Wednesday, February 22, 2006


So anyway, Ninja Tune sent me this promo CD by Spank Rock, and you may be thinking, "Pah, marketing hype", but I'm bound by a lifelong commitment to the advancement of good old-fashioned MANNERS and would no sooner hurl a free gift from the window than I'd deprive some old bag of a seat on the tube - that could be my mother, y'know

Speaking of defenestrating objects, I've recently taken to hurling things onto the Blackstock Road, in order to brain a brainless couple of *rs*n*l-supporting idiots who keep having their tossers' tiffs RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR BLOCK, on regular 2am shifts. I spent about a week in Barnes Wallis mode, flinging empty San Miguel cans, filled with a small amount of tap water and some fag butts for ballast, downwards from my window ledge - but to no avail! The couple kept on arguing. But behold, two Sundays ago, the phantom hand of Danny Blanchflower came to my assistance, and having lobbed can-missile number 6, I heard a satisfying "UGGGH!!! WHAT THE FU...SOME CUNT FREW THAT AT ME! CUNT!" waft upwards from the street. Well, it was cheaper than buying the new Whitehouse album...

Anyway, back to the review. I will try and be as honest as possible, as befits a blog of this nature. I'm aware that some sceptics will probably think I've made the 'Spank Rock' album up, that it's "another lie", a non-existent release like Necrosodomize Those Weeping Girl Guides, To Appease The Mighty Baphomet by Phallic Inferno, or the anti-nazi,cockney-polack skiffle anthem, My Old Man Jumped Off The Train To Maidanek (actually the latter was sort of true...). Well, doubters can't be helped. Of course, when someone reveals that Neal Armstrong DID see a Soviet Flag on the Moon, you'll know better - but til then....


Ted Rogers : Well, 'Spank Rock' , what could that be? You've got 'spank' which is one way to discipline a naughty child, which would mean corporal punishment...."bring back the birch!"....birch trees, more trees could mean conservation, the natural world...and that would tie in with 'Rock'...we might be looking at geology now...rock formations, rock clusters...rock cakes? So, we're talking about baking. Now what's a 'baker's dozen'? 13...unlucky number tonight, you were hoping for a review but've got the bin!!

Oh for fuck's sake, grow up.


Right, I stuck this on. Do you know that Andrea Parker / DJ Assault tune "Freaky Bitches"? Well, if you dig that, it's a bit similar but with a nastier bass sound. I'd probably have liked this more when I was 16, or if I was listening to it at eardrum-cauterising volume in a club - in a council flat in Finsbury Park, trying to lamp gooners with beer cans, it didn't QUITE make me want to ejaculate over the pigeons in the gas flue (yes, they're still there, honest!). Track 3 was the best, the bass has this nice echo going on and it does sound suitably hard-arsed when played loud. Track 4 was the worst, the 2 Live Crew-style endless references to 'pussy', over a tepid and wimpy riff, got on my nerves, and I had a nightmarish vision of shirted-and-tied city ads team wankers dancing in 'Context' and trying to grind their crotches into girls' bums while simultaneously asking them if they fancy a Southern Comfort, before taking mobile phone pics of their boss being sick and sending them to their pregnant girlfriends at home.

But then again, maybe I just haven't heard it in the right conditions. I strongly believe that music should be heard in carefully selected surroundings. To me, raves weren't meant to be enjoyed in some farmer's field on a blisteringly hot Saturday afternoon- they had to be in some dank, dark venue, way past closing time, with enough strobes to blind a herd of small elephants. No blogger could ever have convinced me to check out "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival on strengths of canonical value or lyrics, BUT when you hear it on a loop tape in a bar in Manila with tank lagging, deactivated assault rifles and camoflage draped all over the walls, it really does makes sense. And as for Celine Dion's assertion that "I love reggae, it makes me think of sitting on a hammock on a beach" - er, what, even Linton Kwesi Johnson's "Di Great Insohreckshan"?

So, I feel the best way for me to PROPERLY conclude this review of Spank Rock's promo CD is for Ninja Tune to fly me to Baltimore, so I can see them in action. Preferably in a roped-off area, with complementary free booze (I promise to behave) and some massive-bootied birds with fake lips (I'm not kidding here) and with stud piercings just below their noses. England's turning me into a spluttering sexophobic, the weather's too rank, I've got followers of the most moronic football club ever spawned having sado-masochistic kebab-slapping rows outside my fucking window and I'm referencing Linton Kwesi Johnson far too much for someone who's 29. PLEASE, just get me out of here - I need to see Spank Rock in the flesh, to feel their basslines completely devastate my spinal column. If it wasn't for the fact that the new series of Footballers' Wives starts soon, I'd just go out now and buy a box of baby budgies, and let the bird flu work its magic.
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