s.

The HiFi Bar, as it had recently been renamed, was kind of dark and I recall gleefully leaping into what passed as a circle pit and promptly getting smashed in the head. I pulled out and didn’t jump back in. Also, my mate got into an argument with someone who had supposedly stuck a lit firelighter at him. Or something…

As I said, I really loved jumping around and going nuts to heavy music. Secretly I’d have liked to talk to girls even more but I was way, way, way too shy for that.

BEST LINE-UP EVER

Look at this stub and tell me that isn’t a totally killer line-up.

Where were you on this glorious day?

Headlining were Canadian metallers Strapping Young Lad when they had just started getting really big after the release of the City album.

Supporting were two superb Aussie bands: Canberra’s psychedelic metal warriors Alchemist, who had recently released Spiritech (one of my favourite albums of all time and a criminally underrated masterpiece); and ‘hatecore’ purveyors Damaged, a band that was notorious for Matt Skitz’s drumming and destroying venues and fans (literally and metaphorically). And they were playing an all-ages gig. Which I was attending!

Unfortunately Damaged pulled the plug at the last moment and were replaced by Segression. They played an ok sort of mix of groove metal with some nu-metal thrown in for good measure but I’ll never forget this band name because I once knew a girl whose first words to me were: “Do you know Segression? I’m going to fuck the drummer.” True story. The first words I mean. I doubt she proceeded with her intended plan.

If I may digress for a moment, I’d also like to point out that this was in the days of pre-fast internet and so radio, particularly community radio, played an important role in spreading the gospel of metal. All these bands were played on at least three separate radio shows each week, which I’d listen to religiously. My long-gone favourite was Demon Night from 10-12 on Wednesday nights on 106.7 PBS FM — seriously, it was the best show EVER! The Hard Report ran on 102.7 RRR FM on Sunday nights from 10-2 and was responsible for my chronic tiredness at school on Monday mornings. And then there was Three Hours Of Power, played nationally on Triple J every Tuesday night from 10-1. My formative metal years were shaped by community radio. I loved the humbleness of these programs, how dead air was a regular occurrence when the announcer (usually the only person in the building by that time of night) ducked into the toilet and the track mysteriously finished early. Or how the promo cart would hurriedly be faded out half-way because it was the wrong one, or a phone would start ringing in the middle of an interview. Radio really meant something back then — and to make matters even better I’d generally make back the cost of my RRR and PBS subscriptions from the free prizes I’d win.

Forgive me, I was merely enjoying the nostalgia…

We showed up half-way through Segression’s set and found the somewhat sedate crowd doing what early crowds (and particularly alcohol-free crowds) do this early in the afternoon, which is not much. But you know, they had that polite and appreciative applause between songs, a sound most support bands are only too familiar with.

Alchemist was next up, and it was an experience which to this day I can only describe as mesmerizing. My theory is that Alchemist live in 1997 was — like all good things in life when you’re young — simply better when you first began experiencing it. MAD magazine? Heavy metal? Sex? These thing and so many more were always at their most awesomest and exciting when you discovered them for the first time.

I wish I could travel back in time and re-live that 45 or so minutes of watching them play live. One moment the crowd was going off to these huge, rhythmic, thick riffs and then it all went a little… tripped out… as the headbanging gave way to quiet interludes of synthy, fascinating, rich sounds interspersed with samples and effects in the background. And then back to the rhythmic headbanging.

Maybe my memory has been contaminated by my fondness of the event, but I could swear that the moshpit was swaying to the breakdown in Chinese Whispers (switch off your anti-stupid shield for a second and read the comments in that YouTube video).

And finally… Strapping Young Lad. If you like metal then hopefully this band needs little introduction. I’d owned the City album for a few weeks and had a particular fondness for the tune Detox, which also got a lot of radio play. In fact, repeated listens of this this tune on radio was what got me into this band. As I said, radio meant something back then.

