Everything this person has written for TUNETHEPROLETARIAT

The immigration sing-song

Written by

Karen O, Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross – Immigrant Song

In its beginning, in its poverty, “Immigrant Song” tells us of droning back alley sounds, their violent subtleties, and raiding rhythms lugubriously stylised with thrilling drums and pedal driven guitar. It’s an entrance theme for the boxer, the momentarily fallen, and the certain-to-be triumphant. The song is character building, playing on O’s vocals strikingly abating the rash inflections of the instrumental – the music itself an unexpected battle, with Karen’s sturdy pronouncements prying away the intractable instrumentation and its flailing complete ownership; the war then descending, spiralling head bound towards conclusions of gigantic guitar notation. “Immigrant Song” runs spritely along with brash dynamism. [The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.]

Don’t you monkey with the monkey

Written by

Peter Gabriel – Shock The Monkey

Gabriel’s “Shock The Money” is a thick crust – the kind I save for last – riding bareback on the complete desertion of normalcy and popular tenderness that so usually accompanies POP!, wafting in the cool breeze of the keenest of tendencies, on course towards engorged intricacies and colourful palettes. Ah, it’s a song! Oh, it’s so pleasant. And so are the occasional splutters of coughed “Shock!” that stick out like the suckable sore thumbs of “Monkey”’s gut bass. At best your ears will propel outwards from reality, impelled towards these fresh and lush surroundings of rapacious layers of sound. At its worst the experience of listening is still very much unlikely to leave you aghast, writhing with melancholy for lost minutes. After all, it’s just a song. You, “You throw your pearls before the swine.” [Art by Julien Pacaud. PG4.]

Real human being

Written by

College – A Real Hero (feat. Electric Youth)

I’ve found that selective electronic music now satisfies my every plea for a soundscape, without fail, without whimper. Vibrant palettes of sound frisking on the borders of the otherworldly, aiding only the most expressive of vocal deliveries. The fire proof blend of the banal and the gut. “A Real Hero” is a song whose simplicity is just about enough. The horizon isn’t dreamt of, nor are there radio looped beats so obtrusive as to quench brewing enjoyment. To its benefit, it falters in the demand of one’s attention, unlike the hypnotic crush of any offshore wash. There’s timely shimmering detail in the offing, enough to make content event the most ardent of listener. The cold and steady layering of keyboard is apt staging to a voice sophronized to the point of definite believability. This voice, part sole provider of emotion, part synth actress, conquers the chorus, with the contorting cadences of her voice so sensational and essential to the quashing of synth and its fakery. A voice so sultry yet all at once so explosive. “You have proved to be a real human being and a real hero.” [155 people or more.]

Disloyal lover

Written by

Big Hard Excellent Fish – Imperfect List

Adolf Hitler, Mike Gatting, Terry and June, fucking-bastard Thatcher, insincere social climate of mixed origin, overdose, Scouse impersonators, macho dick-head, Bonnie Langford, poll tax, Neighbours, lost keys, phoney friend, the Royal Family, Stock Aitken and Waterman, heartbreaking lying friend, smiling Judas, Myra Hindley, acid rain, stinking rich female in furs, disloyal lover, wife and child beater, drunken abuser, racist, bully, the Sun newspaper, AIDS inventor, Leon Brittan, all nonsense, massive-massive oilslick, loneliness, cancer, hard cold fish, hunger, greed, imperfect list, gut-wrenching disappointment, homeless, evil gossiping fashion bastard, Radio 1, tasteless A&R wanker, Nurse Ratched, the Tory invention of the non-working class, cold turkey, Mr. Jesse Helms, Thatcher coccyx, Hillsborough, weird British judges, depression, apartheid, J. Edgar Hoover, John Lennon’s murder, Hiroshima, anyone’s murder, Vietnam, the breakdown of the NHS, the bomb, Heysel stadium, Police harassment, the death of the rain forest, the Troubles, red-necks, the Clan, rape, imprisonment of innocents, the all-American way, the sending off of Len Shackleton, red sock in the white washing, Nancy’s term, Tienanmen square, Ronnie’s term, sexual harassment, Jimmy Tarbuck, mile long checkout queue, sick baby, Nelson Mandela’s imprisonment, miscarriage. Where were you? [Amazon.]

Heat up like a burning flame

Written by

Summer Camp – Better Off Without You

She had made all those men so alive, hadn’t she? So miserable, true, so aching, true, and breathing with limps, but didn’t the blood march so strong in their channels? They stuttered after her like full hearts on the brink of infidelity, their guts warped by nervous fuzz. They had dressed up for her in their dreams – of this she was aware. In turn, she taught them loneliness of a sidewalk depth, a reality often cloaked – made fair – by the arousal of their billboard joy days and filthy moments rising, like mucky suns. Those men and their lugubrious smiles. The liars of romance with this misbegotten lover. [Pledge Music.]

Hug it out, gentlemen

Written by

“Pull the mighty thorn, Androcles!”

