As is typical when you’re in the final throes of an unbelievably hectic final university term, replacing Topshop (read. Primark) sprees with hours spent in the library and nights out clutching a can of red bull to reading texts with a hot water bottle and pints of tea, much procrastination has occurred.
In this instance, it’s pretending that I do still have a semblance of a life beyond electronic journals and hassling people for books via the library catalogue. I’ve rounded up a few quality tunes which make me want to fling off my tatty dressing gown and slap on a few layers of warpaint before bodypopping like a fool all over somewhere with sticky floors. A girl’s got to get her kicks somewhere.
First up, British rapper Example with Won’t Go Quietly. I can only describe that my initial reaction upon hearing this was all to similar to when my eardrums were first confronted with the sheer europop genius of Infinity (Guru Josh Project). It may not be a saxophonic cheese fest but it’s loaded up on pumping beats, slightly sardonic rapping and an almost Eric Prydz tinge to it. It’s also jammed with continual climaxes that keep building to yet another slice of atmospheric, properly perfect, “modern pop’. So good I played it 15 times before breakfast.
Being a self confessed spotify addict, I can’t believe how late I’ve been in hearing about this next little gem. Sub Focus’s Could This Be Real. It’s like the 90s has been dug out of the compilation classics, dusted down and suited up in a natty little drum and bass, electro-y attire. It’s a winning combo on all fronts. There’s just something about those pounding keyboards smooshed in next to rub a dub dub bass. Lovely.
I’m not going to leave without a serious doseage of Stilton-esque cheese. NKOTB (to give them their grown up, “edgy” acroynm), rocked my socks off last year with their extremely polished production of their long-awaited (I’m serious) comeback album. Perhaps a summary of the greatest tracks on that album deserves another blog, but a lull in wikipedia trawling lead to the discovery of this opening track Click Click Click from the album, imaginatively titled The Block. It’s got dirty old American smoothie stamped all over it. Following the premise of a bloke taking pictures of his girlfriend getting ready, Donnie and co not only namedrop a whole host of camera manufacturers but pull some serious amazing shapes in the video shown below. This is an irresistible guilty pleasure that pumps with intrigue and drips with a sheen of sleaze.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Saturday 12 December 2009
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Bad Lad Beyonce: Welcome to the Gun Show
The latest in drop-dead-diva offerings has just pulled up on YouTube. The devilish combination of Beyonce and Lady (go away now) Gaga just conjures up images of sleek choreography, some mild soft porn-esque gyration with hawt backing dancers and a wardrobe of outfits your Blackpool transvestites would be gagging to get their paws on.
“Videophone” offers all that and more. A lot more. As if the outrageously sexual lyrics weren’t quite titillating enough – “What, you want me naked? If you liking this position you can tape it on your video phone” – Gaga and Beyonce send out a big, fat, friendly salute to the gun toting freaks crouching in America’s extremist corners by prancing around with a whole medley of different coloured plastic guns. And bows and arrows. And a man on a target pierced through with tens of arrows. Tastefully done girls.
At completely the opposite end of the spectrum, 50 Cent does his little best to put a domestic spin on the down and dirty world of hip hop and R’n’B Beyonce’s just trawled through the mud. OK, his new song may be suggesting you get sperminated by the man himself, but there’s minimal boob shots and no poledancing in his latest vid. Even Beyonce’s ex-Destiny’s band mate Kelly Rowland turns up in best babymama form.The highlight? Toddler triplets decked out in their best little woolly jumper combos.
One word. A-DORABLE.
If this is the future of hip hop, let’s hope its Fiddy who’s pushing the pram in a cleaner, and at very least gun free, direction rather than running off on Toys R Us sponsored gun spee. Bless his cotton socks.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
“Videophone” offers all that and more. A lot more. As if the outrageously sexual lyrics weren’t quite titillating enough – “What, you want me naked? If you liking this position you can tape it on your video phone” – Gaga and Beyonce send out a big, fat, friendly salute to the gun toting freaks crouching in America’s extremist corners by prancing around with a whole medley of different coloured plastic guns. And bows and arrows. And a man on a target pierced through with tens of arrows. Tastefully done girls.
