Woman's Hour
Even in the Pick Of The Week introduction to a bit of Martha Wainwright, the emphasis was mostly on her parents and brother, but then even somewhere as indie-blinkered as DiS is under the impression that she's got something magical. I thought, well, now's my chance to hear, now and then you get someone who could just be trading off family but turn out to be excellent in their own right and this is always cheering.
And what do I get? Another whingeing songstrel desperately hunting for anything to say. By the THIRD LINE of her little ditty about cars she'd resorted to a list of what colours some of them are. According to the fourth line, hers is green. Thanks, yeah, glad I've been brought that insight. Also, right, she likes driving in her car, which is another profound thought there, clearly me then trying to put something about Jaguars in the next line is just another symptom of the brain defect I have that prevents me from recognising her genius. Were all these vehicular doings some elaborate and insightful metaphor? Was there something to be told about, oh, the transiency of physical things, or was it perhaps an intriguing or evocative tale of something that had touched her life? No. It was clumsily assembled platitudes and songwriter's tricks and it knew damn well it had nothing to say. It probably sounded inoffensive enough, if you happened to be listening in another language or something, I mean, she can hold a tune and knows how to deploy a folksy accent, but these are hardly the only requirements.
Listening to Radio 4 again (it's a better default than adverts and repetitive playlists and I can' get FIP in my workshop) and on Woman's Hour was someone else peddling the same sort of rubbish. His love, right, makes her fly, right, way up high. Where else is there to fly when you have a cheesy rhyme scheme to fulfil? But would it be a complete travesty to write a song where love makes you fly really low, you know, like a fighter pilot trying to get under radar, down where there's all the excitement and sensation of speed? Sorry, though, I forgot, that was Woman's Hour, where we're all supposed to be bimbling along and peering through clouds.
I dunno, the whole woman thing still perplexes me. Why do my chromosomes mean I'm meant to like twangly acousti-pap and want a guitar in the shape of a daisy? Happily I spent a lot of the weekend in the company of other women who have successfully managed to negotiate many of the stereotype pitfalls and come dangerously close to being real human beings. Even if we did, then, spend a lot of time talking about bras or corsets. But, but, I had a band practice with one lot and went to a fetish club with another. And Jodie's new guitar is definitely not sickly pink nor daisy-shaped, but it does have a sound which is more distinct from Amrit's and this is good because a lead guitarist who doesn't like turning the amp up (there had to be one somewhere) must be made more of by underhand means such as these.
We'll be deploying these underhand means on this Thursday the 19th, by the way. Supporting a band called Hypo Psycho at Clockwork on Pentonville Road, they're having a bit of a general media launch and we're hoping we might get to make use of that in some way. Flyer, you know, if you fancy it, but we're on dreadfully early and short. Hmmph.
And what do I get? Another whingeing songstrel desperately hunting for anything to say. By the THIRD LINE of her little ditty about cars she'd resorted to a list of what colours some of them are. According to the fourth line, hers is green. Thanks, yeah, glad I've been brought that insight. Also, right, she likes driving in her car, which is another profound thought there, clearly me then trying to put something about Jaguars in the next line is just another symptom of the brain defect I have that prevents me from recognising her genius. Were all these vehicular doings some elaborate and insightful metaphor? Was there something to be told about, oh, the transiency of physical things, or was it perhaps an intriguing or evocative tale of something that had touched her life? No. It was clumsily assembled platitudes and songwriter's tricks and it knew damn well it had nothing to say. It probably sounded inoffensive enough, if you happened to be listening in another language or something, I mean, she can hold a tune and knows how to deploy a folksy accent, but these are hardly the only requirements.
Listening to Radio 4 again (it's a better default than adverts and repetitive playlists and I can' get FIP in my workshop) and on Woman's Hour was someone else peddling the same sort of rubbish. His love, right, makes her fly, right, way up high. Where else is there to fly when you have a cheesy rhyme scheme to fulfil? But would it be a complete travesty to write a song where love makes you fly really low, you know, like a fighter pilot trying to get under radar, down where there's all the excitement and sensation of speed? Sorry, though, I forgot, that was Woman's Hour, where we're all supposed to be bimbling along and peering through clouds.
I dunno, the whole woman thing still perplexes me. Why do my chromosomes mean I'm meant to like twangly acousti-pap and want a guitar in the shape of a daisy? Happily I spent a lot of the weekend in the company of other women who have successfully managed to negotiate many of the stereotype pitfalls and come dangerously close to being real human beings. Even if we did, then, spend a lot of time talking about bras or corsets. But, but, I had a band practice with one lot and went to a fetish club with another. And Jodie's new guitar is definitely not sickly pink nor daisy-shaped, but it does have a sound which is more distinct from Amrit's and this is good because a lead guitarist who doesn't like turning the amp up (there had to be one somewhere) must be made more of by underhand means such as these.
We'll be deploying these underhand means on this Thursday the 19th, by the way. Supporting a band called Hypo Psycho at Clockwork on Pentonville Road, they're having a bit of a general media launch and we're hoping we might get to make use of that in some way. Flyer, you know, if you fancy it, but we're on dreadfully early and short. Hmmph.
