The vibrant gypsy rhythms, and hazy summer feel, the rainbow, the wonderful, the sheer positivity, there is no oppositional assertion of identity, who cares, just join in, hot summer evening, building like a head of red wine, a giant mong of bong smoke, gently creeping up and knocking your head off, and bringing you with it, it builds and builds, and you simply dance and that, and that is, that is perhaps, not the half of it. La rue Ketanou, Y’a Des Cigales Dans La Fourmilier la rue ketan’tgetenoughofit.

Like the sweet clutter of a million tiny hammers on the face of an oiled tin sheet, Bjork’s diaphanous milky trip and base dystopia reminds one of the hardest whispers of early Bristol massive, heard at six am on the underground from the leaky ear bellows of some jacked up urban crunk kid, still twitching after a dozen nights of club skip and jump. Half chewed chunks of itchy samples scratch under the skien of nifty vocal longings, whole scenes skipping by in swanseaic brechtian flourishes.

Bjork’s literally stolen from herself on this record, sampling whole sentences from the studio and laying them down next to music, like careless instrumentals. One can almost hear the thought that went into this performance, hovering just over the surface of the spinning limited edition vinyl, vengeful and replete with even fresher, more dangerous truths. Gold.

Trying to describe this album, it’s syncopated rhythms, it’s profound melodic flow, is the critical equivalent of building some grand steam punk machine, some quaint but frightening Victoriana clockwork beast, all chromed silver and India rubber, frightening yes but quite lovely in its decadence; to shrink down to dim nano scale in a futile attempt to pass unnoticed in one great orchestrated gust into the inner pants, right between the labia majora, of Anna Kournikova, there to dwell on gentle flowing tides of juices. Music is a rich vivid reconstruction of vibration into information; ossicles stammering to tap a wave of pressure into noise construed. It is not words.

Suppose i should take this seriously. tell you a story and make the album live in your ears before you have a chance to run out and buy it like a pack of lemmings. I should describe each member of the band and perhaps pick on the front man/woman and tell you their story, making the music somehow more profound for its context. well, whatever. here’s what i can find on wiki. they come from Austrailia and they all, all 500 of them it seems from the photo’s i can’t be arsed to count, some of them might be fat, anyway all of them play everyone elses instruments like some sort of swingers party but with flutes and guitars. anyway that all leads to the instruments not being played very well. either that or their just not very good at it. they’ve toured with bands much more interesting than themselves, but nothings rubbed off seemingly. fuckit, laters

Oh baby I love your away, everyday. I wanna be with you night and day. Cause you look as if your up for a laugh, and enjoy a drink and I like that sort of thing in a girl. And you have amazing hair. Were did you find it? Seriously actually your hairs a bit mental looking. Is it a cry for help, you now like the huge drug intake and the self harm?

Will you lot fuck off, you’ve knocked over my bins again. The Kaisar Chiefs are like being back in collage halls and sharing a flat with some cunt. He nicks your food, messes the place up, never does the washing up, and comes in at 4 in the morning with a load of mates, all clatterfuckdrunk and puts on a cd at full volume and play buzz til one of them stumbles off and is sick on you. The night before your finals. Fucking shitheads. I hope they get fireworks thrown in the their faces in a football riot.

What the fuck was Ferry thinking? Mind you what was his son thinking when he attacked the House of Commons. So perhaps insanity runs in the family.

Sometimes Dylan covers work- Knockin’ on Heavens Door, and All Along the Watchtower, for example. But to release a whole album of them, even if you’re a king lizard man, is surely just lazy.

He should spend more time stopping his son ripping foxes apart with his teeth and writing some songs and not butt fucking that wrinkly tosser.

I’m so alone. I’m living in a stair well. Sometimes people piss on me by mistake, thinking I’m a pile of rags or perhaps they know damn rightly what I am, but I would rather give them the benifit of the doubt. I think people are good at heart, you know. Still, it gets really cold sometimes and I can’t feel my feet. Most of the time I sit on some cardboard I rob from a bin on O’Connel Bridge. Some times, if I’m a bit up you know, I’ll sing a bit, or bang out a tune on some spoons. When its all a bit hopeless I just sit there and weep. I never kepp the money I get, I give to other ghosts. Sometimes people give me tea, or a sandwich ad in the winter there’s soup. I love the guys who give up there days to help us. Tea makes me wet myself. Its something chemical.

Last year I won the Euro Millions, got €35mil. I spazzed it all on a horse. I’m going to get round to killing myself one of these days.

Heart breakingly honest, stunningly crafted and ramshackle. Or not as the case actually is. Shitty bum bastards, wank you ass backwards. they’ve often been likened to Tom Waits, B Diddy and Nick fucking dark Cave, but only by fools. The Cold War Kids are alright in the end but for fuck sake some prespective please. They’re not particularly fantastic. There’s some decent songs and they can tell a story without seeming to labor it, but really who cares?

The scissor sisters are horrible evil things, they have made disco somehow acceptable to be played in indie disco’s. they did it by pretending to be ironic, but then no one wears clothes like that all the time without meaning it. Still they’ve taken time off they’re busy schedule from ripping off 70’s disco classics and erasure to squat piss on Freddie mercury’s grave.

Just as that fat chick was spreading her considerable thighs to stream a steaming river on luminous yellow urine onto the green grass below a hand was thrust from under the earth, a wrinkled grey fist rammed into her gee, grabbing the scissor sisters camp disco ironic silly dancing crown from with in, and then upwards and out smashing through the top of her fat face spraying blood and brains all over the rest of the degenerates. There are sequins , frayed and a little dull, some falling away, on the jacket. The moustache has gotten wild, rivalling earls. Freddies back. One by one, the scissor sisters fall to their knees in the presence of their god, as he stands silhouetted against the setting sun, one arm raised, Ana Matronic’s twitching corpse still impaled, his grey shrunken head nods along with the track rising in the back, and his leg starts to tap along too. He walks over to a curtained off little area and climbs into a boy costume, calls himself mika and kills everyone involved.