So, that Germany lot. Pretty terrifying, eh? After their 4-0 mauling of Davey’sBoys, it feels like the big names of the World Cup have finally arrived (not like these English and American numpties). Attention thus turns to Italy tonight, and their opening game against South American dark horses Paraguay – and one suspects that Italy may have an axe to grind in this one. After all, we know the Italians love to be stylish and love to be good-looking, so how will they react when they realize that Paraguay’s star centre-forward is not just more dashingly handsome than their entire squad, but probably the whole rest of the World Cup combined?
Admit it – you want his babies.
Admittedly, pug-faced thug Gennaro Gattuso does bring the batting average down considerably for the Italians.
Paraguay’s musical scene, like that of several of the other countries this blog will cover, is shaped by the political upheaval in the country’s recent history. Here, that means flirtations with communism, dictatorship, and most damningly, the artistic oppression the country suffered under Alfredo Stroessner’s reign as President. It was only in 1989 that most popular forms of music were allowed to fully blossom in the nation, having been largely shunned (although not banned) since the start of his reign in 1954. Perhaps that history explains why, despite its sunny climate, metal has thrived in the country over the past two decades. Acts like black metallers Sabaoth, thrashers Raw Hide and Corrosion, and the more traditional…
If you’ve got a bit of a fetish for goalkeepers, and were hoping to see some quality displays between the sticks, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you sincerely, on the behalf of the entire combined populations of England and Algeria. Seriously. Might I suggest you become a Nigeria supporter?
I guess with Slovenia currently sitting pretty ahead of both England and USA after Robert Koren’s tame, gentle pass somehow got shovelled into the goal by Farouzi ‘Robert Green in disguise’ Chaouchi, now’s the time to celebrate them.
There’s simply nowhere to start talking about Slovenian music other than Laibach – Slovenia’s most admired musical export by light years, and probably the only musical act from the country that most of the readers will have heard of. Named for the name the Nazis used for their hometown, the Slovenian capital Ljubljana, the band have toyed with Nazi imagery for their entire careers, both adapting the insignia into their own imagery and working extensively with anti-defamation artists and charities. Their most notorious musical moments in English speaking territories are covers – most notably Queen’s “One Vision”, which is sung in German and re-named “Geburt Einer Nation” (The Birth of a Nation, nodding to the famously controversial pro-KKK silent movie by D.W. Griffiths). They’ve been a consistently controversial group themselves, although it hasn’t stopped them from becoming a strong influence on much of the industrial and martial industrial music made since (Rammstein and Rome particularly), and in…
Music used to be something transcendent for me, something that could carry me away to different worlds. Every album was an adventure with something exciting and stimulating just around the corner, like walking through an expansive forest to find streetlights hanging from the trees or entering my bathroom to see the mirror made of reflective puzzle pieces. Wondrous and new, music was a planet unto itself that consisted of objects stitched together through the creativity of a collective, notes and melodies becoming the nails and planks while the input of each individual band member was the hammer that connected everything. For hours I could wander the streets of this new place, listening to different albums without any agenda other than the sheer joy of continual discovery.
Eventually, everything had to be supplemented with music. Was it storming outside? I had to listen to an album that complemented the weather. Was I sad? I had to listen to sad music. I feel now that it was a lazy response, one that cheapened the experiences at hand. Music as a form of escape isn’t inherently purer than doing anything else to avoid problems just because it’s music. It is counterproductive. Listening to sad music because I was sad set me up for more sadness, but listening to happy music made me feel like a clown, an idiot, trying to jump-start a good mood based on the sounds hitting my ears, like some slobbering Pavlovian dog. Music failed me at those times and…
Yes, attempting to blog about the music of the USA on a site like Sputnik is patently ridiculous. I know. That’s one of the reasons I’m getting it out of the way early; the other is to say YOU’RE GOING DOWN AMERICA
Be honest – who’s side do YOU want to be on?
