The XX - 'Coexist' Review

Someone once asked me why I loved The XX so passionately, after all, it’s just a guy and girl singing over some basic distorted guitar chords and simple synth effects. I replied that that was why I loved them. This sounded far more poignant, and far less pretentious, in my head. My point still stands however. The XX pride themselves on making beautifully simple, beautifully haunting, beautifully beautiful music. They make music for your ears. Their music makes your ears happy, which in turn, makes you happy. It’s all in the maths. Their critically acclaimed 2009 debut shook the foundations of modern pop; a pleasingly ascetic 40 minute odyssey on sex, love and heartbreak. The likes of Crystallised, Islands and Shelter are now embedded in the public conscience. While the album wavered slightly towards the end, it finished spectacularly with the quiet masterpiece Stars, more than excusing the album’s minute flaws.

Coexist, one of my most anticipated albums of the year, is different. There are no stand-outs like Crystallised or Stars. It’s one of the most consistent albums I’ve heard in a while; I dare you to try and pick out a ‘filler’ track from any of its eleven. More notably, it’s one of the most consistently excellent albums I’ve ever heard; I dare you to try and pick out a track which isn’t fantastic. The heavenly opening, Angels, sets the tone perfectly; ‘And with words unspoken, a silent devotion, I know you know what I mean, and the end is unknown.’ A hopelessly romantic beginning, no?  These musically basic, but still brilliant, slower tracks, (Try, Missing) are this album’s eulogies to the ghosts of relationships past; heart-string tugging and profoundly moving tales of pain, misunderstanding, denial and emotional redemption. My favourite of these, and my favourite lyrically in the album, is Unfold; the now iconic psychedelic guitar in top form, Oliver Sim’s vocals are even more angsty than normal, Romy Madley Croft’s, even sexier, but the lyrics are incredible, the defining form of pseudo love-poetry for our generation; ‘In my head, you tell me things you’ve never said, and I choose to forget, and take the good and leave the rest.’ It ranks up there with Radiohead’s Motion Picture Soundtrack, Okkervil River’s A Stone and Airborne Toxic Event’s Sometime Around Midnight among my favourite love songs from the past twenty years.

It’s not just stunningly pretty melodies they’ve come up with, there are some pure pop and R&B tracks also. Jamie Smith has been one of the most in-demand DJs of recent years, and the experience he's gained on his turn-tabling travels has given The XX a new dimension; many of their new songs have cracking beats to match the synths, bass and guitar. One of the build-up songs on the album, Swept Away, is almost house music; an eclectic mix of the old and new, guitar, bass and the drum machine percussion. Reunion, another build-up song, even throws steel drums into the mix, and when the song kicks in around 2 minutes, I can guarantee it’s one of the most sensational climaxes in a track you’ll hear this year. Maybe, just maybe, my favourite song off the album is Fiction, the prime beneficiary of this beat improvement. The toe-tapping guitar soon gives way to Dizzee Rascal-lite beats, and then they combine flawlessly with the occasional rhythmic intrusion of a deep piano note. It’s... perfection. My ears weep for never again will they hear anything as aesthetically pleasing. The lyrics are, again, contemporary genius, a voice for the dissatisfied late teenage/early twenties romantic. Reality disappoints the fictitious illusions of chivalric, or ‘old school’, romance; ‘come real love, why do I refuse you? Cause if my fear’s right, I risk to lose you, and if I just might wake up alone, bring on the night.’ Sensually sad.

If you held a hypothetical gun to my head and told me to state my favourite song off the album, I’d say you were an idiot as an imaginary gun isn’t particularly intimidating, but if you asked politely, I might have to say Fiction. But I don’t want to. Coexist is my album of the year so far. Even with releases from Crystal Castles and The National, it will be extremely difficult to topple it from its esteemed throne. Buy it. For your ears’ sake.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 47

47. Casablanca

Casablanca is, not-undeservedly, regarded by many as the prime example of cinematic perfection. Flawlessly acted, written, photographed and directed, it’s perhaps aged, very slightly, if, indeed, at all. This acknowledged classic is not just an acting showcase for Bergman, America’s beloved innocent actress, that is, until she went and had sex with a man, that sinful little harlot, and Humphrey Bogart, although they do throw in two career-defining performances. Michael Curtiz also makes little attempt to overly influence the film’s structure and tone. Indeed, it’s the wonderful simplicity of its plot and characters which has caused such widespread reverence and adoration. Bogart’s lovelorn, snarky club-owner is the classic American-down-on-his-luck; Bergman’s shy, dissatisfied femme fatale is as equally iconic; the supporting characters, especially Sam the house pianist and Renault, the leader of the local law enforcement, are likably odd and friendly.

