Sinister: Hey Mr DJ

[Daplyn Elizabeth]

Once again:
  bienvenue, wilkommen and good afternoon to the ladies and gentlemen of
the jury.

A cautionary note: this email contains griping.

  That Muse cover of Feeling Good that's all over the radio like a rash
at the moment - Nina Simone must be spinning in her black-suede-lined
coffin.  Has she, in fact, *passed over*?  Must have: wild-livin' jazz
laydee = tragic early death and guaranteed legendary status.  What's
_really_ annoying about the present cover is that I can't help singing
along and putting in the descending bass line that those pesky nu-rock
tykes have forgotten to record.  Which makes people look at me
strangely.  Tchah.  It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life,
and I very much doubt that Matt Bellamy is feeling good.  Do nu-rockers
buy their skinny black jeans from the same shops nu-metallers get their
unfeasibly wide blue ones from, or are there separate universes of
emporia for such musical hair-splitting?  

  What's with the adulation of indie boys who aren't actually fantastic
singers, just good at wailing, having *discovered* themselves at 6th
form parties whilst ripped to the tits on Diamond White?  I mean,
possessing a less-than-impressive falsetto range and howling like a
bleedin' banshee does _not_ equal Grand Opera (Grand Guignol possibly).
As if that's a good thing to aspire to in the first place.  'Operatic'
singing involves some kind of breath control, for one thing.  Gets my
goat, it really does.

  Shag Pop - bang on the nail, my son, whoever came up with that one
(sorry, no web access at work, otherwise my anal nature would force me
to cross-reference to the Nth).  It's that classy sleaziness (or Faded
Glamour, for fans of Animals That Swim) that gets me every time.  Mmm
the ineffable allure to a nicely-dragged up liberal girl of louche pop
songs performed by appetisingly lank young men.  Also, the presence of a
french horn or two on a record is pretty much guaranteed to get it
sounding tasty.  Who's that jazz chap the film Young Man With A Horn is
about?  Heh.

  I may well have gone on about Tindersticks before but, frankly, I love
them and their filthy minds.  Drunkenly staggering (with ballet-worthy
poise) along the fine line between sweeping melody and bombastic arse,
or sparse arrangement and lacklustre texture, is, well, kind of
difficult.  And yet listening to Cherry Blossoms never fails to leave me
staring blankly into dusty space (3 a.m., six feet down, already up with
the lark).  Which is why I can't listen to the second album while
driving. 

  On the other hand, it can all go horribly wrong in the world of Shag
Pop: see My Life Story for evidence.  There's a routine Bill bailey does
in which he describes the efforts of a juvenile bandmate to emulate
(upon the synthesised keyboard) JS Bach as played by Rick Wakeman, but
who ends up sounding like the Ski Sunday theme tune.  Well.

  Kirsten, the Coventry Carol is sinister, in both the conventional
metaphorical sense (cheery Christmas fayre about murdered children) and
that of being in keeping with the present context (melancholy
gorgeousness).  Also, it's lovely as lovely can be, so carry on playing
it for yer Ma and I'll join you from across the Atlantic.

  I think I'll spend the afternoon envying the humble cabbage-white/ his
honest idiocy of flight.  Beats earning a living. 
  
  Liz D :x

- I was not woken by the rooster,
     nor by the crow's tough song
 But the midnight cry of a blood red bird
     brought this sleeplessness on -    
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