Well, it’s been an interesting week, hasn’t it. There have been some pretty major blow-ups in the blogosphere, posts taken down, people quitting, and some pretty angry tantrums. And fucking fair enough, too, quite frankly.

The weirdest thing about the whole situation is just how disjointed it all is. Ed received a takedown again yesterday for posting a Keane remix which was sent to him by a PR contact and hence, one has to assume, legitimate. That same PR person was baffled and not a little annoyed by the takedown notice, telling me this morning that:

“This is hugely frustrating. All the band/ management/ label wanted to do was to giveaway the CSS remix to a handful of blogs so that fans could get a wee thank you for making the album No.1.”

And as much as I don’t like Keane, this is a pretty decent thing to want to do – definitely how we would all want our favourite bands to be thinking.

What happened with Glasvegas has also baffled and annoyed Columbia UK, who knew nothing about it until the angry reactions were pointed out to them. It turns out it was nothing to do with them: Sony BMG in the States had been the ones wielding the flame thrower.

This pretty much sums up why I hate the major labels. Almost none of the individual people working for them will be stupid, but moving in large groups makes people stupid. None of us, as the saying goes, is as stupid as all of us. Or, from the rather splendid film Men in Black: “A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it.” While people on the internet have been innovating for them, the major labels have presumably not been standing still, and presumably they will have had some amazing ideas, but as soon as you have large meetings and committees and a legal department, A&R, management, publicity and global strategy all involved then innovation is killed stone dead.

Innovation seems to find it almost impossible to survive meetings. I know this because this is exactly what I see every day in Proper Job. Consequently the major labels, by virtue of their sheer size, are proving virtually impossible to move forwards in this respect.

Then the other side of it: the self-righteous bleating about illegal downloading when they themselves do not even have a coherent internal position on it. The right hand wants the remix out there and the left hand abhors mp3 blogs. Until such time as they know what they are thinking collectively and have an actual, consistent position, irrespective of its merits, they have no right threatening people and interfering with what the rest of the world is doing. Get your own fucking house in order before you start invading ours and destroying our work, you disgusting hypocrites.

There’s another side to this: the bands. Reading The Pop Cop I happened across this particular snippet, and Jason is pretty well connected within the music industry, so I think he is a credible source.

“it’s clear that many people don’t think Glasvegas themselves are immune from blame. In fact, we can tell you that the band have been made personally aware of the situation but have chosen not to comment on it.”

Which says one thing to me: fuck Glasvegas, fuck their careers and fuck their music. Let them rot. They were happy enough to enjoy all Ed’s hard work when they wanted him onside, but now things have changed and the minute this happens they snuggle up to the devil’s penis and lick it lovingly like the loyal lapdogs they are. Not an apology, not an explanation, not even a message of goodwill. They could easily have emailed Ed and simply expressed regret for what happened. They wouldn’t have had to condemn their label, which would have been brave, they could simply have grown a teeny tiny little bit of a fucking spine, or had some grace, or even simple manners. But they couldn’t muster even that, so fuck them. If that’s the particular flavour of jism they choose to swallow, may they fucking choke on it.

This week’s five were chosen by Dylan from Blueback Hotrod, official Toad photographer and all round bon vivant. They continue the theme of large corporations, which seems rather fitting, given the week we’ve just had. If you want to choose the five for next week, just pop me an email. As ever, please do take the chance to de-lurk and say hello. And after all the seriousness, wailing and gnashing of teeth, let’s take the chance to have some fun, eh.

1. Last major-label record bought (Not counting boutique subsiduaries – an act signed straight to one of the industry behemoths.)
2. Last item bought from IKEA
3. Average weekly spend in Tesco. (Or largest supermarket chain in your territory if not the UK)
4. Favourite brand of trainers (that’s sneakers, Americans).
5. Usual watering-hole – friendly local run in person by the landlord and host, or soul-less chain venue owned by an international leisure conglomerate?

What a fine and fitting selection of songs we have this week.

Bill Hicks – Satan Starmaker
Jeffrey Lewis – Don’t Let the Record Label Take You Out to Lunch
Hefner – The Greedy, Ugly People
David Cross – Women, Please Rinse Off Your Vagina And Anus!
The Wedding Present – Getting Nowhere Fast
And one more bonus, just because it’s so appropriate. The man was an unmitigated genius.
Bill Hicks – Fuck Only Artists

No, that doesn’t mean anything, don’t ask. I just think German is a language that excels when you start to insert random nonsense into it, especially if you start saying it all in a really loud, strident voice. “Jawohl! Der is some Schnitzeknodel in mein Uberschittengraben.” Just as an example.

