Pulp! The Strokes! They’re both brilliant, they are! And they’re preceded by The National. You like them, don’t you?

And then there’s Frank Turner. He’s great, and so is Seasick Steve’s low-fi blues.

And look; The Vaccines! Granted, you don’t actually know who they are, but people keep banging on about them so they must be worth a look, right? Besides, Noah & the Whale are on after. They’d more than make up for it if they’re a bit rubbish.

Throw in Cage the Elephant, Madness and The Kills, and that’s a pretty consistent line-up. Granted, there’s the musical equivalent of an abortion-by-coathanger in the form of Muse, but to hell with it; let’s go!

Oh. Fuck that.

A relatively easy choice to kick off the year, given that it appears to be the only album to have been released this week. It seems the post-Christmas market doesn’t have much room for new entities.

Dirty Wrecked comprises of thirteen latin-infused, African beat-pounding pop tracks, overdubbed with a voice that occasionally sounds reminiscent of My Chemical Romance’s Gerard Way and his monotonous rambling. It’s the kind of album that aims to be fun with no pretentious undertones, and there are moments where it succeeds. Album opener and title track Dirty Wrecked is diverting enough, and while the lyrics provide very little worth delving deep into, that’s sort of the point behind them. It’s designed for singing and dancing along to, rather than analytical scrutiny. But it ultimately falls down thanks to one glaring error; all thirteen sounds sound exactly the same. Take a jangly guitar, repeat the title of the song a ridiculous amount of times, and throw in a grating childrens’ choir on Just a Girl, and you’re pretty much left with this.

Did I despise it? No. Would I listen to it again? The repetitive nature of the material makes it seem that I already have half a dozen times, and there’s no compelling urge to go out and add it to my record collection. Truth is, I’m probably just not the target audience for this sort of thing.

3/5

Click here to hear it on Spotify.

However, with the passing of another year and it’s ensuing nostalgia, it became apparent to me that I only listened to five newly released albums in 2010. Which by anybody’s standards, is a bit rubbish.

So, in an effort to be a bit more ‘down with the kids’ (yes, that’s premature middle age a-knockin’), I hereby vow to listen to one album released each week throughout 2011. No prejudices. No arrogant preconceptions. Just 52 albums, a spotify account, and a huge potential for regret.

For this to work, I have set out the following ground rules;

1. I must listen to at least one album released in the UK from each week of 2011.

2. The album must be by an artist whose work I have not consciously heard before. New releases from bands of whom I am already a fan of will not qualify.

3. All albums will be listened to in their entirety, and in one sitting. Once the play button has been pressed, it must be left to run it’s course.

4. I shall endeavour to write a review of each week’s album, and post them on this blog. It can be as brief a commendation or as elaborate a rant as I wish, and will conclude with a rating out of five.

Week 1′s album is playing as I type. Wish me luck, and see you on the other side.

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Dear ITV,

I am writing to you with regards to your new docusoap, The Only Way is Essex.

Fuck you.

Yours,

Christopher Presswell

I am writing to you with regards to the possibly imminent closure of the 100 Club on Oxford Street owing to repeated increases in rent, business rates and alcohol duty, which was announced in the Evening Standard on Wednesday 22^nd September 2010.

It is frequently claimed by yourself and your colleagues that London boasts a rich cultural heritage, but it appears that the powers that be are unwilling to defend this heritage with actions when they are required. Last year, we lost both the London Astoria and the Metro club to Crossrail. These were two well-loved, internationally renowned and historic music venues, the loss of which has dented London’s vibrant music scene.

The 100 Club is nothing like the current influx of newer venues, which seek to make live music a luxury to those with a disposable income, rather than something that is accessible to all. It does not have a stylishly designed interior, there is no VIP area, and it is one of the few remaining live music outlets that have yet to cross the £4 barrier for a pint of beer. It is a venue for everyone, with a diverse range of acts performing there every night to match it.

While there is clearly a need for larger, more clinical venues such as the o2 Arena, it is the smaller ones such as this that provide a platform to developing talent from around the globe. Indeed, it is a major milestone on the ladder to further success. It is an event for a younger artist to grace its legendary stage in the footsteps of The Rolling Stones, The Who, Chuck Berry, The Jam, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, The White Stripes and Oasis, amongst a multitude of other world famous stars – many of whom have returned to its stage long after becoming famous to pay tribute to this well loved venue.

