A very brief reaction to the just released sequel to “Thick As A Brick. If you are a Tull fanatic and buy their releases religiously then there is nothing here to break your habit of choice. It has some strong moments both lyrically and musically …..BUT..
As the original is one of thee albums of my youth it is doubtful anything short of a meisterwerk could placate this furrowed brow. Sadly, I know that meisterwerk and this is no meisterwerk. The original in its fake local newspaper cover made the release a joy even before placing the black plate of proggy folkiness on to the turntable of destiny. Dabs forehead, regains composure.
The short snatches included from the original album only highlight the deficiencies of this reenactment. The power of the original song cycle is lost in this 17 track release.
It seems Ian Anderson has said no for decades to those who have clamoured for this project. I think he should have stuck with his gut feeling on this one.
If you treat it as a Tull release with no historic pretensions then I doubt you will be disappointed. If you are looking for more I would consider saving your money for the release of a Steven Wilson re-mix of the original album later in the year.
I and Lady Wakeford spent a very enjoyable evening at the Tanz Macabre anniversary soirée on the HMS Goff moored on the Thames. A river which, if I had a garden would be deemed to be at the bottom of it. Some may see that as a not so subtle inference that even though I technically live saaaf of the river I do in fact live in central London. Well the London A to Z clearly shows this to be the case, not that I care about such snobbish tomfoolery. How often do I find that (after cracking their FB account and stealing their details) that the idle boasters from North London fail to mention that they in fact live in the shadow of a Wembley Stadium over spill car park or next to an Ikea cardboard box recycling plant in Edmonton. Where as I have views of big ben (admittedly only the last 4 inches). Anyway as I say it is not something that concerns me.
I digress, it was a charming evening, sadly only spoilt when (lovely) Jo Quail disappointed nay hurt me by withdrawing her invitation for me to appear at her concert of Cello bashing in June. That someone of my stature and grace, a practitioner of contemporary (pole) dancing should suffer such a slight is galling. Even more so as the rabble, not a word I use flippantly but no other word can be found, was led by a certain Paul Sticks. My attitude to promoters is one forged by years of abuse and double-dealing, and that is just the good ones.
Yet with regard to Sticks I kept my loathing and icy hatred under control, and this is how I am thanked. A lesson learned, indeed! Anyway, we had some cake and a gossip and then wondered homeward. Not a great hardship as we live so close to the river, which I think I may have mentioned.
No Red Seas is to quote it’s blurb a “compilation album raising funds for Sea Shepherd to stop the mass killing of dolphins and whales and protect marine life”. It also has the added bonus of upsetting some Norwegians, so can only be seen as a power for good.
What is more surprising is that this fine attempt was the result of Sol Invictus tub thumper and video nasty “artist”, Lesley Malone, a diminutive Rosa Kleb like phenomena whose evil empire is run from a camouflaged shed in battle ravaged Peckham.
To find that this wholesome and life affirming endeavour sprung from such as this is like discovering that Evola would sneak off and work in a soup kitchen when not swotting for his SS O level or Goldman Sachs secretly gives all its profits to the Hillside Animal Sanctuary.
In the end what matters is that Flipper can continue to kop a feel off pretty, naive marine biologists without the interference of meddlesome interbred Nordics. So please give generously.
“All praise to Allah!” George Galloway yelled, to jubilant cries of “Allah, Allah!”, after his victory in Bradford,
It is somewhat fitting that the Labour Party ploy of allowing postal voting, the most fraudulent prone way to vote, may have come back to haunt them. It could also spell the end to Milliband’s fleeting hope to ever be more than an embarrassing footnote in Labour history. The political version of the iffy Uncle pushed to the back of wedding photos and quietly forgotten.
What it does signify is that far from this being a victory for “the left” it could well be seen as the opposite. A rump of what is termed the left has given up hope of ever getting anywhere with class based politics. Instead it has embroiled itself in a faustian pact with, what can only be defined as communalism at best, and probably something much worse.
I have just finished a short interview for Polish website, Santa Sangre Magazine. As Polish looks like schizophrenic scrabble and my Wakelish conforms to no known vocabulary it seems a venture doomed to lead to embarrassing faux pas or even war between our historic nations.
It is a little known fact that agreement was about to be struck regarding the Falklands until my recent interview with Junta website. Now as we know, all bets are off. I have even offered to play to the troops. Theirs not ours, I hasten to add. If I can crush their morale before they even board ship, it’s game over.
After sending my tissue of half-truths and ego massaging to the gullible Poles I made my usual mistake of perusing my “friends” Facebook updates. I’m a forgiving cove but I do wonder about the worrying number of them who post Press TV, and Russia Today missives and are also friends with Troy Southgate. Still, there are many rooms to my asylum and no shortage of patients to fill them, or so it seems. But if one of you could please ask him to remove me from his mailing list, I would be most grateful. It will save him a stamp which I’m sure can be put to better service in this weeks great cause/ book release, and save me a few pence with British Monomarks. On a more serious note I am informed by my loud wife the earth shattering news that via Facebook she discovered her and a loud Italian singer friend both had crushes on Adam ant when they were younger. Dear Mark Zuckerberg, if we ever meet I may do you harm.
This is yet another attempt at running a blog. My last attempts caused even industrial strength spell and grammer checkers to book into Dignitas, so I’m not expecting to be here for long.
This should in theory follow the trials and tribulations of recording the next Sol Invictus album, provisionally titled “The Devil’s Year?” and due out via Prophecy (Home of the Hun), in 2013.
It may also describe to you the exotic world of budget airlines, dull hotels and never starting sound checks, that make playing in Sol Invictus and my new live project “Twa Corbies” such a joy.
Twa Corbies is my and Gernot Munsch’s untalented Simon & Garfunkel, (Sarcy & Carbuncle?) take on my Sol and Solo flotsam.
Expect the next update in about 5 years!