Band crisis! (Not of that sort, of the sort you might think, the musical differences type. Even though we have musical differences, those differences being the fact that we differ from music, that is not to which I allude. Don’t you just hate those long statements, with many a comma in them, in that you have to try and work out the sense of what I write? Although those who have been with me on this weblog journey since Nam, no, DeathStar, no, ‘99, will know I have never made sense. Or it has, to some, at varying times, in varying ways, with obscure and hidden, obtuse and layered, meanings. With lots of use of commas.)
No, the crisis is one of colour. As our diminutive Scotchlass singer (ha! it is great to not be the one who stands in the hole during band practice) has a shade of hair that clashes with one of the gee-tarists’ choice of hair pigmentation. In case that isn’t clear, it is my hair hers clashes with. Not the other way round, mind, even though the people would be reversed, the clashing wouldn’t.
Oh, and we rock. Hard. Seriously. And as we rock so hard, this gets around. And. And. And. And someone has covered one of our songs. Just how cool is that? Just how chuffed do I feel about that? Rather a lot. It also depresses me, in that it was done better than we did it. But not for long, as our talent knows no beginning. Even so. We have been covered. That rules.
I didn’t think it was a food weblog, rather a weblog about someone who smokes and salts (food, likely) and is always an entertaining read. Yes, yes, I still must knock up that way and buy some wares, then do a review on this here little corner of my internets. For it is, obviolusly, my internets. Go say hello, and if you are lucky enough to live inside the cultural zone, pay him a visit.
An update on The Arcade Fire’s new record then. It is very, very average. Imagine Prefab Sprout having a threeway with Bruce Springsteen and Pulp. And imagine it down badly, with no satin sheets. Imagine that, then make that dull, except for various sparks of interest, which turn out to be the Boss’ reknowned static electricity generating fingers. Still, the organs are ace.
