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Apart
from copious amounts of horseshit, coming mainly from the mouths of people
in college, drilling into my fucking earhole, my life is perfect. I'm
a writer. A good writer. I tend to write poetry and stories about my home
town Dundee. They're pretty good. I've even won awards you know. And James
Kelman stayed in my flat once. Smoked all my cigarettes too the bastard.
But here I am. Reviewing fucking music. I shouldnae have to do this. But
I do. I mean, in my spare time I listen to music. I usually listen to
music I like. And then here, for money, I listen to the fucking musical
equivalent of the clap. And then after I've dealt with it, I give it to
you. Right here.
So, this month's fucking dose is called Databank by Kalle Ryan. Alright,
where do I begin with this? Basically this sounds like my fucking car
alarm with drums. There's NO one thing on this album I would even call
listenable. This fucking mess is what they call techno or electronica.
As far as I can tell, that gives these arseholes license to record whatever
the fuck they like and call it music. I'm no joking when I say that every
second I listened to this I considered setting myself on fire. It's shite.
Pure and fucking solid.
As for lyrics. There aren't any. Some art-school wankerisms were repeated
over and over again on the first track instead. I thought I was going
to get a tumour if I had to listen to it any longer. I'm sick of this
new wave of trite platitudes that are supposed to be these profound fucking
truisms, when any dosser can see that they're no more than hollow fucking
fortune cookie bullshit.
To be honest with you, I couldnae tell the difference between any of the
tracks on the album. In fact I'd even say that there is none. Whatever
you say. I don't care how fast or slow the pneumatic drumbeat goes, it's
still meaningless fucking noise. Do yourself a favour and take my word
for it.
If only every day could be more like a good Bill Forsythe film. Class
through and through. Still I know that theres fuck all chance of that
ever happening. Instead I'll say a prayer for this Ryan fucker and hope
that he gets a swift kick to the balls sooner rather than later. In the
meantime I'll keep writing my poetry and hope that spring gets here early
this year.
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