How To Destroy...Timbaland
NOTE: Screaming into a microphone which is plugged into someone's headphones is a very unpleasant thing to do. You could rupture their eardrums, and there's really no proof that it would make their nose fall off, no matter what this picture may suggest. SO, you are advised to ONLY use this method of Timbaland destruction if you are in the kind of situation where it's either him or you, and rupturing his eardrums won't just really annoy him.
SECOND NOTE: Course, if you really wanted to destroy Timbaland, all you need to do is nick his celebrity address book. Instant career death!
One of the great lies/misunderstandings of the original 1970s punk rock explosion was that musical proficiency - the ability to play your instruments and sing - is a bad thing. I say 'misunderstanding', because lots of the key punk bands were actually pretty tasty players (trust me, that's how musicians actually talk), but were considered to be dunces by the rock press because they didn't play deliberately obtuse jazz skronk in tricky time-signatures. The original idea behind the punk movement was that anyone could be in a band, if they had a forward-thinking attitude, a good look, and (this is the the really important bit) some really good IDEAS. 
Here's a shocking piece of news for you: I love pop music. I know, right? I'll give you a few seconds to recover from the bludgeoning that totally unexpected piece of information delivered to your brain, perhaps while you pull yourself over to a chair and grab some smelling salts, and then I can tell you why. Ready? It's easy: because there are no rules. Anything goes. 
"I pledge allegiance to the underclass as your hero at large..."
Tricky customer, Mr A. Kon. On the one hand, he IS the bloke who sang that nasty song about wanting to do it with strippers, and who seems not to know there's an enormous line between audience participation and just being a sleazy gimp. And that voice annoys as many people as it enthralls. On the other hand, when he drops the thug mask, he's capable of producing something as pretty and heartfelt (or at least it SOUNDS heartfelt) as 'Don't Matter', so he can't be all bad. 
Pop songs...terribly important things, aren't they? Especially in the words department. A good pop lyric is the kind of thing you can set your watch by, such is its ineffable rightness. A bad pop lyric is also a thing to be cherished, as this crazy old world contains much which is frustrating or sad, and there's often a lack of things to have a really good giggle about like you can to 'Long Hot Summer' by Girls Aloud. 
As of right now, I've officially never been more pleased with pop music and the way in which it does what it does. I don't know if it's to do with the enormity of the Beyonce BRAND MACHINE or the fact that creativity seems to be having a field day with the best efforts of even the biggest pop stars. Either way, the fact is that hit records are now happening because of their superior remixes, rather than the version officially sanctioned by the artist who made the song in the first place. How amazing is that?
I really like the Coral. I like that they're one of those Liverpudlian bands whose entire creative life is spent attempting to re-learn the lessons of the 1960s, and then bring everything they've learned into modern times. They, and other bands like them, are like a musical version of those historical re-enactment societies who dress up as cavaliers and roundheads, then meet up in some farmer's goat pasture to have another crack at the battle of Naseby. And for this they deserve some respect. 
It's almost shocking to think of this song appearing on the same album as songs like 'Maneater' and 'Promiscuous'. This is partly because those songs were released blimming AGES ago, and we should be expecting a new Nelly album soon (surely?) and partly because whatever cold muse inspired those songs - modern classics both - clearly spent some time in the warmth and love of the people who love it the best, before getting back to the hard graft of making creative people think clever things about stuff. 
Remember a week or so ago I was talking about songs which capture what it feels like to dance and cry at the same time? It was in reference to Groove Armada's 
Picture the scene. You go on a first date. It’s the greatest date of your life. The conversation is sparkling, you’ve got goose bumps the whole way through, it ends with a tantalising lip tangle and you CANNOT WAIT to see them again. But then, the second date doesn’t even warrant a mention. Then, they don’t call for ages and when you finally set up the third date, you find that the conversation’s QUITE good and they still look PRETTY nice and all that, but there’s something missing. 
I remember reading somewhere many years ago that the secret of a good pop song is that you should feel like you've already heard it before somewhere. Not in the blatant rip-off sense, but more that in the back of your head there's this comforting sensation that tells you this is a familiar experience rather than an alien one, and that you have nothing to fear. The trick, of course, is to pull that off while still throwing sufficient original tricks into the mix to get people excited by your latest opus. I'm not 100% convinced that 'Rise Up' is successful on that score.