Ahem. So anyway, I suppose the best way to approach this to go back to a time when American music was exactly that – American music, and not some globally-dominant behemoth that just happens to revolve around California for some reason. And to kick that off, I’m resorting to playing personal favourites with comedian, country pioneer, and all-around vaudeville nutcase Uncle Dave Macon. This is the sound of America in its youth, still in thrall to the Appalachian folk music developed by Americans working in tandom with the Irish and Scottish diaspora, yet to discover and assimilate the blues music of the slaves that would lead them to musical world domination. Macon’s vocal delivery was radical for his time, particularly in terms of the music being recorded at the time, and his performing style was no different – more aggressive and raucous than country or folk has been since. And that’s before we consider the knee-slapping sexual innuendos that abound in so many of his songs, puns so well-concealed that half the time it’s not even clear whether or not it’s accidental.
You know, there used to be a time when the words ‘Uruguay’ and ‘World Cup’ went together like ‘Billy Corgan’ and ‘whiny bitch’. They both hosted and won the first one, in 1930, before hopping over the border to Brazil and gazumping them in their final in 1952. All this and two Olympic golds in the ’20s, too. They’re a shadow of their former selves now, though; largely relying on the skills of two gifted frontmen, one of whom looks not entirely unlike Simon Amstell.
So, who’s your favourite McFly?
Not unlike football, Uruguay’s music has tended to be overshadowed by that of its much larger neighbours, Brazil. Yet it had its own version of tropicalia, running concurrently to the Brazilian psychedelic revolutionaries, and the biggest name was in that was Eduardo Mateo. Finding an English-language equivalent for Mateo is difficult; he was an enfant terrible of the nation’s music scene, who was rumoured to struggle with mental health issues, and yet he became arguably the most influential musician the country had ever produced. The below track comes from his 1976 collaboration with Montevido born percussionist Jorge Trasante; a record recorded after both musicians were exiled from the country by the government-imposed period of martial law that ravaged the nation in the mid-’70s.
Before Mateo’s blend of rock, traditional Latin-American folk forms, and psych, though, there was the Uruguayan invasion – which is exactly what it sounds like. After The…
Howdy. You might have noticed something that something fairly big is about to start in South Africa, and as a European I am duty-bound to spend the next month waffling on and on and on about it. It’s great, though, because the World Cup offers us a chance to do many things, like laugh uncontrollably at France, get drunk at 2 in the afternoon, tell a room of journalists to ’suck it and keep on sucking it’, and research other countries in the hope of finding another stereotype to chant about. So why not do it here? I’ll bet that 95% of the people on Sputnik own songs from, at most, 6 of the countries participating (and that’s accounting for your token J-pop albums and weirdly popular outliers like Laibach).
So where better to start than the hosts?
One of these men is called Macbeth Sibaya. Awesome.
South Africa’s music is unique amongst that of Africa in the way it has permeated American culture, largely thanks to Paul Simon and his massively successful Graceland; indeed, when the average person tries to imagine African music, from any part of the continent, it’s almost certainly the monophonic vocal harmony of Ladysmith Black Mambazo they picture. It’s an odd stereotype, for sure, but it’s one that’s ensured that they were, and perhaps still are, more famous in the US than they were in their home country.
Yet Ladysmith are a one-dimensional representation of…
So the Season 1 finale of Glee finished ten minutes ago and I am very sad that I’ll have to find a new show to talk about for the next few months. I already wrote a blog about Glee here, but I am just bursting with things to say about why I love the show and I feel an unshakable need to share them with you, because the music of Glee is essentially all I listen to these days.
I'm trying to be ashamed but I am just too filled with happiness for that.
