Born To Die – Album Review

Lana Del Rey – Born to Die


Feeling chipper? Feeling as though you could take on the entire Universe and it’s wife and still have time to rustle up a Christmas dinner for ten of your nearest and dearest, WITH home made dessert and Come Dine With Me style entertainment (Ed – Oh Lord no!)?

Then make a point of NOT listening to Lana Del Rey’s debut album.

Lana’s debut is a vast, co-dependant doom carnival. Eponymous title track, Born to Die sets the precedent for all that follows. It’s so dark, bloody and beaten, the obvious theatre of the whole affair comes off less Blue Velvet and more Deep Blue Sea (Ed – Which is an astounding film thank you).

There’s only so many tracks about screwed up Lolita tramps getting beaten up and fucked by their emotionally abusive boyfriends that you can hear before you gotta turn around and for someone to put on the Spice Girls.

Remember the late 90s when there was lots of films and music about having a crush on someone, going out with them, breaking up with them and then moving on? Remember Clueless? Remember having FUN?!

Yeah well it’s 2012 bitch. Things have changed. And, by the stars, are they depressing.

I kept listening to this American Gothic inspired diatribe and desperately wanting it to be better than it was. Video Games is the best thing here and everything else is….yeah, shall we put on Spice World now?

My Advice to Lana Del Rey 

1. Your reading material needs to encompass more than Bret Easton Ellis novels and the fucking Twilight saga

2. Smile

My Advice to You

1. Just listen to Video Games

2. If you give this to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift, you’re a fucking douche-lord


Stand Up – The Prodigy

20120124-111831.jpgOk so I know I promised to post a song yesterday which would empower (Ed – Woah Oprah, rein it in) you to take the coming week by the balls. And I couldn’t. Because I was too busy taking the week by the balls.

It could have been the killer scrambled eggs I managed to make before I left the house.

It could have been the fact that I spent the majority of the day shadowing a solicitor around court, meeting a high-powered barrister and generally feeling like I was in an episode of Silk or Damages. (Ed – Hang on. You do law?!) What? I can’t be a pop music blogger without layers?

Anyway. The point is, the week’s balls have been well and truly grabbed. I suggest you listen to the following.

Stand Up – The Prodigy

This song comes on like Rocky Balboa by way of Spiderman taking down the Green Goblin. Or some other superhero related SHIT. It’s a victory lap following your vanquishing the final boss before you’ve even reached the last level. (Ed – You’re a right fucking geek)

Happy Tuesday.


Last Week: OVER

A conversation between Last Week and Me

Me: Yeah. Go on. Fuck off.

Last Week: FINE.


Last week was shit. We started with Blue Monday, then Denise Welch went flapping her unseemly baps about and THEN, Etta James shuffled off this mortal coil. It’s safe to say that I have no nostalgia for last week. Last week is the Bernard Manning of my year. BUT – it’s over.

I was going to blog about the rather scintillating Icelandic rascals GusGus today but it will have to wait till next week when we’re not all nursing hangovers and watching Lord of the Rings. So instead here’s a lovely Sigur Ros video with lot’s of nuclear explosions.

Geriatric Jacuzzi Boobs & M83 Live

Whilst Denise Welch was busy ensuring her two teenage sons are continually RINSED for the rest of their lives on Wednesday night, me and some friends went to see M83 at the Manchester Ritz. Before I tell you about the gig, let us take a minute to feel sorry for the offspring and spouse of this woman:

I know you’re permitted a certain amount of lunacy as you age but if the fucking Queen of England can reach 900 or whatever without behaving like a smacked up lady paedophile, whose only desire is scuzzy coke sex followed by boozing it up royal in a lukewarm hot tub, then Denise can to. I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t a 53 year old Geordie. But I’ve been to Newcastle and I’ve encountered many a Geordie woman and all of them had more nous in their little finger than Denise does in her whole gnarly coke-bloat, ball-bag body. (Ed – I am told she’s been through a fair bit. Quit being so nasty).