At completely the opposite end of the spectrum, 50 Cent does his little best to put a domestic spin on the down and dirty world of hip hop and R’n’B Beyonce’s just trawled through the mud. OK, his new song may be suggesting you get sperminated by the man himself, but there’s minimal boob shots and no poledancing in his latest vid. Even Beyonce’s ex-Destiny’s band mate Kelly Rowland turns up in best babymama form.The highlight? Toddler triplets decked out in their best little woolly jumper combos.
One word. A-DORABLE.
If this is the future of hip hop, let’s hope its Fiddy who’s pushing the pram in a cleaner, and at very least gun free, direction rather than running off on Toys R Us sponsored gun spee. Bless his cotton socks.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Friday 27 November 2009
I Heart You JM
Let’s play a word association game. I say John Mayer. You say…Love Rat? Jennifer Aniston? Waste of space?
How about guitar genius, Clapton prodigy and man who puts pen to more achingly heart felt trips along a fret and back than whoever writes Leona Lewis’s stuff. What’s more, my mum loves him. Enough said.
Mayer’s fourth album, whose step by step process his hardcore fan contingent were able to track on a daily basis via his infamously mouthy Tweets, is described by the man himself as a “heartbreak handbook.” Its worth having a listen to for trying to pinpoint any snide points towards the Aniston, (“Friends, Lovers or Nothing, anyone?) and with the clue in the title, it seems theirs wasn’t the smoothest of love nests. Liberal references to warfare and combat are scattered all over the album, but if you’re looking for hardcore thrashing anger, step away.
Continuing in the vein of previous album Continuum Mayer checks into his very own Heartbreak Hotel on Battle Studies with a heart-stopping combination of dreamy, blowsy blues and softly radiating harmonies. So-laid-back-its-horizontal first single “Who Says” causes controversy as it shuffles along; Mayer’s very own “pot song”, rather than being a monument to his own bad boy-ness, seeps through the speakers with the same relaxing effect.
The real USP of this album is how Mayer can seamlessly segue from one genre to another, linked by the common theme of his breathy, heartfelt vocals and guitar solos which escalate towards emotive climaxes. He meanders down a country route with new friend Taylor Swift, who provides guest vocals on “Half of my Heart” and covers a Cream classic on “Crossroads”; the latter showcasing a step up to tight, catchy riffs and throwback to some serious seventies-esque guitar snobbery.
Highlights of the album include “Assasin”, a track that wanders from the contemplative to the caustic with spine tingling emotion, and next single “Heartbreak Warfare” which has classic Mayer stamped all over it. Ebbing guitars, marching drums and beautiful imagery ease you into a record which isn’t just your average easy listening album. It’s an education.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
How about guitar genius, Clapton prodigy and man who puts pen to more achingly heart felt trips along a fret and back than whoever writes Leona Lewis’s stuff. What’s more, my mum loves him. Enough said.
Mayer’s fourth album, whose step by step process his hardcore fan contingent were able to track on a daily basis via his infamously mouthy Tweets, is described by the man himself as a “heartbreak handbook.” Its worth having a listen to for trying to pinpoint any snide points towards the Aniston, (“Friends, Lovers or Nothing, anyone?) and with the clue in the title, it seems theirs wasn’t the smoothest of love nests. Liberal references to warfare and combat are scattered all over the album, but if you’re looking for hardcore thrashing anger, step away.
Continuing in the vein of previous album Continuum Mayer checks into his very own Heartbreak Hotel on Battle Studies with a heart-stopping combination of dreamy, blowsy blues and softly radiating harmonies. So-laid-back-its-horizontal first single “Who Says” causes controversy as it shuffles along; Mayer’s very own “pot song”, rather than being a monument to his own bad boy-ness, seeps through the speakers with the same relaxing effect.