The story of choosing between, as referred to by one of the characters, ‘love and virtue’, is one more frequently over-used than ‘keep calm and carry on’ jokes, but never has it been so poignant, and so touching, than in Casablanca. Rick gives up his lost love, and very probably his last chance at happiness, but, in turn, this is because he refuses to give up the good in him, the good in mankind. While love acts as his temptation to give up his good nature, it is also the incentive for Rick to stick to his moral principles; it’s love which enables him to let Ilsa go. 

However, while the story and acting are strong, it’s the screenplay which stands out. Possibly the finest piece of writing to ever emerge from Hollywood, it’s flawlessly paced, structured and characterised; you can see the layout of each individual act tear through the seams of the fourth wall. It’s just perfect, there’s no other way to describe it. Pouring over it online, it becomes abundantly clear why it’s the textbook script choice for film schools. It understands its story and characters to an absolute tee, and it’s one of the most quoted (and misquoted) scripts in history. Like It’s a Wonderful Life, Casablanca was ‘just another Hollywood production’ with little expectation warranted at the time of its release. In spite of its three Academy Awards, it’s taken decades for its reputation to grow in stature. It remains at the top of many ‘Best of’ lists, and more importantly, it is easily one of my favourite films.

Cinderella - A Twisted Fairytale

Basically, I've been busy with other writing stuff recently, and so haven't had much time to update this blog, so to keep you good people entertained, I've got a short-story I wrote during my final school year for my English class. The class was tasked with twisting a common, popular fairytale, and this is my end-product. I hope it proves worth reading. I'll try and continue my 'Top 50 Films' list before I leave on holiday again. AS ever, enjoy!

Cinderella left Mawking Manor on July 18^th at precisely 5 o’clock of the pm. Of course, Cinderella wasn’t her real name. It was an affectionate title indebted to her by her close friends. She was granted this nickname due to her profession and personality; cleaner for the wealthy members of society, with big hopes and ambitions for her life. She was a daydreamer, and was frequently punished by her employers because of her tendency to escape into fantasy while on the job.

July 18^th was no different. While in the downstairs bathroom of the empty manor, she gently stroked her duster along the cold marble surfaces, her heart barely in her task. She had an audition for a soap opera the next day. She dreamed of fame; the echoing clicks of paparazzi cameras following her every move; the toy boys, or hopefully dream husband, trailing in her wake as she gracefully strides up the stairs of her very own manor. Maybe even this one. It would be like that movie Sunset Boulevard, which she vaguely remembers seeing when she was younger.

As she was about to leave, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Standing perfectly still, she stared. Her stained tracksuit bottoms, crop-top and apron were not particularly enticing, nor was her mussed hair and fading make-up. She screamed dramatically at the figure before her, and then started giggling. Humming optimistically, she locked the manor’s front door and left for the train station.

She returned to her flat in the city centre. It was Friday night, and she was going clubbing with her girlies. After applying her make-up, clambering into her glass heels, and changing into something less comfortable, she then caught herself in the mirror. ‘You’re drop-dead gorgeous’, she thought to herself. ‘You’re going to find your Prince Charming tonight. I can feel it’. She confidently pouted to herself, then left to meet her friends at the train station.

Suzanna and Megan were already there. They exchanged warped screams of joy at the sight of one another, and hugs made awkward by 7 inch heels.   ‘Hey honeys’,’ she declared enthusiastically, ‘how are you? Where we going tonight?’ ‘Megan’s found this great place that does 2 for 1 voddie shots on a Friday. I thought we could give that a go. I know how you like your voddie shots...’ replied Suzanna. There was an eruption of incessant giggling. ‘Just stop me if I have one too many like last time, girlies.’

