Song, by Toad

Archive for the Rambling category


Back to, Erm, ‘Normal’ Then


Hello folks, well I am back in my office now and, well, as ready for business as I ever am.

As you can imagine, Rust2Rome was absolutely incredible. I am not going to go on about it too much, as I already covered it plenty on my Tumblr site so if you are interested here are all the posts tagged with R2R so you can see what we got up to (in reverse chronological order of course).

Anyhow, back to business. We have a gig coming up on Saturday with the awesome Songdog, Aberdonian prodigy Best Girl Athlete and Edinburgh’s Grayson King. It’s a fiver in, and will be fucking ace.

I have packed away our camping stuff for a little while, and Bette is quietly resting. She hit the 280,000 mile mark on the way back from Paris, and I reckon with Rust2Romania and a wee trip to Norway in the Autumn she might just hit 300,000 this year, which will be cause for celebration indeed. Tough old bird that she is.

One of my favourite aspects of Rust2Rome was the way every so often someone would have a wee peak under the bonnet to confirm that actually, no, she really did just have a 2L, four cylinder Volvo engine under there. There were no mods and there was no V8.  Snigger. She’s just driven by a fucking lunatic that’s all.

Anyhow, as I prepare to commence the serious business of record labelry once more, here are a couple of highlights from the mixtapes I made to go away with. Fucking TUNES!



Rust2Rome T-Shirts – The Crapper the Car the Greater the Glory


First off, sorry to the music people, but this post has absolutely nothing to do with music. Secondly, sorry to the Rust2Rome people for making you come to a site which is all about music you probably hate just to buy a t-shirt, but I wasn’t sure where else was best to put this.

But in short: I have made some Rust2Rome t-shirts (navy with white print) and hoodies (blue with *kinda* silver print) with a scribble of the Black Pearl and the motto “The Crapper the Car the Greater the Glory”, which you can buy below if you fancy.

I’ll be back on Rust2Rome again this year, in Bette once more, doing the Swiss Alps route and then again on the veterans Rust2Romania trip as well, and Mrs. Toad in all her glorious indifference will be with me on the second one. I’ll be coming to the leaving parties too, so I’ve broken these down into two categories: I can post you the shirts out, or if you’d rather save the postage I can just bring them to the leaving parties and hand them over – just let me know in the Paypal comments when you complete the transaction – there is an option to send a message to the seller.

I am sorry the buttons look such a fucking mess, but Paypal embed codes and this site seem to absolutely hate one another.

Anyhow, if you want me to just hand-deliver them, use the Paypal buttons below:





And if you’d rather I just posted it out to you, then use these ones:





And here are a few pics:


I Think I’m Starting to Suffer From Fucking Stockholm Syndrome

pimms It’s funny how these things go in circles. I am not actually all that English. I have dual nationality (my father is Canadian) and was raised in Austria and Singapore. My mum’s family are all English, but I have lived there for no more than about seven years of my adult life, and a lot of that was in London, which doesn’t especially feel part of England really.

I’ve always embraced a lot of the English sides to my heritage – football, music, stuff like that – but I grew up in a time when the Falklands war, bacon-faced football hooligans and Maggie Thatcher also represented England and given that Canada is about as politically innocuous as anywhere in the world (although don’t look too closely at the current government when you say that) and that Vienna was my home at the time, I never thought of myself as particularly English when I was growing up. In fact I was actively fucking embarrassed by the English people at my school who kept going on about baked beans and god knows what and even singing Rule Britannia at times to express just how wonderful things were back in Blighty. We lived in fucking Vienna, for fuck’s sake, how can you possibly pine for fucking Nottingham or wherever the fuck it was when you live in Vienna?

The only thing which really ‘turned me English’, funnily enough, was moving to Scotland. I don’t know where I got my accent from, but I suspect it was the BBC World Service. In our last couple of years at school a lot of the kids rather inexplicably affected American accents and that irritated me so much I very determinedly turned away from it, and I think the only real alternative influence I had back then was probably listening to the football on the World Service. That’s a guess, but it sounds plausible.

Anyhow, when I moved to Glasgow to study at age eighteen I was introduced to the ‘English Cunt’ school of Scottish hospitality. Partly, I suppose, because I was well into my football but also just because that’s how it seemed to work in Glasgow, I was just English. For the first little while I would answer that hyper-aggressive ‘hoi you – are you fucking English?’ question with a factual response. ‘No not really. I’ve never really lived there and I’m half Canadian, but I was actually raised in Austria’.

