Sinister: Happiness (not the film by Todd Solondz)

[Liz Daplyn]

Cor blimey guv'ner.

RADIO FREE ALBEMUTH

  So I didn't stay in to listen to the 'wireless' last night, but I did 
manage to remember to set the timer record function on my stereo (God bless 
Mr Technics and all his adorable little children).  Correctly, to boot.  
This enabled me, when I returned suitably refreshed after an
evening spent in a dark cellar off Fleet Street, to listen to our favourite 
Scottish Luddites perform a selection of their new stuff from the comforts 
of Mr John Peel's home (and, indeed, bathroom, in Chris' case).
  And my verdict, pop pickers: better than Storytelling, I say probably not 
at all controversially.  Better than Porthcawl, even.  Anyway, I found to my 
surprise that I am genuinely E!X!C!I!T!E!D! about this new material and its 
patently perceptible joie be vivre and, er, oomph.  Now, this may have been 
due to several pints of bitter and the inevitable cloth-earedness (next 
sense to drunkenly go after hearing is smell; this has proven useful on 
occasion) that is my due in these circumstances, but I don't think so.  It's 
all gone a bit Free Design, but I stress, in a _good_ way, for those of who 
you who are even now heading for the vomitarium.  Really really good.

SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES

  Speaking (as I was) of that dark cellar off Fleet Street: this venue was 
host to a veritable smorgasbord of Sinister talent, a real Thornton's 
intercontinental selection, including those on their way home (Oon) and 
those who thought they were on their way home but well, probably aren't 
(Australian David).  Beer was drunk, so were we, crap was talked.  As per 
usual, then.  It turns out that despite my own recent move to London, all 
the really cool kids are now moving to America.  Dang, last one on the 
bandwagon once again.

GODLIKE GENIUS

  Hurrah!  My copy of Camera Obscura's 'Biggest Bluest HiFi' has finally 
arrived from Amazon (I know, I know, but I never look a gift certificate in 
the mouth) this morning, adding to the joy of summer.  And how.
  Also refusing to leave the CD player: Mr David Moore (Cockernee rhyming 
slang: corporate whore) introduced me a while ago to Saint Low, otherwise 
known as Mary Lorson (late of Madder Rose or summink like that), and I 
picked up their latest on promotional CD the other week.  Highly recommended 
for people who are moving into a properly grownup pop music phase.

  Well, after that excess of enthusiasm and actual content, I'd best go lie 
down for a bit before attempting to excercise some dodgy karaoke skeelz this 
evening.  Crikey.

  Love,
    Liz :x


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