Autumnal licks, teenage kicks. Lessons accrued this week include the I Break Horses album (well worth investing time and money upon), and the implication of interloper status when attending an Amanda Palmer gig (or Amanda “Fucking” Palmer as she’s currently styling herself; the application of F word either a statement of intent or the suggestion of danger, aimed towards the suggestible – no prizes for guessing where my money lay). She’s very good at what she does – an itinerary of ballsy standards. Brechtian overtones, and then a slice of ukulele Radiohead. And yet the overriding mood is one of cabaret; a constant reminder of why I’m not an Amanda Palmer fan (or a Dresden Dolls fan for that matter).
Tomorrow, another instalment of the Fucked-Up Festive Fifty (the application of F word either a statement of intent or the suggestion of danger, aimed towards the suggestible). Another weekend of internal strife: do I permit my intrinsic distrust of the Radiohead aesthetic to leave ‘Karma Police’ off the list? And will George Formby make an unlikely appearance? Hmm.
Amanda Palmer / Idioteque