In the taxi, their conversation turned to more serious matters. ‘Did you hear that John cheated on Emma?’ ‘No?’ ‘I know!’ ‘I always said that he was a dick. I never even knew he had a girlfriend when I went home with him. Though, in my defence, I was very drunk, and he is soooooo hot.’ ‘Megan, I warned you about him. Jesus, I’m like the godmother to you two. I will admit that he is pretty much fairytale-handsome.’ Megan leaned her head, while giggling, on Suzanna’s shoulder; ‘We love having you as our godmother though.’ Cinderella smiled. She asked ‘what’s this club called anyway?’ ‘The Ball.’

They managed to get in with minimum fuss. It was quite dark, an unnatural blue light acting as the only illumination; glass tables were distributed along the walls of the club, with a large dance-floor at its centre. The night was still young at this point, and the girls decided to pass the time by occupying a table and taking advantage of the Vodka Shots Friday Deal. An hour or two later, when the club was reasonably full, the girls, after putting on their less inverted shoes, took to the dance-floor. The club opted for underground drum-and-bass, rather than chart hits, which suited the girls, and Cinderella in particular, perfectly.

Feeling the rhythm circulate their tendons and muscles, they danced, the regular thump-thumps of the bass composing their decadent impulses. The LED lighting began. The song reached its climax; laughing and screaming with every hedonistic impulse, they gazed into each other’s crazed faces every millisecond the club vanished from light to darkness and back. It was at this moment, at the climax, that Cinderella caught a man staring at her. When the song ended, she laughed characteristically, and drew her hair away from her face. She perceptively noticed that he was still looking. She noticed that it was the ‘fairytale-handsome’ John. He looks especially ‘fairytale-handsome’ tonight, she thought to herself. In a schoolgirl gesture, she drew her finger to her mouth in accompaniment to a sly smirk in a half-intoxicated attempt at seduction. This telepathic flirtation continued for a few minutes until Megan became aware of what was happening. ‘Cindy, no. Please don’t.’ ‘What?’ Suzanna inquired. ‘Cindy and John are having eye-sex.’ ‘Oh for God’s sake, Cindy. Please promise me you won’t get mixed up with that?’ ‘Oh come on, it’s nothing.’ ‘Please, Cindy. You’ll only get hurt.’ ‘Fine, if it makes you feel better, I promise. Okay?’ John glanced at her again, and putting down his pint, licked the foam from his lips slowly, and contemplatively.

Megan and Suzanna ventured to the toilet to reapply their make-up. Cinderella checked her phone, changed into her glass heels, and pretended to be busy as John inevitably sat down, grinning. ‘Alright?’ Cinderella returned the grin, ‘yeah.’ ‘Cool, cool. Do you... wanna dance?’ Every word was uttered with a terrible bluntness masquerading as charm. ‘Sure.’ She took John’s offered hand and, together, they danced. Like peacocks attracting a mate, they showed their colours at a distance, but after a few minutes they crept closer together. She became immersed in his deep brown eyes, and she stroked his chest. She turned away and backed into him, his hands clutching her waist as she lifted her own onto his shoulders behind her. His hands moved over her body, grabbing everything, and she let him do so. He started to kiss her neck; she giggled and playfully drew away. He pulled her back and whispered sweet nothings in her ear; ‘you look well fit’. She smiled and grabbed her prince’s hand, dragging him through the crowded room towards the fire exit. She quickly glanced back to her table in time to see Megan shake her head in disbelief. They exited into the alleyway outside.

