Stihl -- Love Is Like Cancer.
Stihl -- Drizzle Dazzle.
Stihl play tonight at the Chain Drive @ 9:00, and it's free -- as always. Sadly, we're not djing this night anymore -- but our replacement, John Gomi, promises to deliver. Also on the bill: Mistress Stephanie and Her Melodic Cat and Drop Dead Steady.
In HIGH DEMAND (and possibly C&D territory...) today:
Jarvis Cocker -- The Lion and Albert. Jarv has cautionary tale for you for you, children. Do pay attention. (info)
Architecture in Helsinki -- Do the Whirlwind (YACHT Remix)/Architecture in Helsinki -- Do the Whirlwind (Hot Chip Remix). Because, clearly, you need these both. (info) (remixer/remixer)
Irene -- Little Things (Mike Downey Remix). Oh, land's sakes, I think this is exactly what remixes of dour, deadpan Swedish surf pop are supposted to sound like. No, I'm not kidding! (RIYL Jens Lekman, Suburban Kids With Biblical Names.) (site)
BONUS: It behooves you to fall in love with Sally Shapiro. NOW!
That's all for today. Lately, I'm slogging through Rip It Up and Paste It Back Together With A Really Bad Over-Ambitious, Over-Arching Theme -- er, I mean, Simon Reynolds' Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-84, which takes a really, really interesting subject, and makes it completely dull and dry. I'm sticking with it, only because I waited so long to get it out of the library. But really -- it feels like a school assignment, as the only thing I've really taken away from the thing is a slightly better understanding of punk's six months of validity and the rise of Thatcherism. The rave reviews really puzzle me -- is it because Reynolds got there first? Or because he attempts to legitimize the music by burying it in history? Are there better books on the same subject that lie somewhere between this kind of flaccid "social history" and the incoherent "oral history" that came before? Please let me know. And maybe I'm so peeved because even the too-short music documentary Made In Sheffield, which I watched the day I started reading Rip It Up, was more enriching and satisfying. (Totally worth it to see Jarvis and Saskia Cocker being adorable in the bonus bits. And to remember that Phil Oakey is still HOTT!) Perhaps the history of post-punk is best left to the documentary filmmakers? Thoughts?