That wasn’t the point of the question, of course. It was just good old-fashioned Scottish racism. And don’t give me that shit about ‘prejudice + power’ and being a Western white man I can’t possibly be the victim of racism, because when you sound like I do and you’re in a pub in a ropey part of Glasgow watching an English football match on the telly surrounded by people pricking their ears up at your accent you’d be straining credulity to suggest that I was the one with the power in that particular situation. It wasn’t especially bad most of the time, but there were definitely times when it was very oppressive and some where it was actually pretty fucking scary.

And as I assume a lot of people who have been mocked, attacked or just generally singled out for something they can’t really change will tell you, it makes you jumpy about everyone, even in a small way, but it also has a habit of cementing your relationship with whatever it is you’re being singled out for. English? Fucking English? Yes, fuck you I’m English, what are you, fucking Sherlock fucking Holmes. Getting constant hassle for being English made me defiantly embrace my English side, even though it was never something I really identified with before.

Anyone who listens to the podcasts regularly will know I still hold onto a couple of the sillier stereotypes I ended up embracing during that time, but that’s kind of what it does, I guess. You either start apologising for something you can’t do a fucking thing about – and being abused for being English when you aren’t really English is downright confusing – or you tell people to fuck off and refuse to apologise. You embrace their stereotype as a way of telling them that you will not be fucking ashamed of it.

Now I am not claiming to be a serious victim of persecution here, or that I suffered especially. One or two rather hairy moments aside, the whole thing was at its worst just really annoying. The only reason I even bring it up is that having been sort of forced into Englishness by the Scottish, I rather oddly feel like I am now being rather forced into Scottishness by the English.

I mean, I’ve lived here far longer now than I have anywhere else, I’ve made my home here, married a Scottish woman and contributed far more to Scottish cultural life, and have in turn been more enriched by it, than I have anywhere else. But I am still pretty clearly not Scottish.

But listening to the increasingly venomous anti-Scottish rhetoric coming from the UK establishment, which flickered into life during the referendum but has become something of a blaze since it became clear that No prevailing during the referendum didn’t exactly constitute a pledge of obedience, I find myself with that same old feeling of ‘fuck you, we’ll vote for who we fucking well please, thank you’. ‘We’. It’s a different issue this time, and of course #notallglaswegians and #notallenglishmen etc etc but I think my reaction is the same thing deep down.

I voted Yes in the independence referendum, as you probably know, but I find it depressingly revealing, if hardly a massive shock, that the Westminster establishment were desperate for Scotland to remain part of the Union, but equally horrified at the idea that we have any say in how that union is actually run. How is the SNP being a partner to a minority Labour government any more devoid of legitimacy than the countless fucking Tory governments who decimated the North of England and fucked up the lives of people who never voted for them, or the Tories propped up by the Ulster Unionists way back when, or anyone else having a party involved in government that they didn’t vote for – like the Lib Dems in the last government. Or like, say, the Tories, who run the UK despite having about as much credibility across Scotland as the Monster Raving fucking Loony Party?

And the question I am asking is not about whether the SNP are good, bad or indifferent, it is simply about watching the two major British political parties telling all of Scotland that their entirely free and fair democratic choices are somehow worthless, illegitimate or seen in some way as dangerous or devious. I know this is just political posturing by the Tories to reclaim the UKIP vote, or Labour to woo the centrist and business vote by asserting their neoliberal credentials, but the net result is the two main parties telling a whole country to basically fuck off.

And suddenly with all this hostility towards the democratic will of the same people whose democratic will gave them what they said they fucking wanted back in September – in which case aren’t we supposed to all be one big happy family these days – I find myself developing this really weird sense of defiant Scottish identity. As anyone who read my post about why I was voting Yes will know, patriotism is not something I respect very much. You can love the place you live or were raised or whatever, and I do both, but go much further than that and you are in the territory of reverse racism – thinking that where you just happened to be born makes you in some way special.  Or of what Doug Stanhope characterised as taking credit for a bunch of things which had nothing to do with you. Or as a friend of mine said, claiming some sort of weird ownership of a portion of land which existed for millennia before you and will exist for millennia more after you are gone, and which in any case is inhabited by millions of other people with just as little right to claim it as you, and who may think of it entirely differently.

But the worse the screeching from the press and the mainstream politicians (and, god forbid, the fucking comments sections of the national newspapers) gets, the more I find myself referring to Scotland as ‘we’. It is our democratic choice, not yours, and if you didn’t want us to have a fucking vote in your fucking country you should have encouraged us to fuck the fuck off when you had the chance.