But believe it or not, I’m not the biggest Strapping fan. I dig it and have all sorts of angsty nostalgic feelings form that time but personally I just don’t rate them up there with the likes of Iron Maiden. But boy, what a performance. Front-man Devin Townsend is the epitome of a showman and the awesomeness all started before anyone even played a riff. The entire crowd was kind of WTF-ed as he walked on stage and started miming to this weirdly melodic introduction, kind of like this one.

Anyway, Devin comes on stage and people are sort of looking at him weirdly with this odd sense of expectation as he does this routine. And then… it began. Oh dear Lord, did it begin. And keep going.

A veritable wall of white hot, crazy noise, with a rapidly balding long-haired Canadian dude doing his best to make everyone go utterly apeshit. Industrial strength, white-blue searing heavy metal of the utmost intensity.

One thing from this gig that I will never forget is my first and last ever stage dive. There was some surfing and diving going on and being young and energetic and extremely sweaty I figured it’d be a neat idea. Towards the end of the gig I finally managed to fight my way around to the front, climb on stage, look down at the crowd and think as I sailed through the air that oh man, this is the greeeeatest moment in my liiiAAAAAGGGHHHHH MY SPINE!!!!!!

Turns out the crowd caught my spread out arms; my knees, however, smashed straight into the concrete floor. I can still remember the snapping sensation in my back. So that was the last time I ever stagedived.

What an era, eh? Getting your head smashed in a circle pit. Almost breaking your spine after leaping from the stage. Kids going from zero to apeshit by the power of great music without any alcohol. Back then you wore your mosh-induced injuries as a badge of honour.

But here’s the best part.

This Strapping Young Lad gig which I TOTALLY ATTENDED was IMMORTALISED in the form of a LIVE ALBUM. That’s right, people. This gig was recorded and later released as No Sleep ’Till Bedtime i.e Live In Australia. And I was THERE dammit.

I SAID I WAS THERE!!!

I’d like to think that if you throw on a decent pair of headphones and carefully listen to this album you’ll hear, buried somewhere in the crowd noise, the soft cracking sound of a 15-year-old boy’s knees colliding with a concrete floor.

I love gimmicks

There are a couple of reasons why I bought this seven-inch from death metal old schoolers Morbid Angel, but none of them have anything to do with me liking Morbid Angel. I’m hardly a fan and I don’t own any of their albums.

The fact is, I love gimmicks in music, for the same reason that many people hate them. They’re one of the reasons I love industrial music, and by that I mean I love the way a generic electronic composition that’s indistinguishable from thousands like it can instantly become more interesting and noticeable (and in some cases a major dance floor hit) by the simple addition of cleverly placed samples. They’re the icing that makes generic tracks on an album stand out because of that kooky cover track, or the wooden CD case or leather record sleeve.

But neither of these qualities are present in this release. I bought it simply because it has a remix from one of my favourite electronic artists, Combichrist. In this case, a track titled Destructos vs The Earth.

Not their best work apparently.

Now Combichrist is best known for being quite a successful industrial duff artists. As far as the underground sees it, Combichrist is even considered relatively commercial — the Manowar of the industrial scene, I once saw him called.

Personally, I love Combichrist because the music is oh so fun, awesome to dance to, hard hitting — and kinda gimmicky. Keeping in mind of course, because sometimes it’s too easy to forget, that compared to mainstream music that still sells, it’s still considered unlistenable noise…

Anyway, the thing that grabbed me about this release was not the Morbid Angel connection. The album from which this single comes from, Illud Divinum Insanus, was panned when it came out and as I said, I’ve just never been much of a fan. It was the remix of the track and the accompanying fan-made video circulating on the web that first got me, if only because I thought the song was so fantastically awful. It was so bad, I thought, that it couldn’t possibly be a ‘serious’ (even by Combichrist tongue in cheek standards) kind of release. But it was.