A question: M83 are very good, aren’t they?

An answer: Yes

Sadly their awesomeness didn’t translate as a “real live musical experience” or whatever Radio One’s Greg James was bigging it up as.

My advice? Buy the album and listen to it ON REPEAT FOREVER UNTILL YOU DIE. And never go and see them live unless it’s a gig in space and you can watch them whilst some star goes supernova and a black hole sucks all the nasty shit out of the universe. Starting with Frankie CokeUser’s meffed up scrotum.

M83 – Midnight City

January, being the temporal equivalent of a big smelly and hungry hangover, is a month that requires support. I’m not talking “Joan-Rivers keep-my-crazy-ladylips-fast-and-loose” support. I’m talking about “It’s FUCKING cold. I have to go to FUCKING work. Everyone is FUCKING annoying. And I just stepped on one of those FUCKING paving stones that make your feet wetter than Ed Sheeran’s underpants when ever he hears his “music” played in the caff on Eastenders”. That type of support.
So to ease those dark, early morning commutes and cold, lonely nights I’ll recommend songs which are the aural equivalent of Michael Fassbender whipping his top off, to cover you when you’re cold.


Songs that make you think, “Yeah! James Franco is totally thinking about me naked. And he’s not even gay!”


These songs will swoop into your bedraggled grey matter, shoot glitter-jizz all over your cerebral cortex and pump firewhiskey into your belly. They’re a jumpstart. A slap in the week’s face. From next week they’ll be posted on Monday. But for those who are craving a little hump-day treat I present this.

Midnight City-M83 –

I heard this song at a friend’s house last year and it lodged itself in my head like SONIC BRAIN CRABS. When I got home I listened to it a couple more times. Then a couple more. Then I previewed the rest of the album (Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming) and bought it fair and square, with money and everything.

The song makes you feel like the kids in the video. Young, strong and powerful (Ed – Woah, this is all a bit Oprah). It sounds as huge as M83 deserve to be.

Now I know the video begins with a pair of chinos. But there are no chino wankers. It is amazing. Stick with it. It’s kind of like if X-Men had been directed by Gus Van Sant. Or if the Goonies had super powers.

I’m going to see M83 LIVE this evening. So yeah, if I come back with telekinetic abilities, don’t expect any more blog posts. I’ll be too busy throwing old caravans into walls and pulling hot guys trousers down WITH MY MIND.

One Direction: Genuine Boy band or just easy publicity?

I think One Direction are a bit like feminism. They mean different things to different people.

To many children between the ages of five and fifteen they’re a number one priority. They’re probably more important than all those dull and dreary chores; like homework or breathing.

To slightly older (& moody) children and countless “real” music journalists, they’re a bunch feckless idiots who rely on their hairstyles more than any two-bit, Urban Outfitters-loving-queerboy with a club night, and a masters in Blogging, Memes and Thatcher.

And speaking of gays…


They fucking love One Direction. And if you don’t believe me, I can point you in the direction of several tumblrs, the creators of which are not 15 year old girls.

Some facts about One Direction

1. They are a boy band.

2. There are five of them.

3. They are young.

4. They are good looking.

5. They are marketed to three core demographics:

(i) girl-children

(ii) gay men

(iii) middle aged women

To the girl children, they’re future husband material.


To the gay men, they’re wank material.


To the middle aged women, I get the feeling that they’re trying for a weird reverse-Oedipal thing. Dress a bunch of good looking lads up as babies and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Image

Throw in Harry Styles (17) relationship with Rebecca Flakk (32) and you got one big bucket of fag-swooning, jail-baiting publicity


And a very content media mogul.

Here’s their latest video. Which is again, brought to us by Topman. It’s all a bit Monkees, a bit Beatles, a bit “wouldn’t it be good if One Direction stole a bus during the summer riots and becalmed the roving hordes of looters and disenfranchised youth, through the power of song and Harry Style’s curly locks?”

All in all, it’ll do.