If you were born later than, say 1987, you may not recognise the "Whoo! Yeh!" sample at the heart of this tune. But once upon a time, around 1989-91, it was a legal requirement that every single song in the Top 40 which did not feature loud electric guitars (which at the time, meant every single song in the Top 40) heavily featured this exact loop. It was like all other forms of music had just ceased to exist, for a whole year. And it was BRILLIANT, until it got VERY BORING.
Gah! We've barely had SPRING yet! It's been howling it down with rain, and the days certainly haven't really felt all that much longer or warmer than they were a few months ago. For most of us right now, summer is just some abstract concept about the ground being dry underfoot and the sky being blue, which exists firmly in the past, despite the fact that we're all supposed to be smack-dab in the middle of it RIGHT NOW. And here's the Manics sending us an AUTUMN song? Talk about insensitive...
One of the interesting things I learnt about Dragonette when doing some research for this review (indeed, contrary to popular belief, we don't just vomit a couple of hundred words onto the screen without any kind of second thought - at least, not all of us, and not all of the time) is that lead singer Martina's father is the Minister of Finance in the Canadian government. 
PAIN! OH UNIMAGINABLE PAIN! Someone in Dame Shirley's camp (and let's not underestimate the power of THAT word in this instance) has really got it in for my poor ears. I've no idea what they can have done to cause such offense, but it must have been something TERRIBLE. Actually, thinking about it, one of them is a bit pointy at the top, in a Spock sort of way...maybe it was that. I mean I know these singing stars can be a bit demanding, so it's possible that I've walked past La Bassey without realising she was there, and she saw my Spock-ear and decided to try and blast it from existence for daring to be a slightly odd shape in her presence. 
The best happy songs are always the ones which come with a great big dollop of sadness at their core. The ones which capture that exact moment of a rotten party - like the one you shouldn't really have gone to cos you've just been dumped, or the one where your crush is copping off with your best friend - where you decide to stop crying in the corner, and dance your pain away. 
I'm not sure I can remember the last time a song offended me on this many levels. Before writing this review, I had to Google the lyrics just to make sure that I wasn't mishearing them, that they definitely were as offensive as I thought. Turns out, not only had I not misheard them, but I'd actually missed a few of the worse examples so I ended up even more offended than I anticipated. 
Ever wondered what it would sound like if synthesizers could poo? Well, take a listen to this and wonder no more. The low-end rumble on Timbaland's latest has such a squitty, bowelly undercurrent to it, innocent listeners would be forgiven for expecting to hear a sharp exhalation once the song is over, followed by a big splash and an unidentified (robot) voice sighing "OHHHhhh! That's better..."
Passchendaele, a major World War One battle, is known for its extreme goriness and is held up as one of the most singularly identifiable examples of how horrifying the conflict was. There were actually three battles of Passchendaele but I suspect trying to identify between one rancid, tragic waste of human life and another three months later is unnecessary outside the pages of military history textbooks. I have to admit, this is not the sort of thing which, upon hearing about, I'd think 'blow me, better write a jaunty pop song about that'.
You've all played that game 'Six Degrees Of Separation', right? Where you work out who has snogged who, and who they've gone on to snog, and then who THEY'VE snogged, and between you and everyone you know, you see how far you can go before you hit a dead end. And then there's the Hollywood version, where you pick any film star, and think about another film star who has worked with that film star, then another film star who worked with THAT film star...and try and work your way to Kevin Bacon...for reasons which are not entirely clear. That's just what people do. 
Look, everyone, I'm white and middle class and listen to rap music! Lethal Bizzle is black and probably not middle class and listens to indie! Smell that smell? That's musical cross-pollination, that is, and it means that there's honey on the way. Someone do something before ALL social groupings just BREAK DOWN and it's not crazy to do ANYTHING any more. 
THE STORY SO FAR: OK, so the Eden Project, deep in the heart of Cornwall's sunny ...er...Cornwall, is hosting a big series of concerts called the Eden Sessions. The first one was local-boy-made-good James Morrison, who revealed that he is to between-song chatter what Girls Aloud are to Overeaters Anonymous. Now it's the turn of Rufus Wainwright, a man who, given his outrageous talents, tabloid-friendly private life and foppish good looks, should really be a bit more famous than he actually is. 