On the subject of German, I remember two conversations with ladies about the German language which make me laugh, and I thought I might share them.

Firstly, when I was in my first year at Glasgow School of Art I remember seducing a girl at a party with my ability to speak German. Honestly. German. It was exactly in the style of Otto from A Fish Called Wanda – I could say more or less anything – niederhopfengruber, for example – and she’d act like I’d just said the sexiest thing in the world. Hilarious, slightly surreal, and so very, very first year of uni, too.

Secondly, the opposite. I was at a party with a girl up here a couple of years ago who actually is (ancestrally) German, and I mentioned the fact that, given I speak English, German and a little Dutch, I seem to speak only the ugly-sounding languages in Europe, apart from a little bit of piss-poor French. Anyhow, it appears I offended her sense of national pride because we embarked on this hour long ding-dong about whether or not German was a beautiful-sounding language, which culminated in her telling me that I just didn’t understand the German language like she did. Needless to say, I let forth I tirade of abuse at this, demanding how she had the right to tell me she understood a language better than I did when she didn’t even speak it – all in German of course – at which point things went a little quiet. Ah, I’m really popular at parties, me.

So, I think the Sarah Palin post may have tempted a great many lurkers out of the woodwork, but as per usual the Five on Friday post (as pinched from GUT) is the best and easiest way for new commenters to say hello. You don’t have to be witty or verbose, just play along with everyone else if you fancy.

1. Good example of a group singing in a language other than their native tongue.
2. Really crap example of the above.
3. Favourite foreign band who write in their own language – i.e. not English.
4. Favourite foreign word you just like the sound of.
5. Favourite country name.

Luna – Slow Song
The Wedding Present – Pourquoi Est Tu Devenue Si Raisonnable
Supergrass – She’s So Loose
Talking Heads – Radio Head
Wilco – She’s a Jar

I fucking hate it when people go to gigs and talk all the way through the bastard things. If you don’t want to pay any fucking attention to the songs, then piss off to another fucking pub. This is Edinburgh, there are thousands of places to go, so why don’t you just piss off somewhere else? Secondly, it’s just plain fucking rude.

So what could be more mortifying than to find myself at the Kays Lavelle gig at the Village in Leith last Friday, actually being the one talking too loud all the way through the fucking show. It wasn’t my fault, or at least to a certain extent it wasn’t. At least, there were mitigating circumstances anyway. Basically, because we ended up talking to this really nice couple outside, they talked to us inside, which is fine. Except that they talked really loud, were far too nice to tell to piss off, and very difficult to just quietly shuffle away from.

So basically, I am a coward and found it easier to be rude to Euan who was at least four metres away instead of the person a foot away chattering in my left ear, for reasons of basic proximity. Pathetic excuse isn’t it?

Anyway, I think the band had other more pressing problems, with some deranged old bag, a bottle of Buckie and a fistful of Es down, cavorted somewhat unpleasantly in front of them. You know when not-even-slightly-sexy-not-even-a-little-bit people try and do sexy dancing? It was like that. Actually it was worse – imagine someone who has clearly spent a lifetime jamming her wrinkled body with drugs and booze and nicotine, is probably pushing forty but looks nearly sixty, it at once saggy, emaciated, pale, malnourished, smothered in makeup, and with a crooked lear that would put the fear of god into the penis of even the most diseased gigolo? Now imagine trying to play heartfelt, emotional music with this gargoyle gyrating threateningly at you from a distance of mere feet away – I bet Euan never wished more sincerely for a grand piano in his life.

Anyway, the talky people left halfway through the Kays set, so I was able to enjoy the rest of it with minimal humiliation. Despite their fears for their stripped down lineup, just guitar and piano with Graham the guitarist playing a little drums from time to time, I thought they sounded excellent. There was something a little harsher about the guitar sound, for being so naked, and the general silence in the room served only to emphasise every droplet of piano. Once I’d managed to get my head out of my arse and actually listen to the bloody show, I really enjoyed it. I think Euan has a bigger, more anthemic sound in mind for the band, but I liked their spare set at the Village: there was lots of empty space to let the chords breathe.

