song of the day 3. porridge radio

Memorials of Distinction

Look away. It’s OK. No one will mind. 

I have spent the last few weeks mainlining soft rock from the 1970s and 1980s – McCartney, Foreigner, Bowie, sundry Beatles remnants, Laura Branigan. Jenny Hval.

More Bowie.

I pulled back from the edge (briefly) when I realised I was listening to a Queen album through choice. I deleted Kansas. Expunged Journey from my memory once more. Sought solace with my ladies once again, this time from the 1980s – Pat Benatar, Sheena Easton, Stevie Nicks. When you open Pandora’s Box after 35 years of repression it is neither desirable nor possible to keep track of the myriad moths floating above your head. This is the stuff I can play in public (by that I mean, in front of my kids and wife). Elsewhere I feel more repressed than ever. Everett True died a long, long time before Glenn Frey and it is stupid to pretend otherwise. All we have now are grey ghosts, memories so distant they are not even memories. I find myself unhappy at the way True is portrayed in a book and then think, why? That man is not me.

Does Jerry Thackray like porridge radio. That is the question. If he does then that opens a whole new level of music to exploration and dissection. I never was good at analysis. I just want to share some porridge radio with you on behalf of my old mate Everett True. He would have liked them for sure. They are startling: florid, open, given to exhaustive repetition and a determination to see the thing through whatever that might entail. The song titles give the game away. The four tracks on the new shared cassette say more to me about my(?) life than the entire back catalogues of The Flaming Lips, R.E.M. and Sebadoh combined. This is partly context and mostly content. Or perhaps the other way around.

If this band were from Brisbane they might be called Bent, or Scrabbled. <-<- man, what a crap thing to write.

I am not exhausted of this sound. I will never be exhausted of this sound. I want this sound clogging up the nation’s airwaves next to Jenny and Kanye and the rest of the rotten bunch. This is my own personal Taylor Swift, my own backstreet Wire.  The reason the singer sounds out of breath and near comatose by the end is because she is pouring all of herself into the moment. And if you think that is not more than enough for me, then you ain’t been reading me, sister.

I am sure the other band on the tape are insanely good too. In fact I know they are, cos I listened.

Chaos and osmosis and the thin straggly lines that flit in between. Called West America. Give me a slab of moolah and I will tell you every last shopping outlet this reminds me of. Please don’t cry. Please don’t expect me to come this way again. It’s like Yeah Yeah Yeahs…uh…um…the anti-Yeah Yeah Yeahs. You can call this insanely good music scratchy awkward DIY feminist punk music if you want to, fucktar boy. Makes no difference to me. And I am not entirely convinced that the two bands might be one, if you get my meaning. Simply cos all the music here is insanely wonderful.

If it makes you happy. It can’t be that bad. If it makes you happy. Then why the hell are you so sad? – Sheryl Crow

There is a competition to win a bunch of cool shit, right here. G’wan. Dare ya. Double double dare ya.

I got fucking THOUSANDS of readers for my Bowie diaries on this blog. Maybe I might just lie in the link and see if they all come here too.

Maybe I should get out more? Nah. I’d just get fucked.

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