The real USP of this album is how Mayer can seamlessly segue from one genre to another, linked by the common theme of his breathy, heartfelt vocals and guitar solos which escalate towards emotive climaxes. He meanders down a country route with new friend Taylor Swift, who provides guest vocals on “Half of my Heart” and covers a Cream classic on “Crossroads”; the latter showcasing a step up to tight, catchy riffs and throwback to some serious seventies-esque guitar snobbery.
Highlights of the album include “Assasin”, a track that wanders from the contemplative to the caustic with spine tingling emotion, and next single “Heartbreak Warfare” which has classic Mayer stamped all over it. Ebbing guitars, marching drums and beautiful imagery ease you into a record which isn’t just your average easy listening album. It’s an education.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Monday 9 November 2009
How can I justifiably like this song?
Don’t you love the discovery of a new song it’s impossible to stop playing? Its even better when that song is about as cool as Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen on a turquoise flame striped Harley Davidson wearing pink leather and a glitter encrusted helmet. This song might just make you cringe as much as that dire mental image.
I’m not entirely sure how I made it to the grand old age of 21 without discovering the beauteous joy that is THE Michael Bolton, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere. Since a massive essay procrastination lead to the creation of a proper Dad-rock style music playlist, my fingers haven’t stopped tapping my keyboard to the rhythmic riffs of mad ‘80s rockers with even madder ‘80s hair. The “woah woahs” are to die for, the banging drums spinetingling and the synths positively toe curling. Oh Michael.
For said playlist, charge up your spotify and have a listen. Its well good, promise.
spotify:user:mirande:playlist:0rznbF8MwM2vynUy5SRnIi
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
I’m not entirely sure how I made it to the grand old age of 21 without discovering the beauteous joy that is THE Michael Bolton, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere. Since a massive essay procrastination lead to the creation of a proper Dad-rock style music playlist, my fingers haven’t stopped tapping my keyboard to the rhythmic riffs of mad ‘80s rockers with even madder ‘80s hair. The “woah woahs” are to die for, the banging drums spinetingling and the synths positively toe curling. Oh Michael.
For said playlist, charge up your spotify and have a listen. Its well good, promise.
spotify:user:mirande:playlist:0rznbF8MwM2vynUy5SRnIi
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Friday 6 November 2009
Flaming Nora
I just came home from an oh-so-British evening of fun and frolics: Tar barrel burnings at Ottery St Mary, a quaint as you like village snuggled away in the hilly crevices of rural Devon.
The point of the evening is the remembrance of the 5th November, when back in the days (1605), some cheeky Catholics tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament and take King James I down with it. However, the plot was discovered and this massive fail of a terrorist plot has been marked for centuries since by bonfires all over England and weird and wonderful local traditions…which brings me back to Ottery St Mary.
This Devon village likes more than a dollop of danger with their Bonfire Night, taking the form of flaming tar barrels hoisted on the backs of strapping young locals (and a few crustier elderly specimens) who then galumph around the village through hordes of gawping tourists regardless of any ridiculous Health and Safetey regulations.
My highlight of the evening? The adrenalin rush provided when my housemates and I found ourselves cowering on the floor of a tiny lane as a maniac with flaming wood tangled in his manical grasp swung his arms around our heads. That, and a serious neck crick on the very old school Waltzer rides on the fairground.
I love Britain.
I also really really love this song at the moment. Quality chill out shizzle, bumping drums and twinkling guitars more than soothe away any recurring visions of flashing flames and approaching burning heat.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
The point of the evening is the remembrance of the 5th November, when back in the days (1605), some cheeky Catholics tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament and take King James I down with it. However, the plot was discovered and this massive fail of a terrorist plot has been marked for centuries since by bonfires all over England and weird and wonderful local traditions…which brings me back to Ottery St Mary.
This Devon village likes more than a dollop of danger with their Bonfire Night, taking the form of flaming tar barrels hoisted on the backs of strapping young locals (and a few crustier elderly specimens) who then galumph around the village through hordes of gawping tourists regardless of any ridiculous Health and Safetey regulations.
