logodædalus

I know this isn't really a post. It's a review. Well, not even that. (Rest assured, I've got a couple of things up my sleeve: one needs me to actually tug my finger out and write it (it's about the hospitality industry, my mistress and nemesis), and the other needs me to fucking locate one of my syntax textbooks.)

When I say “review”, I do of course use the term loosely. I honestly don't intend on any kind of analysis, rather let me offer this to you as something that I've been listening to myself.

I've spoken in passing here before that my taste in music is generally uninteresting: I really like what could be called “indie” music: from the 80's onwards. My iPod is a happy festival of the Killers, the Jam, Madness and everything (chronologocially, at least) in between. However, I still have a dirty little pop-music secret. These are the songs I sing at work. My all-time favourite band, when I was a teenager, was The Beautiful South. And, if I'm honest, still is. (I should probably confess to an enduring weakness for Italian pop music here. But, in honesty, if I can with a straight face refer to Alex Britti as an “Italian composer”, I believe I should be able to get away with it.)

I've mentioned here before (or perhaps on this blog's predecessor) that I am not the most “musical” of people. What I like about a song isn't its tune, but rather its lyrics. The Beautiful South is, to me, the exemplar of horrendously dark lyrics with upbeat pop tunes. (Domestic violence, rape, alcoholism etc. with a really catchy beat.)

The thing about Beautiful South tracks is that they speak to me at different times of my life. (Oh ye gods, I just noticed that I wrote “speak to me” with reference to music. Honestly, I need to be shot/corrected) Years ago, when my parents were divoricing and I was caught in the middle, I really related to Your Father and I, while far too much of my early relationship with He Whom I Call Beloved (actually, he's given permission for me to use his name now. It's Kris. He's pretty damn awesome.) can be summed up by Good as Gold (Stupid as Mud).

Which brings me back to the “review” part. Alternately, to what I'm feeling at the moment. I do apologise that it's not some classical composer: it's not Carl Orff setting some mediaeval lyric to modern music. In spite of the loquaciousness, I do like to remind people that I'm a remarkably simple man: in honesty I'm something of a pikey. Cock'n'bullkid is, in my opinion, a worhty sucessor to the Beautiful South: wry and depressing lyrics with a really chirpy tune. Depression has never sounded so good: