Cave of Golf, 1997)
Some friends from up north came to town last night and insisted on taking me out drinking. Copious amounts of alcohol were consumed and the residual damage is an unerring, throbbing pulse that’s jarring my brain loose—oh, and the downy-soft pelt currently blanketing my tongue is new, too. Li’l ol’ teetotalin’ me was duly reminded as to why I don’t really indulge anymore. Awww.
So this means that you’ll be treated to an abbreviated version of this week’s entry. Topics that would’ve received commentary include (but weren’t limited to) the following:
- The preponderance of stellar 45s issued in the early 90s and the torrential streams of dross rounding out the decade.
- The self-reflexivity and dumb-ing down of once promising bands; to the point of caricature and self-parody.
- Alienating the remnants of my readership with such a decidedly indie (re: pussified) disc.
- John Peel’s championing of said record and its consequent critical acclaim.
- Proto nods aplenty: Monks, VU, Modern Lovers, etc.
- Clenched teefs.
- Ample nervous energy and frisson.
- Thom Yorke and how much he sucks.
- Disposable instrumental track. Typical limey wigger shit that should appeal to fans of Portishead. and Thom Yorke.
- Pressing info: 500 copies.
- A paltry offer to upload their two other, self-released EPs as an act of contrition.
AA
Songs: I.P.C. Subeditors Dictate Our YouthDP / Porno