It was a great night in general, actually. The Village is a really nice pub, and there are very, very few venues in Edinburgh that are nice places to be irrespective of the music. The importance of this is that indie kids – mostly blokes – will never be able to get girls along to Henry’s, because it’s a shit bar to hang out in if you aren’t really there for the music. And if we ever want to get big audiences for independent music in this city we have to reach out beyond the devoted fans because there just aren’t enough of us to go around. We need to get the people involved who are only kind of interested. So there. Rant over.

Check out Dylan’s excellent pictures here.

The Kays Lavelle – Swanfields
Hothouse Flowers – Shut Up and Listen
The Wedding Present – Always the Quiet One
The Coathangers – Shut Tha Fuck Up

Why is The Waitsing Room a Muslim? Because it’s all covered up of course! Get it, get it? Fuck me that was poor, apologies to absolutely everyone involved – shambolic rubbish. What prompted that garbaggio? Well this week me old mate DC (who has taken somewhat obscure exception to my post about Eaten by Monsters – I don’t understand it, but then he is Welsh) has done something I don’t think I would have the courage to do: tackle a whole show based on covers of Tom Waits songs.

The Waitsing Room – Cruel Variations

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Why wouldn’t I have the courage? Well to paraphrase Bill Hicks, I’m like a kid with a sore tooth with Tom Waits covers – it hurts, but I can’t quit pressing. Any cover of a Tom Waits song, I just have to hear. I’m fascinated, compulsive, I just can’t stop myself, despite the fact that almost without fail the only emotions they inspire in me are a mild frustration and immediate desire to go and listen to the original. I don’t know why, exactly, maybe he’s just too idiosyncratic, maybe my relationship with his music is just too close to pedestal-based worship, maybe I’m being a blinkered idiot, and maybe a little of all three.

What is it with cover versions anyway? So many are so incredibly poor, and yet we’re fascinated by them. Is it a traditional thing, where people used to cement communities by playing songs and trading stories and such-like, or is that just far too Oprah fucking Winfrey for everyone’s taste?

I’m downloading the show as I type this, and will be playing it all afternoon at work, to take my mind off the tedious grind of Proper Job and I am sure that by this time tomorrow the Tom Waits score on my last.fm count-o-meter will have jumped by another hundred or so. So toddle on over to The Waiting Room and download this week’s episode of his show, which airs live on Error FM on Wednesdays at 10pm, mostly, or nine sometimes.

A.A. Bondy – Hang Down Your Head (Live)
The Wedding Present – Red Shoes by the Drug Store

Well after last week, which was basically just a great big week of Meursault gigs, this week is a week of just one single gig.  Just one.  I know!  Needless to say the scurillous Bart has managed to weasel out a few things, but honestly, the man likes everything.  I was in the pub with him last week and I heard him utter the immortal words ‘I don’t like them.  I think they’re shit.’  I feel as if some sort of plaque should be erected to commemorate the occasion.  I’ve known the guy for a year or so and I have never heard these words, or even sentiments vaguely to that effect, ever pass his lips.

Thursday 3rd July 2008: Vandaveer, free gig at Cabaret Voltaire.
This one sounds sort of promising.  I don’t know much about Vandaveer apart from the fact that I have a couple of his songs floating about on my music drive which I rather like.  It’s folk-pop with a sort of drift from melancholy to sunny and back and should make for a fine evening.
Vandaveer – Marianne, You’ve Done it Now

In other news, I won’t be at the above gig because I will be attending Born to Be Wide at the Voodoo Rooms instead.  This month’s topic is Inside the Mind of a Music Journalist and, scandalously, I wasn’t invited to be on the panel – imagine that, and me all Web 2.0 and everything!  Anyway, I shall be going along and I think the chances of me being able to keep my mouth shut are very slim indeed, don’t you?  Then again it might be funny to let them all start talking about Teh Internetz for a bit and see where they end up, be0fore sticking my oar in at the last.  Not, of course, that I’m an expert anyway.  No-one really is, with respect to internet stuff, at the moment are they?  We’ve all got ideas and hunches and instincts, but I’d be sceptical of anyone who claimed to really know.

Anyway, yesterday I was at some sort of radio conference thing in Glasgow, which was quite fun.  The tricky bit was that I didn’t really know what I wanted out of the whole thing – I mean, do I really want a full-time job in radio? I doubt it really – but it was interesting to hear what people had to say.  They were generally quite impressed with what we’re doing here, I think, in terms of the combination of media and so on, so maybe we’re moving things in the right direction.