My highlight of the evening? The adrenalin rush provided when my housemates and I found ourselves cowering on the floor of a tiny lane as a maniac with flaming wood tangled in his manical grasp swung his arms around our heads. That, and a serious neck crick on the very old school Waltzer rides on the fairground.
I love Britain.
I also really really love this song at the moment. Quality chill out shizzle, bumping drums and twinkling guitars more than soothe away any recurring visions of flashing flames and approaching burning heat.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Sunday 1 November 2009
self gratification
DISCLAIMER: The image hosted on my blog is not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Friday 30 October 2009
Le Corps Mince de Francoise: Review 28/10/09 The Cavern, Exeter
Is there anything better than a band with a completely off the wall name? What about one that manages to put their tinny recordings to complete shame with a vibrant, unforgettable live show? At their LoFi Cavern appearance electro pop trio Les Corps Mince de Francoise managed to achieve both. Meaning “the thin body of Francoise”, les filles Norwegians were anything except skinny and feeble with a full on, full fat performance. Pummelling the living daylights out of their inexhaustible number of instruments they produced an inordinately catchy set which left any number of body parts twitching long after they’d left the stage.
Before you rush off to the internet to get your online fill, I’ve got to warn that any number of demos or tracks do no justice to the delicious layering offered up by their live shows. Get beyond the amalgamation of androgynous howling to the real deal which even includes a cheeky bit of French rapping. Opening with “Ray Ban Glasses”, the snappy beats managed to elicit lounging indie kids from darkened corners, and as the show went on, more and more were pulled to the electric fizz the girls were effervescing with. Classic electro floorfillers “Bitch of the Bitches” went down as a particular highlight with its skipping drums and chattering vocals. The set bounded with bunny like enthusiasm through a veritable mash up of genres ranging from Ace of Base-esque beats ( I kid you not) via some bouncy bhangra right up to some classic La Roux styled electro pop.
LCMDF are angels with dirty beats and ragged tights; dip your toe in their swirling pool of music potluck for lasting feel good sensations.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.
Sunday 25 October 2009
Lash, Banter, Bolt…Error
Borrowing from Exeter university’s attempt at making not drinking “trendy” and down with the kids y’all, it was going to have to be mentioned at some point. I am a student and…I do not drink.
Not drinking and being a student conjures up many perceptions. Either you’re some weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon or you’re a weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon. Or else you’re some absolute legend who drank so much they landed up allergic to vodka. I’ve heard all the urban myths.
I’d like to classify myself in that second category, but not as some kind of twisted self compliment. Believe me; I used to be first in line to throw myself on the lash. Ever since I could get my sticky hands on a peachy bottle of Bacardi Breezer, I’ve embraced the drinking culture. Collecting shots of people’s drinks at pubs? Yesssss. Netball initiation? Yup. Shit mix in a kettle? Yumtown.
I suppose it all culminated last year in the glorious ten months I spent abroad in France. Every moment I spent was one of the best in my life, whether skiing fresh powder in the Alpes, splashing in the Mediterranean or chilling with a baguette and cheese in a park. And in every single situation I took advantage of alcohol on offer; whether a tummy warming vin chaud or a cheapy bottle of wine – ONE EURO! I still can’t get over it – where it got to the point that alcohol was a frequent, regular, even unavoidable occurrence. My 21st birthday was even nicknamed “J’adore bingedrinking”, a celebration of the British stereotype and another excuse to get absolutely shit faced with an amazing group of friends. I don’t regret any moment of my year abroad but every gulp of alcohol I chugged down was seriously put into perspective when I was hospitalised for 5 days at the end of Freshers’week with a thing called pancreatitis. What a bloody palaver.