John immediately began to kiss her and, grabbing everything he could, gently pushed her against the wall opposite the door. Cinderella wallowed in sheer lust and allowed him. She started to slip her hand into his trousers, and drew him closer. John responded in kind, and slowly climbed her thigh with his hand until it was under her mini-skirt, and hard at work removing the final obstacle. She had descended into illusion, and being so enamoured, had no mind to stop him. His eyes told her that she loved him. He stopped suddenly, and drew back; hideous confusion and bewilderment etched on his face, followed by horrified realisation. ‘The Fuck...the fuck...? You’re one of...oh my god. That’s fucking sick. Get...get the fuck away from me. You...you fucking sick fuck.’ ‘Please.’ He grasped onto his arm as he tried to retreat. ‘Please don’t leave, I’ll do anything to you, I’ll...’ Reality hit Cinderella the same moment that John did. He spat on her collapsed body and, shaking his head and murmuring in shock, left the alleyway. Cinderella coughed up blood, and began to cry. She saw her reflection in one of the tops of the glass tables, which had been left outside. The  drop-dead gorgeous girl pitied her. She screamed as she threw one of her glass heels at that condescending figure, shattering the image. She lay in the alleyway, weeping, as a clock-tower somewhere in the city struck for midnight.

The Dark Knight Rises, but falls below my expectations

There remains nothing left to be said about Heath Ledger's performance in The Dark Knight. His extraordinary portrayal of Batman's most iconic enemy catapulted The Joker into the most esteemed circles of cinematic villainy. His nakedly evil charisma and pragmatism drives the film, which, even in hindsight, remains one of the best Hollywood blockbusters of all-time, the most exciting of its kind since Aliens. Batman Begins, my personal favourite of the trilogy, was unexpectedly political and relevant, almost, if you excuse the slang, 'artsy'. It's highly entertaining, and the most narratively coherent of the three, but it stands as a bold metaphor of the dangers of Capitalism and currency's chokehold on human existence. It's also very moving, exploiting the obvious humanity which makes Batman so much more relatable and appealling than most other Super Heroes. It's one of my favourite films of the Noughties, along with Nolan's second film, Memento. Nolan had a difficult task on his hands to match the quality of these movies with his third, and last, Batman film. Expectations were that he should exceed them; a near-impossible task, especially given the 'Third Part Curse', which seemingly plagues every trilogy save for Toy Story, and maybe Bourne. He fails.

The Dark Knight Rises is extremely disappointing, both as a filmic finale and as a film in its own right.

Nolan uses cheap plotting tricks and twists, and it quickly becomes clear that he ran out of ideas following the first two. The storyline is predictable; if you have even the most limited knowledge of the Batman universe, you should be able to realise what's around the corner. Each twist feels forced, surprising considering Nolan's previous successes with them; the warehouse explosion scene in The Dark Knight, the final reveal in The Prestige, and, basically, the entirety of Memento. The film trundles along confusedly, unsure of what it actually is. The transition between slower moments of (sadly cliched and now overly familiar) profundity concerning self-sacrifice, vigilante-ism and grief, and (the still compelling) action sequences is awkward and jolty, with obviously important scenes being ended abruptly, and edited for the sake of ramming-speed pacing.

The dialogue, although having never been Nolan's strongest suit, is particularly dreadful, hideously contrived and warped to move the story along as quickly as possible. There is no real flow, wit or intrigue in the script, just painful one-liners and boring monologues. The new characters are one-dimensional; Bane, with so much potential, is nothing more than a stereotypical anarchist-communist, who believes chaos is good for the common man, that the rich should be pay for being rich while others are poor, and so on and so forth. Blake, the beat-cop, is too perfect, too shiny. He is the modern, and actual, personification of the Harvey Dent White Knight of Gotham myth, except Nolan chooses this flawless hero trait as the character's sole backstory, rather than manipulating and twisting it like he did in the previous film in the creation of Two Face to symbolise man's natural corruption. Catwoman, although eh... aesthetically pleasing, is completely redundant and pointless in the plot's progression. Marion Cotillard's character cannot be adequately explained without mentioning spoilers, so I'll just say this; it's rubbish.

The film has its highlights; Caine, Bale and Oldman are as excellent as ever, and Tom Hardy, despite the cumbersome dialogue, is fantastic as Bane; his unique posh-Gypsy English accent and sad distant eyes inspires fascination, while his brooding hulk of a figure provokes fear and menace. As mentioned previously, the action scenes are still exciting, although not as clever as before.