My fiancée, despite my numerous attempts to persuade her, absolutely refuses to watch Glee, saying that she doesn’t like musicals. In the immortal words of Aaron Weiss, “I half-heartedly explained, but gave up peacefully ashamed.” It irks me that she makes fun of the show and says she hates it without ever having seen an episode, but ultimately I don’t care whether or not she likes it, and secretly I’m even sort of glad that she doesn’t. I hate when people get pissed off that their favorite band is starting to gain popularity, even though we’ve all had that feeling, even me. You overhear someone talking about a band you like, calling them “French screamo,” (as an acquaintance of mine once called The Mars Volta), and your blood boils, wishing that you were the only one in the world with knowledge of that band, that their name wasn’t being tainted by half-wits.…
Most people think of English as a grim shower of dullards who wouldn’t know fun if it invaded their country and brutalised its beleagured people for 800 years. And they’d be right.
Ocasionally, the English do come up with something completely amazing and it’s all we can do not to stand up and applaud.
One was hospitalised and three more have been taken in for questioning following a water fight in London’s Hyde Park that involved over 1,500 people and lasted for eight hours. The water fight was organised via Facebook and comes in the midst of a seasonal heatwave that has given rise to a unprecedented phenomenon among British youth known as a “natural tan.”
Police were so concerned by the gathering that a riot squad was summoned, while busy neighbouring thoroughfare Oxford Street was shut down completely. The assembled warriors responded in characteristic fashion by spraying police with water guns, raining them with water bombs and drunkenly trying to punch them. Thankfully, some Irish patsy caught the entire clash on video – enjoy.
In a tenuous attempt to link this awesome event to music, here’s a video of Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band performing London Calling in Hyde Park last summer:
Sputnik regulars may be aware that, for the past few months, producers of hit Fox musical drama Glee have been holding open auditions for the planned second and third series of the show, which will go into production later this year.
Much like American Idol, which in later series saw more and more professional singers audition alongside the plebs, the public audition format has done little to deter established actors from throwing their hat in the ring.
Mitch Hewer is a reasonably well-known actor in the UK, having starred in two series of the cult show Skins and the one-and-only season of nauseating High School Musical knock-off Britannia High. Here’s Mitch’s audition tape, in which he performs Bill Withers’ ‘Lean On Me.’
Aside from the general awkwardness of performing a great song to a mediocre click track ina warehouse, Mitch is obviously, to paraphrase Randy Jackson, a bit pitchy, dawg. In a more general sense, he’s just an unremarkable singer who compensates for his obvious flaws with boyish good looks and bulging biceps. Which means he’ll probably wind up replacing Finn.
Season 9 of American Idol has finally been run and won, with Lee DeWyze emerging victorious over Crystal Bowersox. It is arguably the 2nd upset in as many seasons come the final night and one now has to seriously wonder about the voting guidelines… If one had not wondered previously.
Isn’t it Ironic, don’t you think?
Before the final decision however, there was a surprisingly entertaining 90 minutes or so with a number of left-field guest appearances. Alice Cooper, The Bee Gees and Hall & Oates were hardly predictable guests, while Christina Aguilera and Janet Jackson also added to the festivities. Furthermore, there were a couple of performers who took to the stage with the final 3 contestants and the performances were surprisingly good. Well, maybe we can exclude Lee’s song with Chicago, but Crystal & Alanis Morissette, both finalists with Joe Cocker, and Casey James with Poison’s Bret Michaels all made for an entertaining overall package.
Casey with Bret “I’m everywhere right now” Michaels.
Back to the contest, Lee firmly placed himself in serious contention on Top 3 night when he performed best when singing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Simple Man’ and fan favorite ‘Hallelujah’. This was pleasing since it finalized the elimination of Casey in 3rd position and also put the 2 finalists under serious pressure come the final night. At the end of my Top 3 column, I wrote the following words: “…but if I had my way; this…
1. The singer (Rick K., I presume) is inarguably the least endearing and least charismatic frontman in wedding band history. If this group secured a gig on-board a cruise ship – and, make no mistake, that is their tragic fantasy – he would be thrown overboard within first sight of shark-infested waters.
