Glasgow, Scotland. A lazy, recalcitrant afternoon, a damp and humid Sunday. On the turntable: Pavement, Pulp, Propaganda (although I’ll probably have 6Music on soon; I listen to far too much 6Music – the neighbours are growing restless with it). The news just in is no doubt lifted straight from your voicemail: we’re lost in music. Caught in a trap. No turning back. I once played bass (badly) on a record that grew up to be track #13 of a not-very-good indie musak compilation; I knew I’d made it when I spotted said LP in the racks of Rough Trade in Talbot Road, W11 (yeah, sometimes I really miss London), and instead of feeling like I’d accomplished something or had varnished off a childhood ambition, the overriding sentiment was dictated by ennui. Which is pretty much me all over. I no longer play bass guitar.
Below is a record, hosted by Soundcloud – for my money the only streaming service whose “play this record” coding looks vaguely phallic. I’m in the type of strange and listless mood that wants me to write about I Break Horses again (they’re from Sweden; they like Ride, My Bloody Valentine and Slowdive; they sound like M83 attending a cosmology convention– what’s not to adore?) – but on the other hand, drifting off on some self-obsessed slant isn’t great when things are for public consumption (which reminds me; I’m still very, very uncertain of this whole blogging lark. I’m a massive fan of the delete key, and I’ve a novel to finish that’s been going nowhere fast since before I started all this music blog shite. It’ll be a great read – it’s all about a sad shoegaze fan with a hangover).
But back to the music. I’ve written about Prolapse before, at length – they’re one of those bands that pretty much defined the early nineties for me. Riveting live; an energetic blend of krautrock, Fall fandom and Leicester City FC. I’ll probably write about them again. A lengthy article. It’ll be a grand alternative to killing a blog.
Prolapse / Surreal Madrid