In true interwebs fashion, the fan-made junk video was way funnier, better and weirdly accurate — certainly far more than anything a producer with a budget for such a relatively small artist would typically make.

And from there it grew on me. Considerably, in fact, until I ended up ordering it. Even so, the record came with a free Morbid Angel patch which I declined to sew onto my otherwise very full heavy metal battle jacket. I may like gimmicks but I draw the line somewhere and that line is an album like Illud Divinum Insanus.

Remember these things kids?

Spreading Mustaine

So Dave Mustaine from Megadeth has reportedly endorsed Republican candidate Rick Santorum. The man behind two of the greatest thrash metal albums of all time, and who sang and riffed about serial killers, alien conspiracies and the despicable state of music censorship, is now getting behind a presidential-hopeful made infamous from a nasty Google bomb that likened his surname to a by-product of anal intercourse.

Not a by-product of lube and fecal matters. Although his detractors might argue against that.

The full story can be found all over the web, but suffice to say that it started with one political activist who — wishing to get back at Santorum for making anti-gay comments — started the spreadingsantorum.com site which led to the Santorum association retaining its colourful top Google ranking.

Would it work for metal? Is an endorsement of a traditional enemy of metal by one of its elders worthy of its own association? Would spreading Mustaine or spreading Ulrich go far?

Then there’s the real nutjobs. Vikernes (Grishnackh?). Benton. Darken.

I’m currently lacking the energy to think of some sufficiently humorous definitions.

Suggestions on a postcard please. Our you could leave comments below.

Blackness in metal

Is this the best worst classified of all time (click the image for the link — and no, that doesn't seem to be a stock image)? I don't know if this is true or not. Or maybe it is true and someone's taking the piss. So far, it seems to be a real classified, but I haven't been brave enough to contact the owner. This would make for a funny, funny prank call. It practically tells itself.


This actually reminds me of this gem from some years ago. The caller (rumoured, after this did the rounds, to be from a hardcore outfit... the name escapes me) is clearly hamming up the fact that he is black. He is calling 'Joe' in response to an ad to join a black metal band. The humorous exchange predictably goes back and forth about what is "black" as in "dark and evil" to which the caller exclaims, dammit, that he is "dark and evil"! And so on. The astonishing part, though, is near the end, when Joe, having earlier listed Burzum, Darkthrone, and Mayhem as the kind of bands he likes, reveals that he's not overly badass and in fact "lived in the suburbs" as "an only-child".

Alas. Earwax.

I’d like to think (with extra smugness I might add) that my geek hierarchy street cred has improved since I started reading The Science Fiction Hall Of Fame. How could it not, what with this three-volume collection of classic sci-fi short stories and novellas being so widely regarded as a definitive work in the genre? Now that I’ve read it (once) I’ve totally progressed from “People who write erotic versions of Star Trek where all the characters are furries” to at least “Fanfic writers who put themselves in the story”.

Having said that, one story I thoroughly enjoyed was called Microcosmic God, by American author Theodore Sturgeon. Apart from being a brilliant and compelling tale about a scientific genius who is almost too smart for his own good, it also happens to be from an author who was sufficiently well known to have been credited with an eponymous law: Sturgeon’s Revelation.

Basically, 90 per cent of everything, says Sturgeon — be it science fiction, romance novels, films, art, consumer goods and, yes, even (or perhaps even more so) music — is “crud” or “crap”.

I like that. In fact, it resonates with me because it’s something I discovered the hard way (and at considerable expense) over the last few years. Let me elaborate…

Quantity not quality

In my previous post I mentioned how a substantial part of my music collection was the result of a retail fix-driven desire to experience the thrill of acquiring music. That is, while I hate to admit it, my music collecting was as much motivated by the retail therapy thrill that was the ritual of buying music, as it was about actually owning it. Retail therapy of the worst kind, basically. And one of my very worst excesses came about a few years ago when I purchased wholesale CD bulk lots from two record stores.