Mind you I bet if I go to watch the footie in Glasgow again anytime soon I’ll probably still get called an English cunt.


Nic Rue’s Cyanotypes and the Napier Photo Collective

Moth Cyanotypes from nic rue on Vimeo.

You all know Nic Rue, right? She’s the awesome photographer who does a lot of our Toad Session photography and all the photos for the Split 12″ series (123) we’ve been releasing over the last couple of years. Well she’s coming to the end of her degree course and has been doing some absolutely gorgeous work with cyanotypes, which you can see in the video above.

Moths fulfil a similar pollenation role in nature as bees and butterflies, and they are apparently as endangered as both of those as well at the moment, and for much the same reasons. I have to confess I had no idea that this was the case, but raising that awareness is one of the central points of Nic’s project.

The group she’s part of – the Napier Photo Collective – are currently raising a very modest sum of money to help them exhibit at the Free Range Gallery down in London. You know, the usual stuff like renting materials needed for the exhibition, transport and accommodation costs. All the crap which makes it so expensive for our bands to travel to London to play, basically.

You can contribute to this by going to their Indiegogo page and chipping in, and I hope you will because, well… nice people doing good things.

Napier Collective @ Free Range 2015: IndieGogo Campaign Video from Jo McClure on Vimeo.


Thicke, Gaye, Apple, Darwin… I Don’t Think Many People Understand How Creativity Actually Works

copy After the Robin Thicke and Marvin Gaye court case was settled this week it reminded me of something which has niggled away at me since my days as a design engineer, and that is that I don’t think the general public seem to really understand how innovation and creativity actually work.

Thicke and Pharrell lost the case, effectively having to cough up half the profits generated by their adorable rape song, for the crime of ripping off Marvin Gaye. It didn’t directly copy, apparently, but it had ‘the same feel’, and that was enough for them to be adjudged as having exploited Gaye’s creativity unfairly. And as I understand it Pharrell and Thicke were the ones who pre-emptively sued the Gaye family too, so it’s hard to have a shred of sympathy for them, but the verdict still doesn’t sit well with me.

Put as simply and briefly as possible, innovation is copying. The two are pretty much the same thing.

Not only are copying and innovation the same thing, but they are a crucial part of what makes humans humans. The ability to imitate the success of others and to pass that on to other people is the foundation of our entire culture and every advance in technology or knowledge in our history. The tiny incremental changes some people make in passing things on are ‘innovation’, and they are important, but inseparable from the importance of copying and imitation.

In fact, the definition of innovation used, until very recently, to be more along the lines of ‘making a small change to an existing idea’, instead of now, where it seems to be almost synonymous with invention.

I remember this very clearly from my product design career. In the field of technological innovation the myth of The Lone Inventor has a powerful hold, and I think the same myth distorts people’s understanding of the arts too. There was also this weird inability to see past the almost entirely fictitious Eureka Moment, generally achieved by a solitary person whilst in the bath thinking of something totally different, where they would solve the whole problem in a moment of clarity and change the world forever.

That image is total and utter bollocks. It’s like we’ve all collectively forgotten the cliché about genius being 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Sometimes clichés exist for a reason.

You look at the greatest creative minds of our time, like Charles Darwin or Mozart. Even Mozart borrowed (or indeed just plain stole) elements of melody for The Magic Flute and presumably all sorts of other stuff, and the discovery of evolution with natural selection was made so inevitable by the progress of global scientific thought which preceded it that it was actually discovered by at least two people at the same time. Probably more, if we’re being honest.

The Lone Inventor pretty much doesn’t exist. The Eureka Moment pretty much doesn’t exist. All of human creativity, innovation and progress is overwhelmingly down to people copying from one another, making tiny changes, and those changes which are most beneficial surviving to be copied by the next bunch of copiers. Had Mozart never existed we would still have had incredible symphonies. Had Einstein never existed we would still have discovered relativity – it’s the very banality of the creative process which makes it so robust. A log becomes a wheel, which becomes a wheelbarrow, becomes a cart, becomes a carriage, becomes a car, becomes a flying Delorean.

“Although the impact of creative ideas and products can sometimes be profound, the mechanisms through which an innovation comes about can be very ordinary.” – Robert Weisberg, a psychologist at Temple University in Philadelphia. The quote is taken from this really interesting essay on the nature of creativity.

The technology industry is totally obsessed with capturing patents, to the extent that they celebrate and reward the patenting of pretty much anything no matter how pointless or whether or not it results in a useful device or product, to the extent that they will trumpet the number of patents they hold above any mention of actually creating something useful.