Why should it be that within the current financial climate, which has taken its toll on even the larger corporate enterprises, it is deemed acceptable for the rent of the premises of a small independently run business to be hiked up by 45%? It is nothing short of a travesty that our remaining live music venues should need to be subsidised by an outside sponsor in order to survive, despite continuing to be popular and entertaining many thousands of Londoners and visitors from around the globe every year.

The venue itself is steeped in heritage; it is not simply a case of taking the brand and moving it elsewhere. Merely walking through its doors is akin to stepping back into the 1960s, and that feeling of history cannot and will not be relocated to a new venue. The now defunct Marquee Club serves a testament to this.

Therefore I urge you to intervene with the matter, and help this truly magnificent city to keep what is now the oldest, and possibly the finest functioning music venue in the world. To lose it would be a massive blow not only to London’s culture, but that of the United Kingdom and indeed music as a whole.

Yours sincerely,

Christopher Presswell

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If you’d like to support the campaign to save this historic venue, you can undersign this letter and send a copy to the Mayor of London yourself by e-mailing  mayor@london.gov.uk.

You might also wish to tailor and send a copy to Jeremy Hunt, Secretary of State for Culture, Media, Olympics and Sport at enquiries@culture.gsi.gov.uk, or Mark Field, MP for the Cities of London and Westminster at fieldm@parliament.uk.

Any response I receive from the above will of course be posted on the blog. In the mean time, a Facebook group for the cause has been established here.
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UPDATE #1

I’ve received a reply from the Department of Culture, Media, Olympics and Sport, which you reads as follows:

Dear Mr Presswell

Thank you for your recent email to the Secretary of State for Culture, Olympics, Media and Sport, the Rt Hon Jeremy Hunt MP, about the possible closure of the 100 Club. I have been asked to reply on his behalf.

The Government does of course appreciate the cultural significance of the venue, and its role in the history of popular music. However, you will appreciate that the rent is a commercial matter between the club and its landlords, and is not something in which the Government can intervene. We note that the Club is exploring the possibility of attracting sponsorship or third party funding.

With best wishes

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In summary, ‘it’s not our problem.’ This is the department set up to preserve and develop British culture. How apt.

I first encountered it a few weeks back, upon seeing Inception for a second time. To my chagrin, we crossed paths once more ahead of Piranha 3D. Somewhere amidst the 30 minutes of adverising prior to both films, this monstrosity was given an airing.

It begins at a Spanish port, where two local girls deposit our travelling protagonist, whom we shall refer to as Rupert. He resembles a Rupert, in that it’s hard to look at his face without wanting to punch it.

Rupert walks up the ramp to a boat, before turning around and taking in one last view of Formentera, a place he as grown to love, and a swig of beer. But this tiny swig causes him to relive his entire trip, quickly descending into a portrait of a gap year student. And guess what? You’re going to relive it with him, and see EVERY. FUCKING. SECOND.

Over the course of four minutes that never seem to end, the viewer learns all about his holiday, the friends he’s made and the experiences they’ve shared. As with most advertising, it’s supposed to be aspirational. As the consumer, you are supposed to want to be the irritating little twunt. It’s hard enough watching it on a computer screen without self harming. But the sheer hideousness of it all is compounded by the fact that, in the cinema, you can’t turn the bloody thing off.

Unfortunately, my unrelenting anger towards this particular commercial only affirms that it has achieved it’s objective. The primary function of an advert by definition is to provoke an emotional response in the consumer, but in this case it’s one where you look at the screen and can’t help but want to end it all.

And then, there’s that ending. Having made it through almost five minutes of misery, there’s a brief moment of panic as it fires up again in what appears to be some sort of cruel time loop. It’s like a misjudged episode of Doctor Who, only the wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff has been replaced by a prat in a sombrero.

The truth is that, yes, life would be wonderful if it was all like this. But have you ever had a holiday remotely like the one portrayed in this advert?

No. No, you haven’t. And anyone who tells you they have is lying. This makes Estrella Damm guilty of the most heinous of advertising crimes; attempting to make you aspire to something that doesn’t exist.

It’s message, in a nutshell, is this: Do you want to be the irritating OxBridge sod amongst your social circle, who only ever talks about what he did on his sodding gap year, funded by his rich parents? Then drink Estrella Damm. You’ll be in good company.

But the chances are that you’re probably more interesting than that. You might even be doing something meaningful with your alloted time on this planet. So no, your life might not be one long party. You might not share a hammock with a gorgeous girl, or have adventures on the Spanish plains.

But hey, at least you don’t drink their shit beer.

