Waking up to . . . well, waking up to no breakfast at all, since having not been paid this month by The Quietus, Mr Agreeable must forego his usual platter of lightly grilled kippers and grapefruit, as well as the gallon of tramp’s urine from a rusty bucket he hoped to imbibe, having inadvertently excreted two of his vital organs during the night. In the hope of improving the mood of the old fellow, The Quietus have asked him to mind the office as they move to new premises. Exposure to some of the site’s favourite music and musicians, they trust, will have a cheering and mellowing effect on him. We shall see…
East India Youth, aka the unexpectedly pale and boyish William Doyle, are one of The Quietus’s more cherished “electronica” turns. Here’s a track from his 2013 album Total Strife Forever, entitled ‘Dripping Down’, which reviewer Rory Gibb described as “a classicist pop record (that) doesn’t feel like it could exist at any other time than now.”
Yeah, well that’s f***ing true enough – it’s only in “any vaporous. knock-kneed f***ing bollocks goes” times like now that this f***ing record would be used for anything other than f***ing clay pigeon shooting practice! Look at this c***! A girlfriend, a gym membership and a year’s worth of f***ing ham sandwiches short of a minimum entry-level f***ing human being! Tell you what, pal, it’s a f***ing bad idea standing next to a body of water like that – I’d have taken a run-up and kicked your bony arse into that river if I’d have been f***ing passing! You’d have been dripping down from your f***ing rat’s nest of a haircut to your f***ing pathetic pointy shoes! “Ooh, the windows are so shimmery, the water is so glittery, the leaves on the trees are so real!” We f***ing get it, Fotherington-Twat! Now f*** off, faeces-face!
Factory Floor are one of the top, up-and-coming “post-industrial”, “no wave” combos in The UK right now, reckon The Quietus, who have tipped them for the top. ‘Turn It Up’ is a hot favourite among their fans, and typical of their rhythmical, electronic approach to music, with which they hope to get the nation’s toes tapping.
Yep. Sounds like a f***ing factory floor. We f***ing get it. Of course the chances of anyone who actually worked on a factory floor, you know, actually did a useful f***ing day’s work as opposed to a bunch of pasty f***ing spacewasters like you cosmic-haired c***mongers, lounging about hoping “we can really make this music gig pay, y’know,” – the chances of anyone who had to endure this noise all day wanting to f***ing listen to it when they get f***ing home aren’t f***ing high, are they? Any more than anyone who worked in a f***ing mini-cab office going home and wanting to listen to a looped, hissy recording of some fat bloke saying “Yeah . . . (crackle) car six . . . . Theydon Bois . . . (crackle) thirty two pounds . . . (crackle) pick up at 33b Thelston View, ring the top doorbell . . . .(crackle) ” Hasn’t happened, isn’t happening, never f***ing will happen! F***ing give up! Accept total and abject f***ing defeat now!
Sunn O))) are a band from Seattle, Washington whose sound has evolved over the years from extreme drone metal to extreme drone metal. Here they are in concert in Berlin in 2006.
F*** me with a bargepole, if I were trying to pass this off as some sort of f***ing show, I’d switch the dry ice machine to Maximum Pea-Souper, grow a f***ing beard and drape myself in f***ing robes too! Yes, electric guitars make heavy noises when you touch them with your hands, we get it! Seriously, have you ever endured such to)))tal bo)))llo)))cks? I’d rather be nailed to the ground with f***ing tentpegs and a f***ing elephant slowly defecate on my face from f***ing point blank range than listen to ten more seconds of these Dark Lords of C***dom!
Finally, Fat White Family are a band highly touted by The Quietus, of whom they expect big things. Yes, says Luke Turner, they are a guitar-based group – of whom there has been no shortage over the past few years! – but they “subvert and undermine” the traditions of the genre. Here’s one such example of their approach, entitled ‘Is It Raining In Your Mouth?’.
Well, it certainly f***ing feels like it’s raining in my mouth – raining the yellow cake-scented, steaming lager piss from the metal trough of the shittiest London venue so stubbornly barnacled to the city even a f***ing nuclear apocalypse couldn’t f***ing destroy it! Subvert the genre, eh? That’s a bit like saying some thirty stone slob chomping on a f***ing bacon sandwich clocking two minutes six seconds for the 100 metres on a f***ing running track is subverting the genre of f***ing athletics! Because, face it, this is, absolutely the worst song ever written. No f***ing exaggeration. Imagine laying out all the truly crappy songs ever written, the millions of them, in descending order of merit. Then there’s this one, right at the bottom of the f***ing line, in its own, sealed box marked “Even F***ing Worse”. If you chained a monkey to a desk and it wrote this, you’d f***ing kill and eat it! Really. This is a compositional f***ing nadir below which it’s not possible to go without hitting the f***ing earth’s core! Am I making myself f***ing clear, you cockfaced c***meisters? Worst f***ing song. Ever. By anyone, living, dead or f***ing brain-dead!