In fact, far from signifying any kind of creativity, patents are generally just used as a commercial tool to hobble the competition and as such are basically there to hinder creativity and progress rather than encourage it. And to make matters worse, patents are frequently awarded for things which are complete and utter bollocks. Things which are way too obvious, way too broad or vague, or are just plain common sense or common knowledge are awarded patents all the time.

It was a fucking minefield, honestly, and when I think about the amount of time I have personally wasted trying to think of needlessly circuitous ways to circumvent stupid patents, or just to be absolutely certain that something was miles away from a particular patent, well beyond the realms of common sense, out of fear of lawsuits, it makes me want to smash my head against my desk. It was anti-innovation, and the creative industries are in danger of being sucked into this particular quicksand too, if we aren’t careful.

Art is based upon imitation. Pretty much everyone learns by imitating their heroes, and if they don’t directly learn that way then they’ll get round to it at some point. We have established forms of poetry to which people choose to conform, Western music uses all the same basic building blocks, and some of our most respected artistic output and beloved cultural achievements are in the sphere of folk culture, which is pretty much defined by liberal copying, plus mistakes and fucking about. That’s what makes it good, what makes it fun, and that is where its richness comes from.

Some of our most respected musicians’ creative contributions were pretty minimal, if you look at it. Billie Holiday is a legend, but all she did was take the voice she was born with, hone it, and use it incredibly well singing other people’s songs again and again – existing material. And she is revered. And I can’t think of anyone who would argue with her right to be so.

John Louis from Debt Records and Louis Barabbas and the Bedlam Six has written a really nice post about how impossible it is to disentangle your influences from what you yourself create, as well as the near-impossibility of creating anything genuinely new within the relatively narrow confines of Western pop music, which is incredibly rigidly defined in scope and structure.

We’ve been here before of course, with the hand-wringing over mash-ups and samples, and there is a very real problem behind the idea of unfettered freedom of copying, imitating and repurposing. If some unknown musician writes a great riff or a great chorus which a commercial juggernaut like, say, Beyoncé or Chris Martin happens to hear in a pub and they then steal that riff, they could make millions off it without ever having to acknowledge the contribution of the person they are nicking it from.

You could argue, and I think it’s a dodgy argument but not entirely without merit, that if that unknown artist can ride the coat-tails of the success of the people nicking their riff or their melody then they might be adequately recompensed by an entirely free market – after all, without the marketing machine and resources of the Coldploncé machine that riff itself didn’t have nearly as much commercial value anyway. I appreciate that argument, but I don’t buy it entirely.

But we have to remember that protection is supposed to encourage creativity and innovation to flourish. And if it is to do this we need to understand how this stuff works. We need to copy and we need to imitate, not because sometimes it’s okay or sometimes it’s unavoidable, but because it is at the absolute core of the concept of creativity. Copying and sharing are the mechanisms by which innovation works, and participation is the engine which drives them.

We may well need legal protection for original thought in order to keep people participating, in order to keep the engine of creativity running, but if we try to do it by destroying the mechanisms which that engine is powering then our efforts will be entirely self-defeating.

I dread to think of musicians deliberately hobbling their own work out of fear it might sound a bit too much like this, that or the other and that they might therefore get sued. And then getting sued anyway because someone they’d never heard of wrote something similar back in 1964, died ten years ago, and now Universal own the rights. It works like that in technology development and it is a complete waste of time, energy, resources and ideas. And we all know who would dominate in that kind of landscape, don’t we: the fucks with the meanest lawyers and the deepest pockets.

If we don’t step back from this completely misguided fairytale of artists creating entirely original work in a complete fucking vacuum then we run the very real risk of severely paralysing the creative process across our entire musical culture.

Still, it was nice to see that smug prick Robin Thicke finally getting telt, wasn’t it.


Fucking Hell, Elvis Perkins is Back

Elvis Perkins‘ last album Elvis Perkins in Dearland was released back in something like 2009. That, in case you were wondering, is fucking ages ago. The last I heard, in fact, he had retired from music to write books.

This new album snuck out so completely under the radar (it came out a couple of weeks ago) that I had no idea it even existed, and I absolutely fucking love his first two records. Stepping down from XL Records, which was a slightly incongruous partnership in the first place, he’s actually self-released this one which perhaps explains why whichever PR company they used didn’t check the internet for people who were already fans and would probably cover the album.

