The bubble of optimism surrounding the dawning of this new decade has been burst with the horrific, yet all-too-familiar, scenes of devastation in Haiti. The honeymoon period [Zeitgeist ed. eh?] for this nascent decade is well and truly over. With this latest world trauma comes the equally all-too-familiar, celebrity-endorsed ‘charity single’ – which to me seems like a celebrity appeal too far.

Before continuing, let me advance this caveat. I am not opposed to charity appeals, fundraisers or raising awareness and funds for world causes. Nor do I necessarily oppose the participation of ‘celebrities’ (however tenuous their claim to this mythical title may be) in such events. Any and all money raised by the sale of this song, despite the ulterior, more cynical motives for its existence one could level at Simon Cowell and his cohort of pop stars, will be a positive and desperately needed contribution to a deserved cause. However, such a charity act has its own unfortunate draw backs which need addressing.

Firstly, and most obviously (so obviously I need only mention it in passing really), these charity karaoke sessions are far from being purely altruistic. Whilst the enhancement of celebrity profile is obviously at stake for the performers, more significantly it allowed the self-styled cultural mogul Simon Cowell to further cement his position (at least in his own head) as a serious world figure. “I will release a single for Haiti in the next seven to ten days” he proclaimed in his uniquely uber-smug manner. Oh good; Simon Cowell is releasing a song. I can stop worrying about it now. Read more »

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I’d like to believe the same is true with music: that every shit song has an equal and opposite brilliant song, although the statistics will probably prove that the ratio is slightly skewed. So, as a counterweight to the Kesha song I wrote about, I’d like to write about a song I find simply stunning; ‘yo no tanto como el’ by Pedro Luis Ferrer.

The beauty of this song comes not only from Ferrer’s huge talent, his professional delivery, his emotional yet dignified sentiment (though all these factors are major considerations for me), but that the song is allowed to operate on a number of levels (to use that most worn of musical clichés). The apparent simplicity of the song allows listeners – and I don’t just think Cuban, or even Spanish speaking listeners – to engage with and find poignant meaning in the song.

A summary of song and performer perhaps may help here – the now ubiquitous ‘back story’. Ferrer is a Cuban songwriter who has been working since the 1960’s (effectively the life of the Cuban revolution). In the 1970’s and 80’s, he enjoyed fame and, if not fortune (a difficult thing to find in Cuba) then certainly artistic commendation. His songs were well known to many Cubans through their numerous television and radio broadcasts and Ferrer was entering the tightly guarded pantheon of ‘Great Cuban artists’. However, some of his more pointed, critical social commentaries began to attract the wrong kind of attention, and by the 1990’s, Ferrer was black listed by the government. His albums are now unavailable (legally at least) in Cuba, his songs never broadcast. This song, ‘yo no tanto como el’, I assume (it is not on an album, nor can I find a date for its ‘release’) must come from around the time of Ferrer’s personal censorship. It is, on the surface, a description of the ideological differences between Ferrer and his father. Yet there are an almost limitless number of avenues of personal interpretation open to the listener to explore, hidden within the simple, repeated words.

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I can’t remember exactly how old I was (which does have some pertinence to the following) – somewhere between seventeen and nineteen I think – when one day, in my fairly prosaic existence, whilst enjoying some toast and looking at the toaster (intently?!), I decided to challenge a common ‘assumption’ (albeit one based on a sound understanding of the laws of physics) and confirm my own corporeality/mortality. I deciding I was going to stick a knife in the toaster while it was on, electrical current in full flow, to see what would happen.

My age is relevant, in as much as I am attempting to demonstrate this was no act of naivety carried out by a yet-to-be worldly wise toddler, with little sense of right and wrong, or danger. No I was an adult, and contrary to this anecdotes apparent message, not an complete fucking idiot (despite this being the only way anyone could really interpret this text). I was fully aware of the principles that govern a  flow of electrical charge passing through a conductor (in this case the wire coils – or element – of a toaster, offering the necessary resistance to produce the heat responsible for toasting my bread); I was fully of aware of the principles of grounding that would cause the electricity to run through (some part) of my body  into the earth, and that should I break the circuit inside the toaster, I would prevent it from acting as a toaster.

After procrastinating over the worth of my experiment, fully aware of the probable, nay certain, outcome, I decided to proceed. After carefully selecting an entirely metallic knife, I pushed the toaster down (read: on) breadless, before recklessly inserting the knife into the toaster’s glowing core.