The Dark Knight Rises is by no means a terrible movie, it's certainly above average when compared with your generic contemporary action film. It just feels as if it's trying too hard; too hard to be epic, too hard to be funny, too hard to be poetic, too hard to be emotional. It all too often descends into using monotonous, by-the-book narrative pressing, corny sentiments of patriotism/heroism or heavy-handed thematic exposition. In the end it's a confused, muddled mess, with some great set pieces, and some fantastic shots of Anne Hathaway's body parts in a tight, latex costume. At least we'll always have them. The film remains a complete cop-out, pandering to the box-office's unquenchable thirst for all things bigger but not necessarily better. Maybe Nolan made it as he did to appease Warner Brothers. Maybe it's the Batman film the public needed, not the Batman film the public deserved.

Mini Reviews #2

Same format as last time. 3 reviews, all less than, or equal to, 250 words. Enjoy.

The Counterfeiters

German cinema, and to a lesser extent, Spanish cinema, has always been the equivalent of the under-appreciated middle child in European film, with its intelligent, progressive, ambitious siblings, French and Italian cinema, taking most of the plaudits. This is in spite of Deutschland producing some of the most important and brilliant directors in film history, seemingly like clockwork; Fritz Lang, Wim Wenders, everyone’s favourite nutcase, Werner Herzog, and more recently, Olivier Hirschbiegel. I’d go as far as saying that it’s my third favourite country, cinematically at least, behind British and Korean. At the risk of sounding racist, German films are efficiently solid viewing. The Counterfeiters, a war drama about Jews who were recruited into a Nazi counterfeiting (funnily enough) operation tasked with destabilising the British and American economies, continues this trend. While it never quite flirts with the promised land of filmic greatness, it remains a well-acted, powerfully told insight into one of World War Two’s forgotten acts of bravery. There are excellent performances from Karl Markovics and August Diehl as two Jewish prisoners facing suitably difficult moral dilemmas; compromise your beliefs and survive, or martyr yourself as a hero for your cause. Devid Striesow is intriguingly complex as the officer in charge of the operation, sort of like a less charismatic, and chubbier, Oskar Schindler. He is utterly nonchalant about anti-semitism, and is only concerned with his personal success. The noirish, brass-focussed score is effective, and the ending, although predictable, is satisfying. A rewarding and moving, if not awe-inspiring, watch.

Tyrannosaur

Tyrannosaur is Paddy Considine’s (who I’ve met outside the Greggs on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow by the way. Through the medium of online journalism, it’s as good a situation as any for name-dropping) directorial debut, and to use an English colloquialism, it is an absolute corker.  After giving one of my all-time favourite performances in Dead Man’s Shoes, one of the most disturbing and gut-wrenching films ever made, Considine proves here that he has just as much ability behind the camera as in front of it. His camerawork in portraying working class England is, inevitably, reminiscent of his mentor Shane Meadows, but it works effortlessly in the development of the appropriately depressing setting, and the quality of his writing is perhaps, although not as funny, even better than his aforementioned tutor. Eddie Marsan, is back at his best here, playing, yet again, a creepy, sad, terrifying little man. He plays this role so often that I’m beginning to think he might well be a creepy, sad, terrifying little man... Peter Mullan, a consistently excellent actor and faithful Celtic season-ticket holder, is even better. His heavy Glaswegian accent emphasises his abhorrence, anger and bitterness towards everyone and everything and it is terrifying to behold, yet the warmth he occasionally shows also incites in him a deeply sympathetic character. The highlight however is Olivia Colman. No superlative can adequately describe her. Very probably the best performance by an actress I’ve seen. Just watch her. She is quite literally jaw-dropping. A free hug for whoever spots the Celtic scarf Easter egg.