One was a collection of mostly second-hand industrial CDs while the other constituted all remaining music stock from an obscure little shop called Synaesthesia Records, specialising in experimental, weird, abstract and unusual recordings of all descriptions. I might point out that this second purchase was the first and last time I ever purchased music by the kilo.

My theory was that I couldn’t possibly lose: either my personal collection would expand with vast quantities of quality music, or I’d make a killing on eBay.

Sadly, I couldn't possibly foresee just how very wrong I would be on both counts.

This is what 48 litres of industrial music looks like.

There are 25-40 CDs in each of these 12 boxes.
The blow-up plastic hammer is unrelated to this picture.
Also, my fiancée hates how these boxes have literally
gathered dust for the last three or so years.

Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans

The approximate 1000 CDs which I acquired were a most unfortunate purchase and a real-life reminder that Sturgeon’s previously mentioned Revelation is as relevant to alternative music as it is with anything else.

A case in point was the first bulk lot of predominantly of 90s-era industrial, EBM, synth-pop, goth, and electro along with a few other bits and pieces, much of it from artists who had long disappeared into obscurity.

The hundreds of industrial music CDs, for example, seemed to conform to the notion that “one sound fits all”. Just start with unimaginative sequences from an analogue-sounding synthesizer and add in a few samples; throw in that done-to-death Ministry-style vocal distortion; then extend the recording with some dubious remixes. As for the synth-pop, while there was (some) noticeable variety, it was generally a case of merely composing a vaguely catchy melody, adding clean vocals from someone who may or may not be able to sing in tune, then extending it again with various ‘remixes’. Seriously, so much of it sounded the same, and much of it was positively awful. Not all of it, mind you, just much of it — the vast remainder was mediocre at best while the remaining small proportion — the very small remainder that actually made it just worthwhile — contained those gems that were worth getting excited about.

The Synaesthesia lot contained even more astoundingly awful recordings. We’re talking so-called field-recordings, live recordings, improvisations, ambient, drones… the whole gamut of what I suspect is really just rubbish made by people without any musical talent, or even an understanding of basic musical principles, somehow committed to audio.

Again, I’ve found some absolute gems in there — from quirky home-made self-produced recordings to a field recording of a real street fight to just plain outworldly weird and bizarre albums — but goddamn, am I fed up with ‘organic’ and ‘drone and ‘improvised’ and ‘experimental’ and many otherwise worthy terms being passed off as something other than the worthless rubbish recordings that they really are. Seriously, a recording of an afternoon’s worth of pissfarting around with a crappy synth and adding in some dodgy samples does not an album make. And yet, this bulk lot was filled to the brim with dozens upon dozens of such recordings — and a suspiciously high proportion of them were wrapped in fancy, often DIY-produced packaging. In fact, the elaborateness of the packaging was almost directly proportionate to the awfulness of its contents. Almost… because, as I said, there were some gems in there. Some gems.

So that’s how I was proven wrong in the belief that I would embiggen my music collection; and to add insult to injury, I couldn’t sell this stuff online. Indeed, I have many of these CDs on my eBay account for next to nothing and they still don’t sell.

Sadface.

Which brings me to the whole Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans thing. In Harry Potter, these are the sweets at Hogwarts that have a random flavour — as in literally anything. They famously appeared at the conclusion of the first Harry Potter story, when Dumbledore tells Harry about an unfortunate experience in his younger days when he came across a vomit-flavoured one. He then warily consumes one, hoping that it may be toffee flavoured, whereupon he remarks: “Alas. Earwax.”

For better or worse, my 700 or so yet-to-be-listened-to CDs are my personal Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. I’ll grab one at random — doing the dishes, heading out in the car, working on the computer — and usually I end up not thinking much of it. I’ve long since become oblivious to the notion of disappointment. If it’s not awful but just mediocre it promptly gets relegated to the eBay pile.

Occasionally I’ll find a keeper.