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Like many people, I suppose, I admit to getting a little swept away with the ‘new-broom-sweeps-clean’ rhetoric that has surrounded the recent change of decade. We all bashed the hell out of the noughties, despaired at its frivolity and then moved on, wide eyed, to face the future. However, a typically untimely Spotify advert[1] for the song (and album) in question here, served as a healthy reminder to me that the brave new world we all hoped had descended upon us may, in some cultural quarters, may be a little delayed.

This song – TiK ToK by Kesha – came out some six months ago but, being a cultural hermit, I’ve only recently heard it with the promotion for her recent album. I can confidently say that this song contains some of the most odious lyrics ever written – lyrics that conjure up some sort of dreadful hangover of the worst dregs of the previous decade – the non-stop partying, the celebration of celebrity, of ‘not taking things too seriously’ (least of all one’s self). In a strange and horrific way, it almost feels like a pastiche – or worse, a homage – to the party girl (Paris Hilton et al[2]) ethos. Jesus, has post-modernity caught up with itself to the point where the ‘current’ from only a few years ago is now the subject matter of loving nostalgia?! One hopes that, in fact, Kesha’s song is actually a hopeless hangover – a relic before it has even outlived its own lifespan. One hopes.

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OMM managed to get its decade review out on the weekend with the usual album and singles of the decade lists, as well an article from Morley outlining the infantile nature of such exercises. But that wasn’t what caught my eye. Instead it was an interview with one of the ‘people of the decade’, Michael Eavis. When asked a question about Jay-Z’s ‘controversial’ headline slot giving Glastonbury a shot in the arm (alright, it wasn’t a question, but a sports journalist-esque statement with “didn’t it?” added at the end, thus allowing the interviewee to realise all he is required to do is agree), he said this . . .

“Oh yeah, and the whole culture of Glastonbury had a facelift. And it was the year before Obama was elected in America. God, it was so nicely timed, that.”

First things first, and those comments on Obama strike me as more than a little unsettling. Is he name dropping Obama on the basis that both he and Jay-Z are African-Amercian and therefore automatically linked? Is he comparing the now established conservatism at Glastonbury to America’s own neo-con vein and inability to integrate following years of de facto and de jure segregation? Is he deluded to the point of thinking that Glastonbury is influential enough to impress ideas upon the American people? It’s nicely timed that an artist who is black and American headlined Glastonbury because a black American became President as well?

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Well well well. Vampire Weekend. Pretty good aren’t they?

It’s surprising how much of the press coverage surrounding Contra has focused on the issue of class. Vampire Weekend, in case you hadn’t noticed, are middle class. You might even want to describe them as (surely not?) upper-middle class. Defending the very notion of upper-middle-class-hood against god knows what anti-posh bogey has become the standard angle on the band. ‘They’re middle-class – and proud of it!’ scream the music press, with scarcely disguised glee. ‘They’re not afraid to wear preppy clothes, just like me!’ yelp public school kids up and down the land.

Let’s be absolutely crystal clear about this: there is nothing good about being middle class. If you are unlucky enough to be part of a class system, you should not brag about it, ever. If you are (like me) middle class, be proud of yourself, be proud of your many fantastic qualities, be proud of your beautiful and variegated personality, but do not be proud that you are middle class. Be ashamed, be left wing, and do something about it.

But as I was saying, Vampire Weekend are pretty good. With a vigour and a clarity that distinguishes them from their peers, they are the natural successors to the Strokes’ brand of refined retro-minimalism, only with added rhythmic sophistication, and even a hint of mild progressiveness thrown into the mix (although, in the main they are merely pastiching … sorry, being influenced by, artists a few years down the line – Orange Juice, Paul Simon, Peter Gabriel – from the Strokes’ palette of Television, Ramones, The Clash). Their eponymous debut album of 2008 slayed all comers (myself included) with its timely afro stylings, its neo-classical arrangements, and its startling proliferation of sweet, sweet melodies. ‘Oxford Comma’ was the best. Read more »

So that’s it, the first decade of the century down and what do we have to show for it? This half arsed semi-functional blog-come-website that more than a few people read, but  few care about?

