What the hell is it with a 12 bar blues?

by Obnoxio the Clown

I have no idea why, but I am such a sucker for a 12 bar blues. I’m currently traversing approximately 12,000 songs on my iPod and rating them. Buried in there are a fair old number of blues tunes. Some of these I like and some of them I don’t, but I absolutely love any 12 bar blues.

From my dim and distant youth, I can also remember shipping over to a smoky nightclub every week for the blues night and loving everything, but especially loving 12 bar blues. From the simple, insistent, driving bass, the simple drumming, the discipline of the rhythm guitarist, the wailing inventiveness of the lead to the drawn-out climax of the song, I couldn’t get enough. And the 12 bar songs were always the jewels of the show for me, the other stuff was nice, but really it was just fluff, covering old standards like Route 66 were just to keep the some semi-commercial appeal in place.

So, the 12 bar blues: anyone know why it gives me such a thrill?

Rock vs. house

An interesting article from David Osler. Not sure I agree with his thesis, but not being a fan of house, I’m hardly an expert.

Anyway, go read.

Recommended by Obnoxio the Clown.

Decomposing composers

by Obnoxio the Clown

I’m trawling through my iPod at the moment, which is quite good fun: Mozart one minute, Peter Rauhofer the next. It was this strange pairing that left me struck by the similarity in visceral reaction I get from both some of my heaviest dance and some of my favourite classical music.

Bach and Mozart particularly had a talent of creating quite a driving beat, and I occasionally find myself almost “busting shapes” to Elvira Madigan or something equally unexpected.

Is it just me then?

Houses of the Holy

by Obnoxio the Clown

Bella’s post about “Achilles’ Last Stand” was curiously evocative for me.

I think I must have been about eight years old, visiting my grandparents, when the youngest of my mother’s brothers introduced me to real music.

And I have such strong memories, even now, of lying on the carpet (a hideous ’70s concoction of browns and oranges, occupied by heavy, dark wood furniture with green and beige fabric) looking at the cover of Houses of the Holy and trying to figure out what the hell was going on with those naked children climbing up the rocks. It was a beautiful sunny day and there were loads of kids running around outside, but somehow I was completely mesmerised by this strange music. Up until then, I’d only ever been exposed to ’60s and ’70s pop (and pap!) but this was alien and strange and very, very different.

It started off conventionally enough, apart from Robert Plant’s curious voice and the fact that the music was somehow better, more interesting than anything I’d ever heard.

And then there was this melancholy, wistful song. I’d heard any number of corny “slow songs” but this was just … different. It wasn’t cheesy. Everything was just so clear, so foreign to my young ears. But so bewitching.

And whereas I’d normally have moved off to do something different, I stayed and listened to the whole album. Track after track of something that grabbed me. I didn’t get tired of it.

But while there are some great tracks on the album, one stood out for me above all the rest:

It was scary. A song had never scared me before. I was freaked out. Sitting in a room with the doors open to let a breeze run through the house, sunlight streaming in through the windows and my mind was filled with snow and cold and terrible dangers and fear and dark Norse deeds.

Eventually the album finished and I did go run around outside.

But something changed forever that day. Houses of the Holy made me take music seriously, it made me realise that music could be something other than a background noise.

There are other Zep albums I like more, there are albums by other artists I like more, but I can’t remember where I heard them the first time.

Houses of the Holy will always be special to me, because it was the first time I really listened to real music.

On An Island

by Obnoxio the Clown

I’m afraid it’s time for a specialist rant again.

Roger Waters was (and probably still is) a real fucking bastard: a manipulative, bullying, uber-control-freak shithead with an ego the size of Jupiter; pernickety, difficult, abrasive and unpleasant. He was (and definitely still is) a genius as well.

Of all the members of Pink Floyd, he was probably the most mediocre musician. He made up for it with a capacity for composing and for steering and bullying greater musicians than he into his chosen musical direction.

He was, without a doubt, a complete cunt, who had, by the time “The Final Cut” was released, managed to eject Rick Wright from the band. He was probably the only reason why Pink Floyd broke up.

However, with all that, he was probably the only reason Pink Floyd was such a seminal and remarkable band. I am sure that the frustration and stress of having such a cunt making your life an outright fucking misery definitely inspired the band to greater heights, and of course, his positive contributions were in the quality of the writing he produced.

It was embarrassingly obvious to all just how important he was to Pink Floyd when “The Division Bell” was released: a technically superb, well-performed, well-produced, but utterly forgettable album which went nowhere, especially when compared to such masterpieces as “Dark Side of the Moon”, “Shine On, You Crazy Diamond” and, of course, “The Wall”. Even the much-maligned “Final Cut” was much more coherent and more musically interesting.

Many years on, and we come to the real subject of this rant. David Gilmour is a content and successful man: he tours his solo projects, he enjoys rapt acclaim for his breathtaking live acoustic shows, he is happily married and has a great relationship with his kids.

He has just produced a new album, called “On An Island”, which he co-wrote with his wife. Despite the fact that he’s as old as my father, his guitar playing is possibly better than it’s ever been. The album is beautifully produced and packaged, a joy on the eye and easy on the ear.

There’s only one problem, though.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

It’s fucking SHIT!!!!

Part of the greatness of Pink Floyd’s music is doubtlessly the competition between Waters and Gilmour to write and play the best tracks. It’s certainly clear to me that Gilmour after Pink Floyd wrote much less interesting music than when he was harbouring murderous thoughts about Waters. And his music has reached an all-time fucking low now, his biggest beef is whether or not it’s his turn to pack the fucking dishwasher. What kind of fucking inspiration is that?

He has repeatedly said that there is no way he’s working with Waters again, he’s done that and he’s moved on. David, you fucking need to get something a bit more challenging in your life than arguing with the missus about whose turn it is to do the cunting dishes.

Stop this fucking limp noodling around on your guitar and start fucking stretching yourself again, you lazy fucking CUNT.