Ironclad

Ironclad can be summed up very simply and easily. It’s really, really terrible. But it’s also very, very violent. Which, when I assume the adolescent, testosteroney version of myself, (the same badass version who takes criminal delight in driving through red lights in Grand Theft Auto IV, and killing spiders in the house without shedding a single tear out of overwhelming fear which has clearly, obviously never happened before), it actually makes it quite good. Yes, the acting, dialogue and pacing are all completely rubbish, but you don’t watch a film like Ironclad for a Shakespearean-quality character study. You watch it to cry out ‘OOFFTTT’ as a guy is pummelled into 4 feet of mud with his own leg by an ugly, crazed, bearded maniac. You watch it to proclaim ‘EEERRGHHHH’ as a warrior’s decapitated head is used as a small shield by his adversary. You watch it to yell ‘OH GEE WHILLICKERS’ as some randomer is strangled to death with his small intestine, while his friend intervenes by cutting every main artery of the strangler, deflating him like a gore-filled balloon. Maybe. I don’t know, this analogy isn’t going anywhere. Basically, you watch it for gallons of blood being sprayed over the camera lens, and plenty of limbs flying all over the place like they’re unfunny jokes in an episode of The Big Bang Theory. It delivers in the brainless entertainment stakes. If you want anything other than an ultra-violent crapfest, you’ll be sorely disappointed.

See? Quite violent...

Top 10 Albums of the Noughties

Exactly what the name dictates; no ‘best of’ albums, no compilations and no TV or film soundtracks/scores are allowed. 100 words or less on each album. I know, not exactly about film and TV... Now to start.

Honourable Mentions; 

• Turn on the Bright Lights,
• The Glow pt. 2,
• Crystal Castles,
• All Godspeed you Black Emperor albums

10. Broken Social Scene – Broken Social Scene

BSS’s best album may have just missed the cut off having appeared in 2010 (Forgiveness Rock Record), but this is still a stunning piece of work. Drew and Canning’s lyrics are delightfully complex, occasionally dark and profound, but also witty and humourous at times. Perhaps the album which defines their ‘sound’ most; the reverberated guitar and melancholic voices reeks of Sonic Youth, but there is something wonderfully eccentric and inspirational about their music, as opposed to Sonic’s less enthusiastic (to say the least) attitude. Swimmers and Fire Eye’d Boy are personal favourites. Very underrated, both the band, and the album.

9. For Emma, Forever Ago – Bon Iver

A more predictable choice, but really quite an inevitable one. Skinny Love is rightfully hailed as one of the finest love songs of the decade, but Flume and RE: Stacks are equally superb, and, in fact, Lump Sum might just be my favourite of the bunch. The guitar and lyrics are just superb; ‘In my arbour till my ardour trumped every inner inertia,’ is an inspired line. Although not technically a flaw, I did find it quite short and perhaps the album never reaches the dizzying heights of some further up the list, but it’s consistently excellent and thoroughly engaging.

8. Kingdom of Rust – Doves
 

I’ve always found it difficult to label The Doves. Equally alternative, prog-rock and punk, they certainly defy genre. What is definite is their status as one of the most brilliant rock bands of our generation. And this might well be their masterpiece. The epic, yet haunting, title track is an acknowledged classic, as are the likes of Winter Hill and Jetstream. I love The Outsiders though. The rhythm guitar, bass and percussion are sensational, and it’s one of their ‘punkier’ offerings. A band with plenty of variety, and plenty of quality.

7. The XX- The XX

The finest ‘easy listening’ album of the decade. The interplay between the instruments and the voices of Smith and Madley Croft is seamless and perfectly substantiates each other. Every song is relaxing and soothing, but retaining poignancy and originality in the process. They’re hardly vacuous. To describe it as beautifully moving would be a dangerous understatement; the romantic, yet angsty, lyrics, almost exclusively about sex and love, are heartbreakingly honest. Crystallised, Shelter and Islands rightfully have their plaudits, but Stars is their finest song. So very simple, quiet almost, yet so very, very powerful.

6. Funeral – Arcade Fire

Very probably my favourite ever ‘indie’ album. Arcade Fire are the voice of the generation in-between ‘Generation X’ and the Ipad generation; a group of people caught up in the clash of post-modernism and post post-modernism, screaming out in misunderstanding and anger. Win Butler may not be the best singer, but the passionate range of emotions evident in his voice is awe-inspiring. A work stripping the artificial pointlessness of modern society to the core. Wake Up, Rebellion (Lies), Neighbourhood 3 (Power on) and In the Backseat are particularly fantastic. They’re amazing live too.