2. While sparkly jackets and headsets might suggest both a sense of humour and an intention to move around, nothing could be further from the truth. Rick and the Allnighters transform one of the all-time classic boogie rock songs into a dirge so dull even the Melvins wouldn’t touch it. Even when they try to be fun, they’re not. In other words, if these guys are all-nighters, then you might want to consider going to bed before 11.
So why watch it then?
Struggle through the introduction and the first few bars of music, and you’ll see why. This may just be the smoking gun argument for gay marriage that nobody can ever deny. Gay marriage = more marriage, and more marriage = more of this guy.
Christy Moore once sang: “For all of our languages, we can’t communicate.” A cultured man is Christy, but he never quite reckoned for Eurovision.
To those with the misfortune to have grown up outside Europe, the Eurovision Song Contest must appear like some curious oddity, a routine quirk of a continent in which nude beaches are tolerated, excessive body hair is celebrated and the frustrated majority has reluctantly given up on the task of destroying the French, though not through lack of trying. For Europeans, however, Eurovision is one of those rare cultural events that transcends not just language and territorial boundaries, but generations too. Some countries resolve conflicts with war, diplomacy, or both; Europeans long ago resolved to settle their differences with an annual sing and dance-off. It’s just one of those things.
Musically, too, Eurovision has remained remarkably constant through the years. The break-up of the Eastern Bloc in the early 90s increased two-fold the number of countries entering the contest (as a rule of thumb, a country doesn’t officially exist until its football team has been formally ratified by UEFA; entry to Eurovision is the logical next step, and only then it can think about drawing up a constitution). Far from bringing a diverse range of new styles to the competition, the addition of all these new states has had the effect of freezing Eurovision in time, and the synth-heavy pop-rock that dominated Europe in the mid-nineties remains the contest’s dominant currency. Before, almost…
So tonight was my first night online after going two weeks without the Internet. I discovered that Gary Coleman died and then promptly forgot about that when I found out that Hayley Williams’ boobs had finally shown up online. It is saddening that Gary Coleman will never get the chance to see them.
Anyway, I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. So long, in fact, that I was beginning to think it would never happen. Hayley Williams seemed unlikely to ever show up nude on the Internet, which is exactly the reason why I assumed she would eventually show up nude on the Internet. But after Riot! was released and Paramore’s popularity spiked with nary a sight of Hayley’s nipples, I began to lose hope. I shouldn’t have worried though; the Internet always comes through for us in the end.
The picture itself is lackluster if we’re being honest. The angle is horrible; it makes her breasts look small(er) because they’re flattened, and what’s up with that lighting? It makes her look as if she’s a tween impersonating Hayley Williams rather than the real deal. Also, her nose is really shiny. And I don’t really like red lipstick.
I’m assuming that there were other nude pictures to choose from, so why did the hacker (if that’s truly what happened) pick that one? Did Hayley offend him or her in some way? Is this picture revenge, not only because it…
May not be fresh content anymore, but sounds like this cannot go unposted. Recorded at his Echoplex gig on the 15th of May, this sick version of Galaxy in Janaki by Flying Lotus will undoubtedly ruin the album version for you. Nevertheless it proves to be yet another reason to check out Cosmogramma for those few poor souls yet to do so.
Those of you who have been keeping up with UK festivals this year will know that one of the headline slots at the UK’s biggest rock festival was given, for some reason, to a lumbering, crippled dinosaur of a band, with their best years over 2 decades behind them and a deeply egotistical, deeply irritating singer seemingly intent on officially becoming the world’s biggest tool guiding them ever further into mediocrity. The festival goers who were duped in parting with around £150 of hard-earned for a ticket have been praying every day and every night that this band – who are still living off the glories of three not-that-good singles from a not-that-good album released in the 1980s – will pull out and allow somebody relevant to take their slot.
Unfortunately, Guns n Roses are still scheduled to play Reading and Leeds.