When it comes to music – both live and recorded – the word that springs to mind is fetishistic. And even then it’s not necessarily straight-forward – rather, it’s fetish as something multifaceted. The specifics of chord structure, of guitar pedal distortion. The
weight and feel of freshly-purchased vinyl – the moment of sexual tension when you slip the record from its sleeve (or is that just me?).
And it’s not even as if this fetish thing can be intellectualized or easily explained away. I have this thing for obscure, curtained records. Tunes at the margin, never-played – not even on those 6Music shows that I’m always listening to (Tom Ravenscroft’s Friday night show is an absolute delight; anyone would think he’d some significant musical pedigree or something…)
Below the words, an example of something lost and forgotten, and therefore cherished (and can somebody comment if this is working or not; the play button is doing its thing at this end, but apparently gremlins have been spotted of late, and I’d be applying my sad face if technology deprived you of this esoteric morsel – cheers). Tiger floated about the fringes of whatever scene it was that dribbled about London in the mid-to-late nineties – I think it all had something to do with space hoppers, if memory serves. They only released two albums before disappearing – a shame, I think, as they managed to populate their tracks with a luscious, off-centre energy, not a million miles away from punky pace of The Rezillos (another fine band who were consigned in the direction of obscurity far too readily). This does however point towards a question: do I like this record because I like this record, or because it fulfils a fetish?
(the answer is of course: both).
Tiger / My Puppet Pal