5. Boxer – The National

The modern masters of alternative rock, they use piano and violins as main instruments, along with the more traditional choices, rather than using them as gimmicks in some half-hearted attempt at originality. Much like Doves, The National can do almost anything. Ranging from the slower, more touching and contemplative tracks (Fake Empire, Start a War) to percussion and guitar heavy anthems (Apartment Story, Squalor Victoria). Boxer is an incredibly clever and varied album. The song, Slow Show, also has my favourite ever lyric; ‘You know I dreamed about you; for 29 years before I saw you.’

4. Kid A – Radiohead

The first of 2 Radiohead albums on the list. (it was inevitable) Kid A was the album in which Radiohead showed that their mind-blowing genius was not limited to rock. They dabbled in electronica, and it paid off. Extremely original at the time, it still had the unique ‘Head feel, best displayed in their outstandingly odd lyrics. The National Anthem is possibly the most badass song ever written, Idioteque, the most disturbing, and Motion Picture Soundtrack, the most heartbreaking. Radiohead are commonly criticised as being pretentious. You are only pretentious when you don’t match your own hype. Radiohead exceed it.

3. Ghosts of the Great Highway – Sun Kil Moon

I’m going to go out on a limb here; Mark Kozalek’s ambitious project, Sun Kil Moon, is the most underappreciated band since The Smashing Pumpkins, maybe of all-time. He is certainly the best folk singer-songwriter I’ve heard and this is his best album. The weird thing is; neither his lyrics, nor his music, are all that ground-breaking. They do, however, work perfectly.  Every song is just so atmospheric, dark and intense, yet also extremely thought-provoking, and somehow, even beautiful. Carry me Ohio is one of my favourite songs, and Gentle Moon nearly had me in tears. Masterpiece.

2. ...Is a Real Boy – Say Anything

I’m not a fan of grunge/college rock. I hate bands like Blink 182, Green Day and Sum 41. Say Anything are different though. There is a wonderfully angsty, hate-filled quality to them, as if they despise everything ever other grunge band pretends to stand for. Not as much as they hate hipsters though; one must listen to Admit it! to fully realise this. Incredible song. Max Bemis is my favourite lyricist. I can’t even articulate why, just listen to the words he aggressively spews into the microphone, then you’ll understand. Also, Alive with the Glory of Love.

1. In Rainbows – Radiohead

All 10 individual songs are great in their own right, but together, as a single piece of work, it’s staggeringly good. Bodysnatchers has the best transition I’ve heard in any song, is just brilliantly insane anyways, and All I Need is maybe Radiohead’s greatest love song. Videotape is the best song ever written about death and the afterlife, while Jigsaw Falling into Place is also excellent. The highlight, however, is Reckoner. The best song I’ve ever heard; it’s ridiculously ambitious, yet completely flawless. The guitar and percussion defy hyperbole. Genius. No other term can suitably describe it.

Talent Shows: Why they don’t even warrant a witty, ironic article title.

As you are probably aware, I love to hate things. I especially love to express why I hate them. As you are also probably aware of, the easiest thing to hate currently, is reality TV, and more specifically, ‘talent shows.’ These two concepts collide in this article, in one incoherent, incomprehensive, unstructured, potentially offensive rant. You should have seen this coming...

There appears to have emerged a pattern in the Devlin household over recent weeks. Every Saturday night, the family settles in front of the television with dinner to watch The Voice; providing sustenance to our bodily functions while watching literal crap which makes us want to immediately return our in-the-process-of-being-digested food to our plates in the quickest and most unsatisfying way possible; hereby, defining ‘multitasking’. This is not the only recurrence. After roughly ten minutes into the crapfest each week, I am exiled from the living room. My crime; making one too many cynically snide remarks about everyone and everything in relation with reality television. My punishment; being forced to do something useful/fun.