Anyhow, I drove home to Edinburgh at about eleven and it wasn’t really dark out, yet.  I forget, sometimes, just how far North Scotland is.  Really fucking far North actually.  I know we’re not far off the Summer Solstice, when all those mental Druid loonies descend on Stonehenge and knit homeopathic aubergines or whatever the fuck it is they do, but still: the middle of the night and nothing but an eerie twilight.  It was weird, but sort of fascinating too.  And I can’t think of a better song, or song title at least:

The Wedding Present – I’m From Further North Than You (Klee Remix)

The other song that jumped to mind was Yo La Tengo’s beautiful version of Sandy Denny’s By the Time it Gets Dark.  I love this – the normal domesticity of it; the sense of resolved conflict; the image of a day full of harrassment and annoyance that ends with you and your other half sitting down late in the evening with a cup of a tea or a glass of wine, after everything’s finally been dealt with, and before you ever start to talk about all the hassle of the day you know from the look in their eyes that everything really and truly is okay.

When I got home last night Mrs. Toad was in bed with her copy of the Economist and a cup of tea and the wee bedside light was on and things were just… nice, you know?

Yo La Tengo – By the Time it Gets Dark

There are going to be tantrums when certain people read this review, but I might as well come out and say it: it is time for David Gedge to get the fuck over it and move on with his life.  ‘Oh shit, I was confused, I faffed about with some girl at a party because I could, and now my real bird has fucked off and broken my heart’.  Again.  Of fucking course she has, David, you copped off with some silly bitch in a club again, what the fuck did you expect?

I do not know David Gedge personally – of course I don’t – and I make no claim to know whether or not these songs are really sincere.  They sound for all the world like he is simply changing the names from some of his earlier lyrics and slapping a guitar riff over the top, but maybe this really is representative of where he is in his life at the moment.  Unfortunately, if it is, it means he is still going through the same tired old rigmarole he was going through twenty years ago and for fuck’s sake you think he’d have learned from his mistakes by now.

It’s a bit like that mate you have who is forever going out with completely the wrong sort of person and then scaring them off with a bizarre combination of self-protective disinterest and idiosyncratic weirdness: there is only so long you can maintain sympathy before, no matter how heartfelt the pain, you are overwhelmed by the urge to shout “Really, no shit, again?  Well fuck me what an enormous fucking surprise.  BOOOOOO-ring!” at them.

I have a mate like that.  He is a really nice bloke, and there’s not a bad bone in his body, but the boy’s like a fucking goldfish.  He meets a girl, gets really excited, tells you about it in breathless tones, sees her for a number of weeks, she tries to get a bit closer, he gets stand-offish, someone slightly prettier (or just different,or perhaps more tellingly, less real) comes along and suddenly the cycle starts again.  I got to the point where I just ran out of endurance for hearing about any of it at all.
“I met this amazing girl – amaaaaazing!”
“No shit.  Well before you tell me about it, here’s your schedule: giddy intoxication for ten to twenty days, nagging doubts for five to ten, your doubts will make her clingy for another seven to fourteen days, two thirds of the way through that someone else will ping your radar, and you’ll have split up with the other one within a month to two months, maximum, and we’ll be back here having this SELF SAME FUCKING CONVERSATION ABOUT THE OTHER GIRL BEFORE SIX WEEKS ARE UP!”

And I fucking love the Wedding Present as well.

The Wedding Present – Don’t Take Me Home Until I’m Drunk
The Wedding Present – Spide-Man on Hollywood

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“Oh, you were finished. Well then, allow me to retort.”

[Yes folks, it's Mrs. Toad. Apparently my ramble about Toploader didn't go down all that well in certain circles. She's not disputing the Toploader hatred of course, that would be divorceable.]

Having been affronted by the accusation that a person in position of a fanny (thats erm.. snatch or mimsy to Americans and front bottom to weirdos) must be in want of a Toploader album, I come to redress the gender balance.

Yes, women lose the musical plot when confronted with flashing lights, a pile of handbags and a gullet full of Lambrini but that is nothing, nothing to what happens to a man, sober and in posession of a car.