A sad state of affairs indeed . . . but if you’re in need of some time to kill you could do worse than to read our decade postscript of sorts below or to peruse our tunes of the decade list that has finally reached completion – just in time for you to be sick to the stomach of decade, or even year, related lists. Perfect.

Except our list hasn’t quite reached completion – and the Biz is fucked off about it. Something is still missing. As our list was constructed over the course of six months, and we are lazy, unscrupulous people, we couldn’t even be bothered to put it in any order of particular significance, so we need you to do it for us. Click here, scroll down below the final entry and cast your vote . . . all you need to do is pick the (up to) ten best tunes of the decade. Either that or you could base the votes on our attempts to justify selection. Hell, why not just do it here – no links required. Make your vote count – The Grain needs you . . .

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At long last it’s happened. The clock finally struck 12 on December the 31^st, 2009 (rung in, for me, by a rather abrasive antipodean woman in a pub in Oxford) to herald the dawn of a much sought new decade. The noughties seem to have taken a bit of a kicking from all quarters recently (even mild mannered Rowan Williams was having a pop). It has been painted as a decade of ‘annus horribilis’ – a ‘decade horribilis’ – and for good reason. September the 11^th, George W. Bush, ‘War on Terrorism’, phoned weapons of mass destruction and illegal wars. July the 7^th bombings in London, the rise and rise of reality television (to the extent that now even the news asks ‘how do you feel’ as its opening question, rather than ‘what is going on’), New labour turning really fucking sour, the financial crisis, the ‘credit crunch’ (perhaps the most odiously named ‘thing’ of all time) and, worst of all – the glacé cherry atop this steaming pile of woe – Newcastle United were relegated. Happy New Year.

But it wasn’t all bad, was it? Was it? I don’t know, was it? Surely we can’t have just endured ten years of unmitigated disaster; there must have been some sporadic rays of light? Surely!

Well, in an attempt at blind optimism, an innate desire to balance the argument and to stop from going mad with despair, I’ve tried to think of some good things that happened in the last decade (and I’ve had to think hard, dig deep and scrape the bottom of the barrel, believe me). Here are a few things, in absolutely no order of importance, which made the noughties nice. Read more »

Dear Grant,

Such a funny thing for me to try to explain …

I can remember coming back from our half-year in Russia and hearing ‘Crazy in Love’ on Radio 1 for the first time. I couldn’t believe it. This tune felt like the one we’d all been waiting for, a tune that sounded totally of the moment, yet suggestive of the future: danceable, yearning, innovative. It seemed like a song that had stepped straight out of pop mythology, a vindication of the belief that magic can be unearthed in the unlikeliest of musical places. I listened to it over and over again throughout the summer, and for the next couple of years. At terrible, terrible club nights during my university years, just one play of this tune would be enough to salvage the entire evening. In poetic terms, I thought (and still think) that if ‘Crazy in Love’ were a physical substance, it would be liquid gold. It was the last CD single I ever bought.

I know our Tunes of the Decade list isn’t in any particular order, so ‘Crazy in Love’ isn’t technically our number one tune of the decade. I know you think Amerie’s ‘One Thing’ is the better tune, and you might have a point.

But for me, this has got to be the last tune on the countdown, the final word on our cack-handed, seven-month-long attempt at micro-macrocosmic cultural summary.

A conclusion then, of sorts.

The Tunes of the Decade countdown, and the website as a whole, has been terrifically important for me, and I really hope it has been for you too. This year hasn’t been a walk in the park for either of us, but when all is said and done (and at the risk of sounding like a sentimental gobshite), Read more »

Sometimes it feels like Richard D James saw the shit that was coming this decade, stuck two fingers up at it, and then buggered off to do the things he actually cared about. He returned to his analog love with the hugely underrated Analord series of wonky acid vinyl released as AFX, and if you believe the rumour, the continuation of this sound that is the output of The Tuss (not to mention Rephlex of course). Half truths, grand in face statements, warped humour and self mythology was always a huge part of what made Richard James a major figure in popular culture, which in the nineties he really was (just think back to the ubiquity of the Windowlicker video or Come to Daddy hitting the top twenty), but this decade saw his refusal to play the game, and a movement to peripheral figure in popular culture and elder statesmen in the electronica scene. It’s easy to forget that his only release as Aphex in this decade was critically butchered, and universally panned. So what the hell is a piece of music by Richard James doing on this list?
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