I would like to register a complaint regarding your V Festival coverage on Saturday, August 21st 2010.

Around midnight, it was deemed appropriate to show Scouting for Girls performing an acoustic rendition of Pulp’s Common People. Now, it cannot be said that there was no warning of an impending acoustic atrocity from this band, who have scientifically been proven to be the single greatest abomination in the history of music (and indeed all culture). But your failure to warn viewers that they would be tackling a song by indie legends Pulp was inappropriate at best. As such, not only was I faced with the aneurism-inducing blandness of Roy Stride’s pop combo, but I also found myself being rendered physically sick as they performed their truly hideous take on what is considered a very fine, perhaps even classic song.

I also wish to register my dismay that one of your presenters referred to the aforementioned band as having “a raw, unbridled power.” It was this kind of inappropriate comment that dented their otherwise sterling presentation duties. In fact, the entire broadcast would have been greatly improved with more of Steve Jones and Alexa Chung’s relentlessly hilarious banter throughout, as opposed to more of that silly music nonsense.

I trust that this feedback will be taken on board, and that appropriate measures will be put in place to avoid future lapses in judgement.

Yours truly,

Christopher Presswell

Bella is a girl. She likes Edward, who is a boy, and played by Robert Pattinson. This is the story’s state of equilibrium and is something that teenagers do, alongside drinking Smirnoff Ice to look cool and stabbing people.

However, throwing some disruption into an otherwise straightforward narrative is the minor issue that Eddie happens to be a vampire. This rather restricts the boundaries of their relationship, causing Bella to mope around in a strop. Constantly. For three films (with two more currently in production).

It sounds absurd, but it is in fact a winning formula. The third installment has just opened in the US to an absurd amount of money, just six months after the last one scaled impressive heights. And as a mathematician (I got an A in GCSE maths in 2004, thus rendering me fully qualified), I decided to see if there was logic to the madness.

And you know what? There is.

Allow me to elaborate.

‘a’ = sulking teenagers. To a, we add (b-c), an independent sum of ‘b’ (Robert Pattinson) with the subtraction of ‘c’ (a shirt), and from the overall total we remove ‘d’ (any semblence of a plot). Therefore, a+(b-c)-d = x (commercial success).

x is of course equal to two units of ‘m,’ denoting ‘money.’ Rest assured; there is no relation to Fritz Lang’s 1931 masterpiece.

From this, we can extrapolate the equation x multiplied ten times by the unit of ‘y’ (the installment number of the series, e.g. New Moon = 2), which is itself multiplied by ‘m’. We are thus left with a final overall equation:

A successful film franchise = 10my – s

‘s’, of course, denotes a sense of shame.

Twilight: Eclipse is released in the UK this Friday. I fully encourage you to go and see it, thus proving me completely right.

Yes. You are at Glastonbury.

It’s Friday night, and you’re stood beside The Other Stage, eagerly awaiting the presence of the Flaming Lips. You’ve made it to the end of the first day without passing out, getting stuck in the tyrannous mud, or having eaten properly since Wednesday. But you are there in the moment; the excitement of the crowd in these final minutes of anticipation before Wayne Coyne and company take to the stage, with their musical-visual extravaganza. You feel tired, lifeless; but you don’t care. You are in this moment, and it will forever be a part of you.

Then, you turn to your left, and the anticipation turns to dread. Beside you, you see a man with expensively styled hair. His name is Kevin, and Kevin is an estate agent. But this is not the most instantly repulsive thing about him, oh no. He is wearing a pink polo shirt.

You see, Kevin is an idiot. When he booked his Glastonbury ticket, he and his annoying chums opted to attend solely based on the three headliners; the legendary Stevie Wonder, the mind numbingly dull Muse, and that most musical of hideous abortions, U2.

When the announcement came through that U2 were forced to cancel their headline slot owing to grand master Bono injuring his back (as explained by Mark Thomas via his twitter account), Kevin was gutted. He only owned The Joshua Tree and their greatest hits collection, but by God he was planning on rocking out to the Edge’s blistering solos. Alas, for him, it was not to be.

And so, on this Friday night, Kevin decided to do something audacious. He picked up his expensive tub of hair wax, spruced up all good and proper, and ventured on the journey to one of Glastonbury’s smaller stages for an evening’s entertainment. A journey which culminates here, approximately 2 feet to your left.

Suddenly, your excitement towards seeing the Flaming Lips becomes subdued. They are due on stage in five minutes, but you can no longer work up the enthusiasm for them; instead, you are forced to listen to Kevin and his chums regaling the time that Kings of Leon’s Sex on Fire came on in All Bar One, and Mike jumped onto a table, took off his tie, and sang along.