I present in evidence a sample from the playlist of Top Gear Anthems. More Than a Feeling by Boston, Turn it On Again by Genesis, Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf. Yes, faced with the prospect of an afternoons driving, the average middle aged, middle class bloke celebrates the freedom of the open road by listening to pisspoor stadium rock. Driving holiday through the Alps? Perhaps a little Whitesnake to get those hairpin bends flowing. A long night motoring across country? Kick back with a spot of Steppenwolf.

Now, most blokes would agree that the Top Gear crew are a Great Bunch Of Lads but inclined to take the piss. Perhaps a more reliable source? The “Original Rock Driving Album” fails to support the case for the defence weighing in with luminaries of the piss poor such as Simple Minds, Bryan Ferry and Pat Benatar. Enough indeed to support the fact that a large part of the adult male population is driving around their Vauxhall Vectras tapping out Phill Collins drumbeats on the steering wheel and wishing that they had the balls (and hair) to sport Joey Tempest perms instead of a combover.

Psshaw, you say, that’s not me, thats guys my dad’s age! Yeah, true. That’s because blokes your age are driving lowered suspension Nissan Micras round town all night (with green neon trim, ooo-er!), sitting practically on the back seat so they can pretend they are in a race car. The Burberry cap is akimbo, the Elizabeth Duke bling is shining and the spliffs are go. The 200 decibel refrain of “Dubbishdubbish tink tink Dubbishdubbish tink tink awahuh awahuh” rents the night like a cut price jump jet as these cretins rev their 1.1 litre engines and conduct abortively unimpressive wheelspin starts from traffic lights. Fuck me, Lewis Hamilton must be jealous.

Now thats two extreme examples, simple stereotypes you say. Well fine, lets have the more middle of the road guy, maybe had a good year last year, bought a little Boxster with future dreams of a 911 or perhaps a BMW Z4. He likes to drive around with his lady, top down, nice sweater tied around his neck THAT way, maybe some driving shoes and god forbid.. gloves. Whats this with it cat likely to play? Hmmmm, yep Jamiroquai, Chris Rea and maybe rock out a bit… Stereophonics? You know this guy because he has probably brake tested you when he fucks up, driven up your backside flashing his lights and undertaken your ass on the motorway. He’s a cunt.

The ONLY men who listen to good music in cars, have shit cars. This is less observation than a law of nature. The minute a man shows any interest in cars or driving for drivings sake he is doomed to musical cuntery (Mr Toad would like to intercede to say he has a good car therefore this is bollocks. He doesn’t, its a 35year old Volvo with no stereo and a leaky fuel tank. I rest my case)

And these car guys are on their own, they have no-one egging them on, they aren’t pretending to enjoy themselves as many a woman bobbing along to Toploader is. There is no peer pressure. They wake up and go to sleep twats with bad music taste and theres lots of them out there, driving around. Its enough to make you wish Woolies sold RPGs.

At least when I and other women wake up hungover after having sullied ourselves by being on a dance floor when Toploader came on, we feel guilt and self loathing. These guys just get in the car and crank up the shitty tunes again, be it Billy Idol, Billy Ocean or Carl Cox.

So fuck you boys, I’d rather have Toploader pished than K-Tel sober.

Chris Rea – The Road To Hell
Retort for the boys: The Wedding Present – Drive

Watusi wasn’t the first Wedding Present album that I bought for myself – that was Mini – but it was the first one I was really aware of.  The Wedding Present, like Yo La Tengo, are one of my favourite bands and one I owe entirely to my friend Strath who played them constantly over the space of about four years, despite a constant hail of abuse from my good self, until such time as I finally gave in an admitted that they were brilliant.  I think Yo La Tengo required more persistence.

The Wedding Present, brilliant as they are, are rarely what you would describe as musically or lyrically inventive.  Lyrically strong, yes, but not all that varied.  This album might in fact be their most creatively arranged effort by some distance.  The hiss and crackle of Click Click and the three-songs-in-one craziness of the superb opener So Long, Baby are both amongst the best The Weddoes have ever produced, but the overall rise and fall of the album really is perfectly judged.  Seamonsters and Bizarro and, I suppose, George Best may take most of the plaudits, but Watusi is chock full of great songs and is perhaps, as a whole album, better assembled.

I’ve never quite understood how it can take so long to get into a group you come to love, but sometimes things just don’t sink in.  Strath really tried his best to open my eyes but for some reason I persistently failed to twig.  I remember hearing this album repeatedly from student halls in Maryhill to a damp, cold basement flat in Arlington Street, to the flat on Great Western Road that was occupied by an ever-changing cast of our cronies for nigh on six years.