And never mind PR, I am pretty shocked about how little chatter it seemed to generate on social media. The Guardian were all over Dearland, but I just haven’t seen anyone mention this. And that’s odd because, despite apparently being a rather more stripped-down collection of songs recorded on the fly over the course of a few years, this still sounds like pretty classic Elvis Perkins territory. It’s weirder, perhaps. Maybe more in the wonky end of the spectrum, occupying territory a little closer to Timber Timbre than the big band stuff on Dearland or the pacier honky-tonk of Ash Wednesday, but nevertheless, something which existing fans seem very likely to love.

The two teaser tracks have plenty of odd noises on them, and the discordant mini-cacophony at the end of Hogus Pogus bodes very well for the album itself, but I can’t really tell you much more than that until I’ve heard the whole thing. And even tracking that down took me bloody ages. To save yourself a Google nightmare, click here if you want to buy a copy.


The Holy Modal Rounders – Skydivers

Even now, after all this time, I can forget that my parents used to listen to some absolutely mental shit in their day. It’s a thing most of us learn at some point, but still something I seem to manage to forget on a regular basis – probably because when I make compilations for them I have a think about some of the stuff I am into these days, stuff which is far weirder than I myself used to listen to, and decide on their behalf that it’s probably a bit much for the old fuckers.

My folks have just returned from a round-the-world trip on a container ship because, erm, apparently that’s what you do if you’re nearly seventy and finding retirement a bit boring, and we just had a bit of a chat about the trip and various other bits and bobs because we haven’t really spoken for weeks now. Apparently the mobile reception is shit in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Anyhow, they signed off with the somewhat throwaway comment that I should listen to Skydivers by the Holy Modal Rounders, because it’s brilliant.

Cool, I thought. I like the Holy Modal Rounders. Apparently during the height of the super-elaborate and boorishly pretentious wave of proggy rock-operas in the sixties Peter Stampfel and Steve Weber reacted by stripping music back to absolutely minimal basics again and going a bit crazy with it. I actually have Holy Modal Rounders 1 & 2 on vinyl. The lyrics are weird as fuck and the nasal vocals take a little getting used to, but it’s pretty straight-up and basic, albeit brilliant, psychedelic folk. And that’s about as much as I’m familiar with.

Skydivers, on the other hand, is little bit more in the, erm, batshit crazy camp. It’s from their third album Indian War Whoop, and it adds a lot of delirious organ to their signature sound, but more importantly, it throws every last mental idea spinning around their crazy heads into a blender and smears the result all over the resulting record like pizza base. I’ve heard my dad sing versions of these songs my whole life and never known that that they came from this record, or that what I was hearing was such a… well, such a palatable interpretation of such intense and weird music.

You can hear most of the album at this YouTube link. Have a listen. Skydivers is by far the most beautiful moment on the album (apart from the missing songs of course, which I haven’t heard yet), and some of the violin in particularly is just hauntingly lovely. But it’s still tense and wandering and has a definite sense of simmering menace lurking amongst its lovelier moments. And, y’know, it still contains lyrics like “…looking for all the world like an umbrella that has seen too much, and forgotten nothing.”

Even at nearly forty years of age myself, and even after the two mad old bastards have just returned from indulging their retirement by riding a container ship through the Panama Canal, I still seem to manage to forget that my folks are way weirder and way cooler than I tend to give them credit for.

I don’t think I can take all the blame though. I mean, my Mum bought a fucking Lighthouse Family album for fuck’s sake. She bought one on purpose. She may have bought several. But then they lulled me to sleep as a child by singing me this absolutely crazy stuff. No wonder kids grow up confused.


James Blunt is Funny, but He is Also Totally Wrong

tim Alright, we all know about this already, right? Labour MP Chris Bryant said something about not wanting an art world dominated by the (very posh) likes of Eddie Redmayne and James Blunt, and then in characteristic fashion James Blunt wrote an open letter (those fucking things seem to make up about 40% of the fucking internet these days, don’t they) calling him a “classist gimp” and accusing of fostering an atmosphere where success breeds only envy, and all the usual rich-person tropes about how people who resent their success and their wealth are, in the end, just jealous.

The problem is that Bryant was basically right about the huge problem of class privilege and diversity in the arts, Blunt pretty much entirely missed his point, and because of the way internet arguing works I fear that the good message will be lost in the witty slap-down, despite the argument Blunt thinks he is countering being a man made almost entirely of straw.

Blunt made some reasonable points about how he achieved his success and how little most of those breaks had to do with his upbringing or his class. Fair enough, but it is pretty much impossible to succeed in life without trying, or without working hard – particularly in the arts. That’s not really how privilege tends to work. Money can buy you exposure, but not talent, and whatever you want to say about James Blunt’s music, he clearly has talent in the sense that absolutely fucking millions of people want to listen to his music. Read the rest of this entry »


The Music Industry Isn’t Fake, It Just Isn’t What You Think It Is

I watched the above ‘exposé’ and I can imagine it is intended to be shocking. And I can imagine, I suppose, that for some people it might be pretty shocking, although I doubt very many of them read this blog.