Written by

The Smiths – The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

When mere yards from one furnishing a gun, three shots invading the air out of view and a further four accompanying lost brothers in focus, you get a little giddy as you turn to bring the whole scene to sight. It’s a fool’s giddiness for an unfolding stage play of chaotic consequence.

At an intersection they came bounding out from one of those 24-hour liquor stores where they sell milk the day it’s set to spoil and where the mouth of any plastic bottle tastes like the air of a stale holding area; that or rat piss. A stone’s throw away, I’m sure I could throw a stone that far, before the first loud noise gave birth, I set the gas nozzle into the car. From the entrance they sprang, between the store door and the car door shots were fired, aimed at nothing in particular, and somewhere in the darkened car park were cars, presumably theirs, which they started or had started and then sped away, unlikely to outrun their adrenaline. That was it.

I’ve seen a gun before. I’ve seen a shotgun before and I’ve seen it used by my father. Once a farmer, he used it with the intent to outfox prey. I remember in our garden, propped against a wooden stile we made together one summer, was a square of wood with one red dot in the middle he’d put there with sheep marker spray. “Watch this. I’ll hit it, that red patch.” And I watched as he kept his promise. Bang! The red dot was gone, replaced by a hole in the wood, and the excitement of the gun and the noise and the promise was nothing but a treat for a seven-year-old boy. The kind of excitement that comes when clueless to consequence.

The men from the store, they were all young, boys I suppose, which puts them closer to my age and closer to my neighbouring school desk than I’d have hoped for them, lanky and fidgety in their spree, but for the one yielding the gun. He held it with the assurance and studly poise of a promotional still. Everything about him – from his clothes to his turn – was fitted, like a better specimen of man, like a much needed improvement, but then one whose crutch is not sarcasm but weaponry tends to stand in inflated profile when offered to hungry eyes. I’ve seen a gun and its effect before, but I’ve never seen a medley of guilty heads on the run, dodging women with faces drawn so scowl, and people in cars, steel machines, shocked still at green traffic lights to many a moment’s pause. It feels so immeasurably silly to be scared of another being, as fragile as we are.

This is a story told with failed exaggeration, you’ll have gathered – an obese spit at the excitement of storytelling. Seven bullets sprung to damage only the air’s used and useful existence; without carnage, without death, without sweat or souvenir grievance. I saw it and it was a scene and for the time that time needs to become past, between thinking you’ve caught the fly in your bare hand and seeing you haven’t, it was over, void of any lasting imprint. [The Queen Is Alive.]

Boys like me

Written by

The Waitresses – I Know What Boys Like

Boys like me.

How do you reconcile a kind of lacklustre pedantry with the clammer for silliness? “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!” Like that, most probably, although the element of lackluster plays its part. At least that’s the sole gobbet I’ve learnt from “I Know What Boys Like”, a song whose own jitteriness – most often cause for concern – might be its staunchest discerning feature. The quips of their skittering guitars, and a certain bounce and groove that filters through an almost suffocated rhythm section, gives the sound an insistent energy and it’s enough to protect you from feeling guilty. It is mere fun, after all. Music, especially within the scope of Pop music, is the innocence of joy made famous. Shed anonymity and succumb to the sound, because they know what you like, and it’s this. “They want to touch me; I never let them.” Intoxicating. “Sorry I teased you.” Assume the erotic. [iTunes.]

She’s right there!

Written by

David Bowie – Fashion

Not even the rain roars with such temper, bareback aboard amenable air. Who gave it permission to speak like that? So curt, so temperamental. It wasn’t always like that. Not even the rain employs short hand when cooking matters of the heart, though it was usually always like that. I wondered if this frost – newly announced, slowly creeping – could stop loving so swiftly. Yes. I wondered if its rising smile could scupper the reality of this tradition of tragedy. No. It’s love: its end, its fashion. [Scare.]

Wonderin’ of a white dress

Written by

Little Dragon – Ritual Union

Enrolling with ricocheting synthesizer and electronic flourishes akin to elasticated guitar strings, “Ritual Union” possesses a kind of compact dream-like strength in its educated delivery. Taut throughout, yet spacious in its production and audible facade. It richly breathes as if light had sound, as if one could creep a hand along the underside of a starlit-sky to xylophone twinkling effect, marching to the pace of a cavernous bass call. It’s foundation, it’s most basic level, is that of a rough beat and soulful skin arguing for cohesion, agreeing upon irresistible harmonisation. Nagano’s enchanting delivery, dangling at the fore alongside thumping snares, births esoteric rhymes into this trip hop electro-fest. It is their masterpiece.

Mother, then tell me how it is
I know you’ve been through all of this
You ran away so many times
Your kid, your heart, a couple of dimes
Love is not like they say
A lie – it’s hard to make it stay
It drowns my feelings in the sea
I dried up over on the beach

[Features on Ritual Union LP and Remix EP.]