The band take to the stage. Several songs in, they perform Yeah Yeah Yeah Song. Kevin and his friends go mental, jumping around in each others’ arms, shouting “YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH” an insurmountable number of times. They do not know any of the other lyrics from this near five minute opus.

The band finish the song, and Kevin and friends woop incessantly. Their enthusiasm is at least forgivable, but they are proving themselves to be more and more irritating as time passes.

“These guys rock!” You hear one of the group shouting to his counterparts. You reach near breaking point, as the use of the word ‘rock’ in critical analysis ranks highly on the list of musical sins, just short of buying a Scouting for Girls album from HMV as a present for a friend, without buying a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club album to prove to the pretty girl at the till that you do actually have some musical appreciation, and that you aren’t really a vacuum of taste.

You start to vent your frustration. You tut loudly. Those around you look at you, feeling your pain. You are united against the estate agent army in spirit, though physical action would be frowned upon under the Glastonbury code of being nice to each other.

But then, you reach breaking point. Just as the band tear into their 2002 single Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt 1, you witness something unforgivable. Kevin raises his hand, and uses it to form a symbol of such musical ineptitude that you are forced to take action; Kevin raises devil horns.

Enraged, you lose control. You furiously march over to Kevin and tap him on the shoulder. He turns around, and you are no longer yourself. You do the one thing that can restore decency to this God forsaken set of circumstances, and punch him squarely in the jaw. You injure a finger in the process, but you don’t care. He falls to the ground, and you return to your spot. Those around you applaud your audacity, and offer you drinks by way of gratitude. Kevin crawls back to the tent, allowing everyone to become immersed in the musical moment once again. All is right with the world.

Unfortunately, this will be a common occurrence at this year’s Glastonbury. The 60,000 estate agents who would have gone to see U2 will no longer be huddled together in one easily avoidable space, as was the purpose of their booking, and forced to venture out into the festival’s unknown. In fact, the only winners of Bono’s bad back will be viewers of the BBC’s coverage, who will now be spared the sight of the shades-clad one.

So spare a thought next month for all those music fans whose weekend will be ruined, ironically, by the lack of U2.

Simon was a music mogul, and a judge on an alarmingly popular TV talent contest. Every week, he would show off his trademark nastiness to its contestants. “You were rubbish,” he would cry! The members of the public stupid enough to watch would either laugh in agreement, or boo at him in anger.

But one week, Simon encountered something that, until then, he could never have imagined in the very worst of his nightmares. Before him stood what could only be explained as the result of chemical warfare-gone-wrong; two blonde identiclones with hair that defied gravity, who went by the names John and Edward. Together, they were ‘John and Edward.’

Simon despised them for their talents, or lack thereof. After a particularly dreadful rendition of Ricky Martin’s She Bangs in which they failed to remain in tune with each other – let alone the music – he publicly labelled them ‘the two horrors.’ Counting had always been his forté.

Unbeknownst to him, there was a movement stirring within the viewing public. For while many watched this weekly debacle with eager anticipation, there were a growing number who were increasingly irritated at the way the manufacturing process of the music industry was becoming so easily accepted by so many. Some were merely infuriated by the unnecessary key change added to the horrendous cover of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, released by the previous year’s winner at the hands of the powerful orange one. And thus began the uprising.

Many began voting for John and Edward via the phone-ins out of sheer spite for Cowell. They believed that affording them a real chance of winning the contest would upset him, and show up the programme to the masses for the debauchery that it was.

Week after week, they voted in their droves and Cowell became progressively more and more upset. During one edition, he even attempted to stop the backlash by proclaiming to have actually enjoyed their performance of the Ghostbusters theme. But even this didn’t stop the movement from growing.

Tired, dejected and miserable, Simon gave up his attempt to quash John and Edward’s supporters, and accepted the inevitable; he would be forced to record and release an album for the talentless creatures. He was not very happy.

And so it came to pass that John and Edward won the sixth edition of The X Factor. The campaigners had done it! They danced in the streets and made their joy known to one and all; for they had defeated the mighty music machine.

Poor Simon returned home and wept at the public’s decision. The same public he had served for years, providing them with artists such as Robson and Jerome. He felt used, betrayed and abandoned.

But then he remembered that his production company, SycoTV, received a massive cut of the phone-in profits, which ran into millions of pounds. So he stopped giving a shit.

The end.