In short, every – and I mean every – record in mainstream pop is auto-tuned to hell. It’s just an assumption these days. And every live performance is auto-tuned to fuck as well, in the odd occasion it isn’t just lip-synched. Live shows, the last leg the music industry apparently has to stand upon, are a sham. The product is a lie. None of these people can sing. None of them are who they are presented to us as being.

Imagine that.

The issue I have with the whole premise of the above video is that it misunderstands the nature of the thing it is describing. That’s fair enough, because the name it is given is almost entirely false, but the ‘music industry’ isn’t a music product so the way the music is put together is pretty much secondary.

The music industry is an entertainment product, not an art product, and so we seem to consistently misunderstand how it is supposed to work, what it is trying to achieve and how things are actually done.

That’s not to say that there aren’t some very talented musicians working in the music industry, and some amazing music being made, but that is a secondary aim. There are some talented artists working in the graphic design industry as well, but that doesn’t mean that its primary goal is to produce great art.

Modern musicians gain far, far more from celebrity than they do from music. Their money is made in appearance fees (and not always to perform either), in branded products and image licensing. Selling music is the means to this end, but it is really not the end itself.

I despise the X-Factor with its legitimised bullying and ridiculous karaoke circus, but I don’t hate it because it is Bad Music. It isn’t about music at all. It’s an interactive soap opera, so really, we shouldn’t care what it ‘says’ about the modern music industry.

Except for the fact that it makes explicit what should have been obvious to everyone for years: that the people we think are the stars are not really the stars. In the X-Factor the show itself is the star, and the contestants, even the winners, are disposable tokens whose individuality is more or less irrelevant.

The above video complains about lip-synched or auto-tuned live shows cheating the consumer out of what they came to see, but they think that musical excellence is what they came to see, and it just isn’t. It’s entertainment. They came to see a show – a spectacle.

And you can criticise Madonna or Beyoncé for miming their live shows, but look at all the dancing around they are doing. If they were performing those feats of athletics at the same time as having to really, properly sing, then all you’d hear would be their heavy breathing as they tried to gasp their way through their songs. They have to lip-synch. The performance and the spectacle are hundreds of times more important than some misplaced sense of musical integrity.

And if every song is auto-tuned and every performance lip-synched, then effectively you are looking at someone whose acting and dancing are far more important than their musical abilities. There are people who cross over of course, and have some influence over the nature of the product they are the face of, but who is more important to the Katy Perry machine – the people they buy the song-writing from, the army of image consultants, or whoever they hire to play the Katy Perry character.

And I am not being an indie-snob here. I have heard too many tales of stadium-filling guitar bands with teams of ghost-writers writing hits in the style of the band because the band themselves can’t do it anymore to dismiss those stories as bollocks. Anything that big is a product.

Of course this isn’t a neat division. There can be a lot of great art in even the most commercially successful music products, but that doesn’t mean that’s what the industry does, or what it is there for.

And I think it’s this messy overlap which confuses people. Underground DIY bands can ascend to this level of celebrity too, but it’s extremely rare. How many Hollywood superstars are actually decent actors, as opposed to hugely charismatic celebrities. Some of them can act, but at that level of the industry it becomes pretty much secondary.

The crossover can be weird. I remember Drowned in Sound going to the Mercury Prize this year and seeing this disconnect first hand. Young Fathers won the prize and instead of being interviewed about anything of substance were simply expected by the assembled press throng to rattle through a series of rote answers about how it was the music that mattered but how honoured they were, and the atmosphere when they didn’t play the anticipated game was highly uncomfortable.

I can’t speak for them, but it seems to me simply that Young Fathers weren’t prepared to step from the musicians’ ladder, which they have doggedly and successfully been climbing for some years now, onto the celebrity ladder.

I was a little taken aback by DiS’s surprise, I have to be honest, given their awareness of how celebrity drives traffic which in turn drives ad revenue on music websites and the effect that has on what actually gets written about. They should know that the fundamental basis of how you make your decisions changes based on whether you are an artistic product or a commercial one, and how early you have to make that decision.

Late last year I lamented how hard it was becoming for me to get our bands any coverage in the bigger online music magazines – ones, funnily enough, like Drowned in Sound. Irrespective of the reasons why this is the case, a friend of mine made the suggestion that I have a look for some bands being covered already, with some traction of their own, and sign them.

