call me big papa
I always thought that's the sort of thing Luka (not to mention barty) listens to anyway

35 minutes of atonal squawking for breakfast

52 minutes of atonal squawking before bed


Active member
Time and age are the very first things you're greeted with here. The crackle of those old field recordings. Unmistakable. The high frequencies smothered by a David Lynch like sheen of violence, fuzz and filth. In their place, the ghostly, hyperactive excitations of an old 78. Dust dancing on the surface, like a never ending downpour of microscopic particles on a thin sheet of worn out perspex. The occasional pop like a loose thread from the ragged overalls of the groundskeeper catching a splinter as he walks down the hallway of the big old wooden house. Candlelight. The highs tucked away, the guitar a muted chord machine. Articulations barely distinguishable. Just a rhythm and the sound of a thousand humid nights and handmade plectrums working away at the guts. Strings that once had texture, but through all the dirt and grease have become smoothened and dulled like rain carving stone over millenia. Take a sip. Time, wood, skin oils and heat. The root of the oak tree. Unguarded, no filter. Croaking vocals treading well worn boards. Palpable decay. Well built. Built to last. Weather the storm. Vocals croaking their plight. Clawing their way out of the larynx, scarred and scratched. Lips dry, liquor near by. Jazz fag and rolling tobacco, whipping up a nocturnal cloud of purple plumes and cricket calls. Its all living and breathing. Decay, decay. It's tradition.


Corpsey has been nominated many many times and shirked the challenge on each occasion. This is a cause of great shame and his standing in this place has suffered as a consequence.

Sadmanbarty I want you to listen to crowded house you always take the weather with you


New member
before i’ve even started listening i’m excited. crowded house did ‘don’t dream it’s over’ which is gorgeous.

slightly sitary sound of that guitar, the triangle ping is also a bit indian restaurant music. the phaser makes my mouth feel like a cartoon character’s exaggerated chewing of bubble gum.

that guitar timbre with that bass is very breezy west coast. very literally breeze; that gentle respite from heat; really hitting the spot. cosby stills and nash ‘guinevere’. apricot sunsets. walking around barefoot. a wristband made of shells. pulling your trousers to your knees to walk along waves lapping softly. pattycakes life basically. the more selfish end of the 60’s ideal; the bliss of dropping out in calafornia.

the vocal harmony’s are also cosby stills and nash-esque. my connotation is america’s ‘a horse with no name’ one of my mum’s favourite song. so with that comes a whole bunch of subconcious associations. how cute and endearing i find her. the way i infantilise her. there’s the narrative that she was this intelligent bohemian girl stuck in essex in the 70’s surrounded by violence, emotional abuse and being suffocated by suburban existence. that she had this dream world of joni mitchel and jim morrison and whoever else across the Atlantic. there’s also wanting to protect her from the violence i saw her endure when i was a child.

the chorus sounds like a sitcom theme. synthetic emotion. like the forced chemistry that a sitcom cast has to have with one another. it’s working with the emotional remit of ‘friends’. canned laughter. the audience going ‘aaawwww’. placards being held up to tell you what unanimous emotional reaction to have. like the joshing in a beer advert.

i have no fucking clue why you picked this one for me.


Heard it in tesco the other day and liked the harmonies and the guitar. A song I passionately hated as a teenager when it came out.


I don't consider this music. It's not really anti music either though, not the kind of abrasive scouring noise third champions, so it's very hard to write about. A hugely unsympathetic presence at the centre of it all of course, even if we ignore his visual appearance, a gratuitous surplus of ugliness. One of the most unpleasant vocal performances I've ever heard. In fact There's nothing pleasurable here at all, but more than that, there's nothing to latch onto, no hook, no tune, no rhythm, no interesting textures, no intensity, no sensuality, no quirks. It's just a kind maladroit clattering. Very interesting that this was hugely popular. No accounting for taste.

Having said all that there's one song of his I like a lot, I don't want to go Chelsea.


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an american diner in the 50’s. happy days, greece lightening, the fonz. juke boxes. pancakes. blonds with cherry lips and upturned noses serving coffee in pink aprons. but all of it through a filter. glistening, but not in a sharp way. something hazy about it. out of focus. smudge on the lens. someone’s been frying bacon and all the smokes suffocating your cognition.

not so stuffy when he starts singing. 50’s infantilism in the melody. a simpler time. why must i be a teenager in love? mort weisinger era superman. all delivered with annoying white boy attention seeking ironic delivery of course. he’s said “check point charlie”, so i guess this is ironic then. the cheepest, easiest irony. “palestine”. i don’t approve. “mr churchill.. johanasburg”

very claustrophobic arrangement. not quite enough air. slightly gasping. wanting to undo your top button. a crowded bus in peckham during the summer. your feet sore, bored and run out of patience in oxford street.

it’s the colour of muddied water in the sunlight.


Active member
i don't think it was "Oliver's Army" i picked, that would have been too obvious (big hit, albeit when you weren't even born)

i think i went with a "deep" album cut - one for the headz!

probably this one

(or was it "Busy Bodies", or "Goon Squad'? Or "Green Shirt"?)

anyway you'll hate it even more than "Oliver's ArmY' probably

mind you i can't see how someone could like "I don't want to go to chelsea" and not like the other songs of the same ilk and the same time period - it's the same sound, same voice, same personality

the persona is meant to be someone unbearable, that you wouldn't be around.... someone who can't bear to be around themselves.... poisoned with self-loathing

totally uptight and yes exactly like a too-tight collar on an office worker, rubbing the neck raw.

ooh i just thought of something else to torment you both (all?) with...