Creeping up on history like a bong monged hoodie jacking grandma, modernity is a sly epoch. The sullied caper of ironic distance, the nudge nudge wink wink of densensitized apoliticism, the anal fisting of revisionist allopathy. Modernity imbricates reason and identity, deindividuating bio-technico-power relations in wickedly unfunny hetrosexist tracts, panhistoric palandromes. Oxymoronically its commitment to the atomization of communicative action, and converse conviction that globalized anomalous monism, deifies the very construal of identity.

Unfaithful to the antecedents of heretical transgressive epistemological progressivism, modernity rezones Eliot’s wasteland, constructing brutalist metanarrative edifices to Durkheim’s anomie. A branding dehumanizing reification of relativism, this most Kafkaesque of periods begs an eternal, tautological skepticism, an historic poker face.

What a lot of cock. Boring lazy and designed to make what ever monster it is that writes the play lists for Radio 1 in the uk cream all off the leg of his ma, what who he’s banging. And as his slightly green jizzism starts to crystallize and the album keeps playing and you feel the creeping horror rise within you, as if you’ve just noticed some walking up the ally behind up has started to run at you. I quite enjoyed bit of it on first listening, for instance face for the radio is a nice little tune clicking over without really putting you under any strain at all. Its just that they obviously are all a bit of wank fucked onto pete d‘s portrait. Must try harder, next please, I haven’t all day.

It all seemed so innocent. Didn’t it? It did t’me. Fuck it for a while I believed it would be fun. They were some how much more likable than oasis, wholooked like they might give you a kicking and steal our weed, or the pedo looker Jarvis. Fucking blur were all shouty like bumping into a group of mates in the pub a bit worse for wear on e and shrooms (oh look lots of drug references, I must be cool). Then alburn fucked off for a bit, started doing side projects, went travelling in Africa and released the excellent Mali music, and then there was that whole shit on your breakfast plate the gorillaz. Jesus
that was terrible. Even the fucking name. piss. Anyway then blur tried to turn into radiohead and did the passable thinktank. It was toss in places but I liked a few tracks. And that more than I can say for a lot of things. But this little side wank in the mirror is really bad. Oh, I’m sure people will say its great. Innovative. Its not. Its alburn buggering around. Singing through a cardboard box from the sound of it. Its basically british sea power and we all know how foolish we were to allow them in the sitting room. Balls balls balls.

Myths of the near future. What do they mean by that? The obvious poetical necessity of it, as a concept is that of a stunning arrogance. It reeks of the smug old boy system, of school ties and port, of ruddy faced men in blazerslaughingly clubbing a baby seal to death. The idea of myths of the near future is that twinkle in the eye of the cock stain jock on the first day of school when he realises that he’s going to be fine here. Perhaps the most obvious direction of thought demanded is that of neo-architectural poetry from southern France, the stiltedly intentional verse of François Glempz. Gently gently the klaxons draw a picture of themselves, gently gently you realise that it is true, or a truth, or a version, and idea, a perspective of the truth. They start gently gently to revel in themselves, an aural dance of the seven veils.
But in that, as here you never see her friendly beaver tongue. Just as here you never see any evidence of talent, ability or skill. They must have them somewhere, they didn’t just pull golden skans out their asses. The video for it is amazing. But the live jools Holland recording is terrible - they look shite live don’t they- most bands sound fantastic on jools. Shame. you tube it and tell me if I’m wrong.

Razorlightning rod. White jean wearing crocks of cack. In the morning you know you won’t remember a thing is a gleeful telling of date rape, as Johnny crows and dances round the semi conscious naked form of some drugged girl he’s about to plough. Disgusting. And they play it on the radio. I hope the dpp is drawing up a file.

I love lily allen. She’s fucking fantastic. I would eat her if I could. On bread with a little brown sauce. She has a damn sweet voice, a beautiful turn of phrase, and a wildly misjudged sense of style. Fuck it I’m not going into any greater details, it’s a good album and she is great fun.

they sound like the buzzcocks or talking heads maybe. or prehaps they are closer to any art school band anywhere in the world, posing, playing overly complicated nonsence, whilst there ‘lead’ “singer” yelps on as he was a man in his 40’s doing an impression of a pre-teen doing an impression of interpol. lazy and definetly plagerising in places.

hot damn this was like having my head dunked into joy,
take this image and run with it, and some money and buy this little brilliance, this unsurpassed sample of heavens elevator music and smile, smile like a Cheshire cat manufacturer whose just replaced his entire work force with a machine.

The album - helpfully titled f#a#* - was strikingly cinematic, recalling Ry Cooder’s soundtrack to Paris, Texas and Terrence Malick’s films Badlands and Days Of Heaven. Their style of splicing tape recordings of the angry disenfranchised and the mutterings of militias into their music echoes ’60s libertarian outsider counterculture. Their use of “authentic” instruments, field recordings, downhome folk forms, and lo-fi acoustic Americana, meanwhile, places Godspeed in the canon of maverick North American folk-artists that includes archivist Harry Smith, composer/carpenter Harry Partch and singer Tom Waits. Yet they produce more self-consciously beautiful, solely instrumental music than those artists, and arguably also lack their humour and warmth. Most of their songs follow the same formula: start slow and quiet, then go really fast and loud. It’s certainly true that much of their music is based around dynamic sonic crests and swells, but the sheer scale of their thunderously loud sound means they generally get away with it. Godspeed You Black Emperor! are certainly unique in modern rock music. Instrumental music with traces of contemporary classical is rarely drooled over, but Godspeed’s alternative idealism, combined with the sonic assault of a Japanese noise band, makes for a strangely seductive proposition.

Oh and they’ve disbanded. The name, incidentally, comes from a Japanese biker gang. Or rather, a translation of “Buraku Empororu”, a film by Japanese director Mitsuo Yanagimachi.

STELLABRANDSPANKINGFANTASTICSTARR,
i don’t care that it maybe could be described as derivative, unimiginitive, because it is all this and more, it is only unimiginitive if you yourself do not imagine that you have never heard anything like it before, because you haven’t, have you? so its brilliant

it works, the whole of it; the album, rarely, works as a whole, it can be listened all the way through and the stand out tracks, obviously “My Coco”, are not so far ahead of the snarling pack as to mark this as obviously blighted as say that single selling mechanism that is Hot Fuss, or even the mightlily overrated Franny Ferdinand.

Previous singles “Jenny” and “Somewhere Across Forever” revel in the Pixies punk-pop perfection with a crescendo of stop-start guitar hooks and twists, but this album firmly moves on from this 80’s reverie. its opener,”In The Walls”, with its gothic guitars, is a knowing mockery of the smiths and the cure, it would sound perfect in some swanseaic teenage bedroom, with black paint and eyeshadow, but it is when you actually here the music, rather than just listen to it, that you realise, that this is a denial of their influences and a firm f$ck you to their fans.

the bass driven savoyard/pop-funk of “A Million Reasons” takes the lead from savoyard/punk-funksters Hot Hot Heat, while the exhilarating “No Weather” is pure vintage-Ash. but again, i believe, rightly, that this is a snub to them, a musical anti-tribute that only the most foolish will take as hommage.

so hurray for them and the stellastarr will long remain upon my turning wheel of music, for it lasts and ages like some mad self refilling, ever aging, bottle of port wine, like a thing that gets better with age, like a maggot.