It’s an eminently sensible suggestion of course, but my reaction was really hostile: I’m not being told who to fucking sign by a straw poll of random volunteer music writers who will rattle out some stuff for these sites for free for as long as it takes them to get bored of not getting paid and fuck off to get a job in PR instead. I am putting in the work, I am spending the money, I am making the fucking decisions.

And of course therein lies the difference. What I was essentially saying was ‘I am not signing someone just because I think they’re going to do well’. Or, even more starkly: ‘I’m not signing someone for business reasons’. And if as a label you’re not willing to base who you sign on business reasons, then you can’t really claim to be a business can you?

And we’re not a business – well, not primarily at least. Like the ‘music’ industry, which uses art as a tool to enhance its business, we use business as a tool to generate revenue which enhances our art.

So I am neither surprised nor at all outraged that modern pop stars either can’t or don’t sing – mostly because that’s not really what they’re selling. Even Beyoncé. Even Madonna. Even Taylor Swift. And I am not judging or claiming some sort of moral high ground or smug level of integrity. They are just totally different things, done in totally different ways, for totally different reasons.

And if you don’t think so then ask me or thousands of small labels like me how willing we would be to compromise our art for business reasons. Then wonder how much someone like the One Direction would be allowed to fuck up their business in the name of art.


2015: Let’s Get on With This Shit

fuck_yeah Ah man, one more alcoholic mini-apocalypse until 2015 starts in earnest and I dunno, 2014 was probably our best year yet at Song, by Toad, but I am cautiously looking forward to 2015 and hoping it might be better. We have most of the year’s releases planned out and ready to go already – or thereabouts, anyway – and I can imagine writing something very similar to the previous sentence in almost exactly twelve months as I look back on yet another year of releasing my own favourite records, wondering how the fuck I am still getting away with all this.

Hopefully the world’s fascination with tepid, dreamy and completely fucking lifeless wishy-washy electronic duos will have fucked right the fuck off by the end of 2015 too. There is so much of it, and it is so formless, lifeless, passionless and dilute that I can barely muster the strength to close the fucking tab whenever I accidentally click through to one of their videos. The names aren’t always the obvious signposts they are with many other bands, so you can be fooled, and then it’s upon you like Kryptonite. Or like spider venom, leaving you immobilised by its tedium and unable to lift a finger to save yourself from the life-sapping joylessness.

I know that shit it is a favourite of labels because you can stuff a couple of Shoreditch hipsters in the back of a fucking Vauxhall Corsa and send them on tour at minimal expense, but is that the defining characteristic of whether a band is considered signable these days? Fuck off. It’s the same with all these bearded, top-knotted folk-soul singer songwriters out there. Jesus Christ that shit makes the genitals of everyone in the fucking room shrivel up and drop off within the first impassioned ten seconds. Middle class boys with no real problems cannot evince emotion by faking heartfelt delivery, no matter how much they wobble their heads and scrunch up their eyes with sincerity. If you see one in the street or a pub please do everyone a favour and smash up their fucking guitar and cut off their fucking stupid top-knot.

Folk music should be fucking dead anyway by now, given how it was utterly overwhelmed by the upper middle classes almost the second it went overground. Sure, they can listen to and make whatever fucking music they like, but let’s not call it art please. It’s no more a fucking calling than repeated holidays in Tuscany make them connoisseurs of Italian culture – another ornament in a life lived by fucking design and not fucking spark.

Guitar music used to have that – that inner rage – and that was what made it so vital. Fortunately 2014 finally seems to have brought us to the end of the constant articles about whether or not guitar music was absolutely dead, or thrillingly revitalised. Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds and Royal Blood seemed to be proof that both conclusions were indisputably true. Personally, mainstream guitar music has been fucking OVER for fucking years – since that post-post-Britpop turdpocalypse era which spat abortions like The Feeling, The Hoosiers, Hard Fi and the fucking Pigeon Detectives into the world – but there has always been truly awesome stuff being made in the underground. Fierce, snarling and spiteful.

Pop music is supposed to be the opposite of that mythical guitar-wielding howler of truth: as crafted, designed, assembled, polished and delivered as perfect gaudy Japanese confectionery. And yet it seems that this year liking Taylor Swift has been the most ‘real’ thing people can fucking do. Real enough to unabashedly love pop music is this year’s musical badge of honour – a year of post-snob snobs for whom anyone who suggests that their brand of fun is just vacuous shit is just trying too hard to be earnest and meaningful to allow themselves to have fun. Just relax. Just enjoy yourself. Then you will like this. No. No I fucking won’t. It’s garbage.

