FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, BE LIKE STING
And now a look at the new releases. Some sumptuous reviews, fresh off the slab:
IDLE BANTER 'Idle Banter's Jizz Idiocy'
If Idle Banter weren't a real live functioning group, i'd have to invent them. Prog-Jazz-Funk-Glam's very own Spinal Tap were given up for dead after the critical mauling and horrible sales of their 20th studio opus in 1996. The African-tribal inflected 'In dee Jungle' whose sleeve infamously pictured the suspiciously sucked-in paunches of drummer Vic De'ath and bassist Ed Sexie draped in full native garb and garlanded with blushing bush babes may have been a somewhat hamfisted attempt at social commentary (something about 'the blacks' as singer Gizz Black put it in a clanger of an interview with Q magazine at the time) , but the music contained within was alone enough to bury the poor sods to eye-level, containing as it did lashings of reactionary witterings about 'the dark peoples of the dark lands' over tired 'A-Wim-Bo-Way' cliches and meandering guitar solos. 'Float Like A Butterfly, Be Like Sting' was a case in point, a turgid holier-than-thou shrine to the Jamaican ex-Police saviour of the Indians, with 'Have you ever lived in a cave? It's no rave!' as the final nail in it's chorus.
So fans of the earlier, more flash and fun stff will be relieved that the recharged Idle Banter have seen their folly somewhat on Jizz Idiocy; 'Down 'er Neck' and 'Leotard Trouble' are throaty returns to the stalking-horse macho mini-dramas that gave the band such a run of hits at the arse-end of the Glam Era, albeit that these efforts are a bit more of, well, an effort. Their lyrics let them down again on the dated-before-they-were-minted 'Latte Par-tay? No Way!' a diatribe against coffee shops, and 'Celebrity Squared', a rant about, yes, celebrities, and how boring they are. The requisite lovesong, 'I Need You Baby' is the most emotionally challenging five minutes you'll have all year. The death of former guitarist Steve Handstand in 9/11 casts a shadow over the end of the album, and the closer 'Don't Leave, Steve' is the best argument for dying heard in years, it's case being furnished by a turkey of a performance by the band, all obvious sugar and weighty strings. A confusing mixture of aged bragging and phoney sensitivity then. Nothing sadder than the once non-greats becoming hasn't-beens. But if you liked the early stuff, etc etc.
SPORT AID 'Don't Fear The Keeper'
In which, yes! for the sake of the kids who can't afford hockeysticks and goalie gloves we have: the headscratching phenomenon of a record that no-one will remember next week, a Mission Impossible-style self-destructing disc made reality by virtue of being so moribund and irresponsible as to literally dig it's own grave through the CD bit in Woolworths, only to be found and treasured as a time-capsule by those vastly superior future civilisations who will take us to be, on this evidence, the crude self-loathing lumberers we truly are.
The Three Tenners, (as they are sub-hilariously billed here, a Davro of a joke that comes some sixteen years after football's brief flirt with opera circa Italia 90) Mark 'Lawro' Lawrenson, Alan 'Al' Hansen and Gary 'Gary' Lineker vomit smug audio-bile over Blue Oyster Cult's seductive death-lollop (yes, your fears are realised, for it is a cover, nay, a smothering, of the hit of yore), with all the subtlety of a Jossie's Giants counter-attack.
And yes, in the chorus, believe your weary ears, that is Peter Schmeichel in his pondourous Scando-Manc, doing the worst Schwarzenegger impression you've heard since your Dad popped out to B&Q and on his departure said 'I'll Be Back'. Oh joy. In the words of a dissenter at Live 8: 'If the lives of African children depend on Dido, then they deserve more pity than even Geldof can suck out of us'. Do the kids a favour. Lend them your old shin-pads and buy them a can of Coke instead of this.
DRIZZLE CRUMPET 'Old-fashioned Bike'
If Dali is the Elvis of Surrealism, these boys are Fish. But what does that make Marillion?