That flat was a pit, but it seemed brilliant at the time; a massive Victorian tenement building, with two huge bedrooms with massive bay windows.  Strath and I would do our own thing most of the time – play Championship Manager, watch telly, important stuff like that – and when we got bored we’d wander into one another’s room for a chat.  I would invariably make some comment about ‘the latest selection from Strath’s Shit Music collection’.  It never failed to irritate the poor fella, and it still does, despite the fact that three quarters of it is now in my very own Shit Music Collection.

Most definitely including The bloody Wedding Present.

The Wedding Present – So Long, Baby
The Wedding Present – Spangle
The Wedding Present – Big Rat

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There’s so much perfectly decent music in my inbox at the moment, that I find it hard to write about any of it.  Yeah, you know, ho hum, it’s all pretty decent but none is blowing me away.

Islands’ Arm’s Way is pretty decent, Bon Iver’s album For Emma, Forever Ago isn’t bad either, but I honestly don’t find it quite as brilliant as almost everyone else seems to.  The new albums by Half Man Half Biscuit and even The Wave Pictures are both pretty good but just not awakening much passion I’m afraid.  Ditto Fleet Foxes, Bowerbirds, Tindersticks and a few others.

I guess this happens, and this is why people have old favourites in the first place: occasionally you just need to go back to the cup of tea and a biscuit part of your collection – for Americans that might be the chicken soup with rice part – and just listen to the stuff so good and comforting and familiar that it always does the trick.  No thinking, no evaluating, no trying to pull comparisons out of your arse, just give the brain a rest for a bit and stop thinking.   How conscious a process is music enjoyment supposed to be anyway.

I never participated in No Music day, but I thought it was a good idea, albeit not for the reasons suggested.  Not every moment of every day needs to be soundtracked.  We are not movies, and it is good for all of us to take the headphones off, turn off the stereo and just enjoy being peaceful from time to time.  Right now is that time for me.  I just need to go for a walk and listen to fuck all for a bit, and when I do listen to something it needs to be some Dylan stuff, or Tom Waits.  Or Calexico, or the Willard Grant Conspiracy, or Billy Bragg, or Belle & Sebastian or an old REM album or something like that.

Sometimes you have to stop processing music, and just enjoy it.  And sometimes I get to the stage where I need to be reminded of that.  Like today.

Calexico – Sunken Waltz
Bruce Springsteen – Growin’ Up
The Smiths – William, It was Really Nothing
Eels – Susan’s House
The Wedding Present – Gazebo

Yo La Tengo and The Wedding Present count as two of my favourite bands.  Both of them I absolutely hated at first listen, too.  Both I owe to my friend James Strath who played them repeatedly, amidst a shower of scorn, over the course of our five years at uni together, until I finally caved in and embraced both bands as my own.  In fact most of what I so wittily called ‘Strath’s Shit Music Collection’ has in fact ended up pretty much at the forefront of my own shit music collection in the intervening years.  So the joke’s on… erm, yes, let’s move along shall we.

For The Wedding Present that came with the release of Mini in about, erm, 1995 or 6 was it?  For Yo La Tengo it was much later.  I bought the Little Honda EP and Ride the Tiger immediately after uni, but I think it was And Then Something Turned Itself Inside Out, from very early in 2000, that was the moment the penny finally and permanently dropped.

The funny thing is, once you get into a group you can go back and really, really enjoy songs that previously put your back right up.  I remember when Strath used to play Painful, now one of my favourite albums in the world, I used to scoff at tracks like Big Day Coming for being repetitive and boring: no hook, going nowhere, what are you listening to, man?

Somehow, after my conversion, I love Big Day Coming in both its incarnations on Painful.  Yo La Tengo occasionally exercise a habit of building tension through this kind of underlying beat, a repetitive signature, and then slowly ratcheting the noise up further and further until that underlying structure is all but obliterated by howling feedback.  In this case that signature simmers along, threatening to break out, but never quite does, which is just as effective.

Of course if I’d just read the above paragraph at the time I’d have told myself I was talking pretentious bollocks…

Yo La Tengo – Big Day Coming
Yo La Tengo – From a Motel 6
Yo La Tengo – Sudden Organ