Sinister: Puretonic

[Liz Daplyn]

Well well well, here we are once more.  Summertime, and the living is easy, 
or at least not that hard.  Although the head aches a little.  Unplanned 
barbequeues of a Monday night are death to happy Tuesday awakenings, my 
friends, and that information is yours absolutely gratis, a gift from the 
horse’s mouth.

(I got two pale hands up against the window pane
I'm shaking with the heat of my need again)

So, on and off on the bus in the mornings, I’ve been thinking about the 
different purposes people put popular music to.  It’s all very interesting, 
at least to a half-asleep brain that’s managed to osmose a little poncy 
cultural theory over the past few years.  Politically and publicly music is 
used for cheerleading purposes, for entertainment and for proselytizing, but 
here I’m thinking more about specifically personal and private functions.

(Listening to the radio I feel so out of place
There's a certain something missing that the treble can't erase)

I mean, I refuse to believe that the estate kids hanging out near my house 
in the evenings think about nowt but shagging, drinking and dancing, just as 
I wouldn’t imagine that other cardie-wearing, biscuit-nibbling B&S fans 
think of nothing but tweenage lesbians and Terry Underwear while running 
through parks, pursued by townies, although these two images would seem to 
be suggested by the lyrical content of our respective listening matter.  But 
any convenient stereotype (this word comes, interestingly enough, from early 
machine printing at the beginning of the age of mechanical reproduction) by 
its nature must involve abbreviation, elision and omission of essential 
elements in order to present a glib and exclusive surface for those both 
inside and outside the subculture in question.

Pop music is a useful focus for the emerging social identity, augmented and 
accompanied by foxy corn-rows or, ‘alternatively’, Sanrio hairgrips.  Is it 
something we give up as we slide comfortably into the Gap as we grow older 
and maybe more confident in our ability to retain our indentities while 
gradually becoming de-tribalised?  After all, middle-aged people can look 
pretty daft in dolly shoes and Talulah Gosh t-shirts, and feel more 
comfortable in sensible trainers anyway.  Or maybe we just need an easier 
ride without all that teenage angst to sustain us.

(I know you can tell just by looking at my face
A word about my weakness
I'm totally addicted to bass)

Does an instant connection with the booty bypass the brain entirely in the 
majority of our appreciation of music?  I only know that the ticking beat 
and twitchy rrriddims of glossy UK Garage production are instantly 
recognisable and utterly attractive, leading to an ass-shaking of global 
proportions, but most of the lyrics are pure rubbidge, of course, as with 
99% of everything.

(Woah-woh-oh)

This matters not a jot, because after all, most post-listening analysis only 
serves to provide some kind of semi-theoretical basis for justifying an 
initial gut reaction, whether positive or negative.  Haha, like most 
cultural ramblings, our reactions say more about us than about the artistic 
product.

(Your bassline is shooting up my spine
Your bassline has got me feeling fine
It's filling up my mind)

Whatever, I’m hoping for some pure pop thrills, as well as something maybe a 
bit more errr cerebral, at the hugely exciting revival of Tigermilking in 
only a few short weeks’ time.  Do your worst, boys and girls of the decks, 
and those not so pivileged will, one hopes, turn up in droves to shake their 
thangs.

This here has been written in bitesize chunks while experiencing the 
wonderful world of work as a (very junior) media ‘ho’, which today has 
involved sorting out a vastly disorganised and grubby stationery cupboard.  
So I’m feeeelthy now, but I’m off home to become clean, revise this pile of 
nonsense, then submit it for your kind attention.  It doesn’t include half 
the brilliant stuff I thought I’d thought about, but like poetry written in 
the middle of the night, half-asleep bus musings rarely live up to 
expectations when solidified.

Well, au revoir, chaps.

   Love,
     Liz :x

p.s. Happy impending birthday, Archel!

_________________________________________________________________
Use MSN Messenger to send music and pics to your friends 
http://www.msn.co.uk/messenger

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