IDLE BANTER 'Idle Banter's Jizz Idiocy'
If Idle Banter weren't a real live functioning group, i'd have to invent them. Prog-Jazz-Funk-Glam's very own Spinal Tap were given up for dead after the critical mauling and horrible sales of their 20th studio opus in 1996. The African-tribal inflected 'In dee Jungle' whose sleeve infamously pictured the suspiciously sucked-in paunches of drummer Vic De'ath and bassist Ed Sexie draped in full native garb and garlanded with blushing bush babes may have been a somewhat hamfisted attempt at social commentary (something about 'the blacks' as singer Gizz Black put it in a clanger of an interview with Q magazine at the time) , but the music contained within was alone enough to bury the poor sods to eye-level, containing as it did lashings of reactionary witterings about 'the dark peoples of the dark lands' over tired 'A-Wim-Bo-Way' cliches and meandering guitar solos. 'Float Like A Butterfly, Be Like Sting' was a case in point, a turgid holier-than-thou shrine to the Jamaican ex-Police saviour of the Indians, with 'Have you ever lived in a cave? It's no rave!' as the final nail in it's chorus.
So fans of the earlier, more flash and fun stff will be relieved that the recharged Idle Banter have seen their folly somewhat on Jizz Idiocy; 'Down 'er Neck' and 'Leotard Trouble' are throaty returns to the stalking-horse macho mini-dramas that gave the band such a run of hits at the arse-end of the Glam Era, albeit that these efforts are a bit more of, well, an effort. Their lyrics let them down again on the dated-before-they-were-minted 'Latte Par-tay? No Way!' a diatribe against coffee shops, and 'Celebrity Squared', a rant about, yes, celebrities, and how boring they are. The requisite lovesong, 'I Need You Baby' is the most emotionally challenging five minutes you'll have all year. The death of former guitarist Steve Handstand in 9/11 casts a shadow over the end of the album, and the closer 'Don't Leave, Steve' is the best argument for dying heard in years, it's case being furnished by a turkey of a performance by the band, all obvious sugar and weighty strings. A confusing mixture of aged bragging and phoney sensitivity then. Nothing sadder than the once non-greats becoming hasn't-beens. But if you liked the early stuff, etc etc.
SPORT AID 'Don't Fear The Keeper'
In which, yes! for the sake of the kids who can't afford hockeysticks and goalie gloves we have: the headscratching phenomenon of a record that no-one will remember next week, a Mission Impossible-style self-destructing disc made reality by virtue of being so moribund and irresponsible as to literally dig it's own grave through the CD bit in Woolworths, only to be found and treasured as a time-capsule by those vastly superior future civilisations who will take us to be, on this evidence, the crude self-loathing lumberers we truly are.
The Three Tenners, (as they are sub-hilariously billed here, a Davro of a joke that comes some sixteen years after football's brief flirt with opera circa Italia 90) Mark 'Lawro' Lawrenson, Alan 'Al' Hansen and Gary 'Gary' Lineker vomit smug audio-bile over Blue Oyster Cult's seductive death-lollop (yes, your fears are realised, for it is a cover, nay, a smothering, of the hit of yore), with all the subtlety of a Jossie's Giants counter-attack.
And yes, in the chorus, believe your weary ears, that is Peter Schmeichel in his pondourous Scando-Manc, doing the worst Schwarzenegger impression you've heard since your Dad popped out to B&Q and on his departure said 'I'll Be Back'. Oh joy. In the words of a dissenter at Live 8: 'If the lives of African children depend on Dido, then they deserve more pity than even Geldof can suck out of us'. Do the kids a favour. Lend them your old shin-pads and buy them a can of Coke instead of this.
DRIZZLE CRUMPET 'Old-fashioned Bike'
If Dali is the Elvis of Surrealism, these boys are Fish. But what does that make Marillion?
posted by The Legendary Black Marquis at 10:40 pm
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