To cut a long and dramatic story short, (having projectile vomited across A&E, turned yellow after a morphine reaction and suffered the most gut wrenching stomach ache of life), the doctors announced, in a very dramatic Slovakian delivery that I was to “stay very far from the alcohol.” Of course I burst into tears. It felt like an extremely painful break-up, the end of me and my long love affair with booze. The current prognosis is that I have to avoid alcohol indefinitely, much to the horror of many of my friends. “YOU…not drinking?” tends to be the general reaction my sober state incites. What about all those nights on the lash? The morning-after recollections where you try to relive the banter of the previous night? Frozen margaritas, fruity Pimms and fabulous glasses of champagne? Not for me anymore.
I’d like to say that I’ve embraced the not drinking. Schloer (a grapey, tangy wine-alike), is my new best friend, and instead of downing Jaegerbombs it’s simply shots of Red Bull to keep me going throughout the night. Nights out are surprisingly terrific; I still dance like an absolute maniac and I still do completely twattish things, but with a heavier wallet and a generally lighter countenance – see you later wine wobbles! The only thing I’d swap back for is the power to sit through drunken monologues without the unbearable itch to grab a glass and wallow in deep and meaningful conversation. Whatever happens with my pancreas, it’s been amazing to know that I can survive social excursions without being fuelled by a bottle of plonk. I’d advise anyone to give it a go.
Not drinking and being a student conjures up many perceptions. Either you’re some weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon or you’re a weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon. Or else you’re some absolute legend who drank so much they landed up allergic to vodka. I’ve heard all the urban myths.
I’d like to classify myself in that second category, but not as some kind of twisted self compliment. Believe me; I used to be first in line to throw myself on the lash. Ever since I could get my sticky hands on a peachy bottle of Bacardi Breezer, I’ve embraced the drinking culture. Collecting shots of people’s drinks at pubs? Yesssss. Netball initiation? Yup. Shit mix in a kettle? Yumtown.
I suppose it all culminated last year in the glorious ten months I spent abroad in France. Every moment I spent was one of the best in my life, whether skiing fresh powder in the Alpes, splashing in the Mediterranean or chilling with a baguette and cheese in a park. And in every single situation I took advantage of alcohol on offer; whether a tummy warming vin chaud or a cheapy bottle of wine – ONE EURO! I still can’t get over it – where it got to the point that alcohol was a frequent, regular, even unavoidable occurrence. My 21st birthday was even nicknamed “J’adore bingedrinking”, a celebration of the British stereotype and another excuse to get absolutely shit faced with an amazing group of friends. I don’t regret any moment of my year abroad but every gulp of alcohol I chugged down was seriously put into perspective when I was hospitalised for 5 days at the end of Freshers’week with a thing called pancreatitis. What a bloody palaver.
To cut a long and dramatic story short, (having projectile vomited across A&E, turned yellow after a morphine reaction and suffered the most gut wrenching stomach ache of life), the doctors announced, in a very dramatic Slovakian delivery that I was to “stay very far from the alcohol.” Of course I burst into tears. It felt like an extremely painful break-up, the end of me and my long love affair with booze. The current prognosis is that I have to avoid alcohol indefinitely, much to the horror of many of my friends. “YOU…not drinking?” tends to be the general reaction my sober state incites. What about all those nights on the lash? The morning-after recollections where you try to relive the banter of the previous night? Frozen margaritas, fruity Pimms and fabulous glasses of champagne? Not for me anymore.
I’d like to say that I’ve embraced the not drinking. Schloer (a grapey, tangy wine-alike), is my new best friend, and instead of downing Jaegerbombs it’s simply shots of Red Bull to keep me going throughout the night. Nights out are surprisingly terrific; I still dance like an absolute maniac and I still do completely twattish things, but with a heavier wallet and a generally lighter countenance – see you later wine wobbles! The only thing I’d swap back for is the power to sit through drunken monologues without the unbearable itch to grab a glass and wallow in deep and meaningful conversation. Whatever happens with my pancreas, it’s been amazing to know that I can survive social excursions without being fuelled by a bottle of plonk. I’d advise anyone to give it a go.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
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