Well Joss, first of all we're going to make an appointment with Trevor Sorbie, sit you down in his chair and see if we can't do something about that thing on your head, because the joke has gone on long enough now - it's not funny any more, it's just terrifying. And then perhaps after that we can head into town and perhaps pick out a couple of new outfits - not an entire wardrobe, but just so you've got one or two items that show less than fifty colours at once. 
Whoah! Wait just a second! Do I detect some kind of inspiration tribute being paid here? Here's a great big rock ballad, with shades of Coldplay's 'Yellow' (only using a much twistier, folkier melody) and is clearly being released as a single so that the band can consolidate some of their recent breakthrough success and reap those ever-tasty just-desserts. And they've elected to film a stark, slightly spooky black-and-white video for their big rock ballad, all super-contrasty, wobbly camerawork and poor focus. 
Ms Lily Floral Allen has spent the greater part of the last few months becoming notable less for the music which she makes and more for how she chooses to spend her time under the celebrity spotlight (stuff like 
Deep in the heart of the mirror forest, there lies a tiny little house. It's a funny-looking house, but it is not funny. Not at all. From the outside, the house looks as if someone had painted the walls using a rainbow on a brush, and the windows are as bright and shiny as a new pin. 
There comes a time in every pop blog's life when the dirt-digging must cease. There's a definite moment when keeping one cynical eye on the seedy underbelly of celebrity culture and the other on the lofty heights to which music soars can cause permanent optical damage. It's called The Michael Jackson Snark Dilemma, and when it arises, a wise person chooses one thing at a time to look at. 
We all like a show-off, don't we? Even the most ridiculously punchable 'LOOK AT ME!' merchant gives the cynics among us the chance to tut theatrically and roll our eyes. And sometimes they'll be begging for attention because they really do have something to show off about. 
For all of their intellectual rigour and punk-funk party backbone, there remains something very austere, unfriendly and alien about Bloc Party's music. It's partly Kele's wounded squeak, partly his almost-profound, try-too-hard lyrics, and partly the deliberate ghostly aura the band carry around with them, like their own personal raincloud. 
It's easy to find fault with Razorlight. They've a lead singer who doesn't seem grateful for the positive attention he's been getting since his band first took off. He also seems to want to en-big-ify his songs so that they reach the widest possible audience, possibly at the expense of the little quirks and squeaks that made his older songs reach the people they got to in the first place. Plus that voice is a little thin, and those lyrics are a little weak. So what exactly is driving that naked ambition and making the skinny fella act so smugly (seeing as Razorlight fall short of being an actual cure for terminal illness and stuff)?
Aww....lovely Travis. Comfy like an old sweater, warm and cosy like your thickest and softest socks, and as floppy as a bogey windmill. There are many things that lovely Travis don't do. They don't swear (except in their serious songs about issues), they don't fall over drunk on the floor after duffing up a nun up for looking at them funny, and they don't do fast songs which make you want to jig about. That's for Jack Penate, right? 
I am fully aware that writing any kind of feature which seems to be critical of a concert arranged to honour The Nation's Favourite Princess Of All Our Hearts is not unlike going up to a tiger, up-ending a pot of hornets on his nose, and then attempting to swat them off using a cobra. People get very upset at anything which might be seen as a slight to Diana's memory, and often work themselves up into a frenzy on behalf of the people the late Princess tried to help, irrespective of whether those people are offended or not...
Upon listening to the Fergie album recently, an interesting proposition struck me, for a noughties update of the Pepsi Challenge. Now, for those of you young enough not to know what I'm talking about, the Pepsi Challenge was a blind test of cola drinks to see if people could tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke without the help of labels. It was huge in the '80s, I swear.
Reviewers, eh? Sometimes they seem to just love hating on music. Like vultures, music critics wait for some poor, starry eyed dreamer to release a single, doing what they do and hoping someone listens - and preferably buys so they can afford some new socks - only to swoop on said dreamer and rend them limb from limb with their pointy word-beaks. 