If Jessie J is the Sound Of 2011, should the rest of new music give up now?
The BBC’s yearly predictive polling of ‘tastemakers’ is increasingly states the bleeding obvious: naming an already hyped, industry-sponsored, stage-school-whelped, lung-bustin’, tabloid-shockin’, Lady Gaga-lite singer as the most likely success story of the coming year is no huge stretch of their collective imaginations.
This week I cracked. I emailed Bad Panda Records and ineloquently put them on the spot: have you signed a deal with Satan, or what?
It’s a reasonable question, honestly – if there’s another record label that gives away a Creative Commons-licensed song every Monday and manages to maintain as ludicrously high standard of releases, I’ve yet to find it.
London has a lot of stuff. This much may well be obvious to most, but it’s an endless surprise to me. Every corner turned reveals another week of potential activity, and when one only has five days to fill, either careful choosing or madcap cramming is required.
Last weekend, I chose the latter, and am now a happily exhausted shell of a man. One of the ways I chose to fill my time was to stop for a coffee with the supremely pleasant Richard Banks, who is part of the BBC Introducing online service.
As a native English speaker, there’s something hugely satisfying about listening to and reading Scandinavian languages.
Because of the very distant link between our languages, if you squint or strain your ears it almost starts to make sense. It’s like tuning the FM-Radio dial of comprehension down just a few notches – confusing but comforting; a leap into the past, the unknown, another world, or all three simultaneously.
Languages like Swedish can either sound like English spoken by very drunk people or give you the feeling that you’ve just had a bump on the head. Ba
As much as I’d like to be able to ignore it, the Brit Awards are an all-invasive part of British life right now, in spite of – or perhaps because of – their overwhelming, bone-china blandness.
The only honest way to react to a celebration of such mundaneity is to produce yet another facile list, and so here’s the ANBAD Alternative Brit Awards 2010:
Over two nights, I’ve seen two awful gigs. This will not do. The first band I will not name; they were young and new, and will surely improve.
But in the meantime, I will offer this nugget of advice: it’s fine to swagger about the stage like Ian Brown and Liam Gallagher’s proto-lovechild, but only if you can back up your cocksure braggadocio with, you know, good music.
Oh, and never introduce another mindlessly drab U2-lite number with the words, "This one’s a fucking tune! Come on!" unless you enjoy the sight of a roomful of people raising quizzical eyebrows.
You too can meet Oasis’ Liam Gallagher! But only if you buy something from his new clothing range - then you can meet the surly, set-jawed man himself, in Manchester, next week. Parka-wearing gents, form a disorderly queue.
Now, I like Liam Gallagher. He’s one of the last proper rock stars - not despicably pious like Bono, not laughably wet like Chris Martin. He was a rock star who drank, swore, hit people - often his own brother - and sneered at all before him (ie us, who paid money to watch exactly this).
The Elody by Bryn Bache
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