First off, it’s worth pointing out that reality TV, in fact, does not exist. It is an advert; an illusion cast over the TV-watching populace by the types of big-shot TV network executives who light their Cuban cigars with burning £50 notes while guffawing and shaking hands with each other over a manipulation job well done. It cannot exist. Yes, the people you see on your telly screen do actually exist and, yes, perhaps what occurs in ‘real-time’ might not be scripted, but it is still not reality. This is because of the editing process. In editing, the producers can use and change a variety of camera angles and shots, musical cues, snippets of interviews here and there, sound effects etc, all of which influence your opinion of the person or situation. Would that specific person’s story be less touching if Sigur Ros’ Hoppipolla wasn’t playing in the background? You think what the producers want you to think. There is no personal input. Reality TV should consist of infinite possibility, only limited by the scope and imagination of the viewer. The reality (lol) is that reality TV is a linear road, along which everyone must travel in the exact same way. There is also the factor that the people on our screens may be lies, a character portrayed to gain our approval and affection, with their true face deeply hidden behind a likable exterior.  Reality TV is an impossibility.

Now to the morality of the thing. One of the things I most despise about being alive in general, is when people say to me that something is their ‘guilty pleasure.’ I really hate this. Either accept it as a pleasure, as something you enjoy. Don’t feel guilty about enjoying yourself, unless it’s something harmful, then instead of enjoying yourself while doing it and adding a few headaches of guilt along the way, don’t do it. It’s actually really, really simple. It’s as black and white as that. One of the most common ‘guilty pleasures’ is watching reality TV shows. The term ‘guilty pleasure’ seems to act as some form of justification for watching it; they’re basically saying ‘I know it’s malicious, stupid, mind-numbing, scripted, superficial, shallow, obsessed with humanity’s flaws, and money-grabbing, but it’s okay because it’s kinda’ entertaining, in a brainless way.’ That’s another term associated with reality TV which infuriates me; ‘brainless entertainment.’ Understandably, I have no quarrel with the first word, it’s the second I dispute and for which I provide an antithesis. Have we really descended, as a species, to the point where we find hopelessly deluded, yet innocent, social exclusions coming onto our screens to simultaneously be humiliated in front of millions of people while having their only dream, their only solace in their lives, snatched away from them, spat on, thrown to the ground, stamped on, and laughed at by the British populace, entertaining? Do we really want to watch some arrogant ‘LAD’ take off his shirt and molest an audience of thousands with his repulsively disillusioned sexuality? And then vote for him so he can do the exact same thing next week?  Do we really want to encourage people that these judges are actually important and interesting individuals? After all, there are only ever 3 types of judge on talent shows; The Good, Quiet, Relatable Man, The Cocky, Boring Man Who Never Smiles, and lastly, The Woman Who Slept Around A Lot And Got Lucky By Getting A Record Deal And Not A Fatal STD. The entire thing disgusts me. These producers are parading humanity at its worst on our television screens, proclaiming it to be entertainment, and we just lap it up.

Perhaps reality TV’s biggest crime, is convincing us that it actually matters; that we should care about the show and the people on it. One just needs to glance at one of the tabloid rags to see that some detestable fool with the IQ of a shoebox getting kicked off ‘Pleaz Let Me Sing Out Loud And Really Loudly Pleaz, Coz my Third Unkle Died 9 Years Ago’ taking page 1, while news about further massacres in Syria takes page 7. I don’t care if your dream is to sing. My dream is to have a special metabolism which means I can eat all the Mini Cheddars I want, and never have to care about imploding. It’s not going to happen. I’ve come to terms with that. (At least after a rather extended mourning period) Your dream probably isn’t even to sing. It’s most likely to have lots of money, sex and drugs, and singing seems the way to achieve this goal with the minimum requirement of effort needed. God, I hate you hypothetical contestant.

Depressing as it might seem, maybe this isn’t the worst of humanity. Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you welcome to post post-modern humanity. John Sullivan posits; ‘Are we so raw? It must be so. There are simply too many of them-too many shows and too many people on the shows-for them not to be revealing something endemic. This is us, a people of savage sentimentality, weeping and lifting weights.’

Yaaaaaaayyyyyy...

The future looks bright.

 This is a good example. I always feel so sorry for these people.