We get into a simple clash of views here. Taylor Swift is just shitty, pointless bubble-gum pop and I do not understand why she is the hipsters’ candy-floss of choice this year. Maybe because she’s white, middle-class, tame, self-consciously content-free and utterly, utterly unthreatening. I would say ‘she’s no different to the fucking Spice Girls and fucking Katy fucking Perry’ and whilst I intend that as a dismissive criticism, a lot of folk would just say ‘exactly – that’s exactly what she is’ and see it is as a compliment. I just don’t fucking like pop music I suppose.

But why her? Why is she the fluff that the earnest cognoscenti have decided it is okay to embrace? It’s like they’ve realised that if they all agree on one thing they can pretend is ‘smarter’ or better than the other hollow prancing then they can give themselves a collective free pass for liking it, and then carry on intellectualising the gritty and real tomorrow as if nothing had ever happened.

But let’s face it, the alternative press really is no longer the alternative press anyway. Since when were underground music sites honestly and with a straight face reviewing albums by Katy Perry and Taylor Swift. Even a lot of the ‘alternative’ stuff getting coverage has a ton of major label or management money behind it. All these Hot Tips for 2015 and Radio 1 hot new artists are all well-researched and market tested on social media before they are ever considered for overnight success.

It’s the nature of the hipster and hipster-hatred, I suppose. You create an underground, it gains momentum and then bursts into the overground, hollows itself out and eventually bursts, releasing nothing but hot air and flimsy pretence into the world, and lo we have to start all over again.

Unsurprisingly, as a middle-class (sort of) hipster myself I don’t hold much truck with hipster hatred. The last person to admit to being a hipster is generally the hipster themselves, but I don’t mind it. I am not cutting edge and I don’t mind that. I dress how I like, and I know how much that’s influenced by fashion. I am a foodie to an extent, and I like that. I am not going to cultivate my own heritage strains of kale in the back garden, but you know, small-batch gin and salads of bitter leaves are nice things.

I know there are some utterly detestable things happening in the world of hipsters at the moment, but it’s just underground fashion being co-opted by the wealthy mainstream, pre-middle aged and very much middle class, just like absolutely every single fucking fashion movement in the history of fashion. And far, far more annoying than the ‘guitar music is dead/rejuvenated’ and the (thankfully over, I think) ‘blogs are/aren’t dead’ pontificating has been the proliferation of pseudo-intellectual lamenting of the dire truths the hipster reveals about our society.

Just fucking stop it. When fashions go overground they lose their potency, their meaning and become simple avatars of people’s self-image, as meaningless and quickly changed as their Facebook profile pic. Although if you wrote one of those articles it probably contained a line about you quitting Facebook for ever and ever next week anyway. That’s always the way it has been and hipsterism is no more important than any other fashion trend which has peaked and is ripe for being undercut by something new and more interesting, brewed in the underground where they are already utterly fucking sick of organic, knit-your-own heritage juniper-infused artisan home-reared poussin dans son jus.

So rejoice. That imbecilic fucking cereal bar in Shoreditch (or wherever it was) and the stupid fucking cat café here in Edinburgh and all the idiots infusing their own this or that with something their grandparents used to make before the war aren’t the signs of the end of society, they are the squeaky sounds of a bubble so bloated and stretched so thin that it can’t do anything other than burst and make way for the next thing, which will be stewing away somewhere already.

I probably won’t notice it for years, because as I said, I am not exactly cutting edge. But as the alternative music press goes mainstream there will already be new forms being hatched somewhere; and as top-knotted soul-folkies ruin the acoustic guitar for anyone with the faintest flickerings of an actual soul, there will be someone doing something nasty somewhere which we can embrace instead, and as the focus-grouped stars of the new underground emerge from their clickbait, What Happened Next Just Broke My Heart cocoons into the foetid reality of the pop world, there will always be some stubborn, pig-headed fuckwit out there incapable of doing what the people want, because they just don’t have it in their personality to bend that way.

So as much as it permanently enrages me and vigorously stokes the fires of indignation which keep me pointlessly tilting at windmills as chimerical as they are immovable, 2015 should perhaps be the year to acknowledge that if you laud the underground, the DIY, the contrarian and the stubborn, determined visionary, no matter how small the vision, then you have to accept that setting yourself against the mainstream means that mainstream acknowledgement will not and possibly even should not come your way.

Because that would, in some way, make you just like them. And you can’t have it both ways.