How the blazes it came to this no-one quite knows – but in a development which will have my former philosophy tutor at Cambridge spluttering over her Wittgenstein essays in disgust, I have penned my first rap.
Actually, the question of how the blazes this came about can be answered immediately, and with greater ease than had previously been suggested. An associate, on reading my critique of D. Rascal's Bonkers, had suggested that I did the man a disservice, in chiding him for lack of depth in his lyrics. 'Twas a social commentary, and examination of the human condition, he argued. Specifically, he claimed, Bonkers is about listlessness, disaffection and the negative preoccupations of the subject of his verse.
In my capacity as The Most Gullible Person I Know, I must admit to being a little unsure of the sincerity of these comments. I listened again to Bonkers – always a pleasure, never a chore - and while the lyrics could certainly be construed as interpretations of the themes suggested, I would hardly compare them to Wilde in terms of intelligence, variety and general exploration of the richness of language. They rhyme, and they're catchy, but I've heard better rap (from Mr Rascal himself, I might add).
However, I am inclined to think 'tis wrong to judge a man until one has walked a mile in his shoes. I therefore endeavoured to write my own rap about listlessness and disaffection.
I should point out that it works rather better if heard, rather than read, and would also certainly benefit from some sort of melodious background accompaniment. Be that as it may, do please go right ahead and knock yourself out, with Listless.
I'm so full of talent, got so many skills
Hold tight, or your legs give way at my skills
I can click with my left, do fifty-six sit-ups
These just some my skills, y'all playing catch-up
Skills, mad skills, talent, flair, gift, skills
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Check out my skills mate, I can make pasta
Get the sauce from a jar, and believe, it's top pasta
Nutritious, delicious, and not too firm blud
Done eight minutes flat, only needs hot water
I'm so slick it's unfair, go warn your peoples
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
And yes yes mate, watch me make paper-planes
There's gold in these fingers when I make paper planes
I'm all over the folds, flaps, wings, tip, nose
Check out the creases, watch my talent you knows it
Sometimes they die – true – but sometimes they fly – yes
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless.
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Friday, 12 June 2009
Warriors' Dance - Nice Video, Shame About the Track
"Nice body, shame about the face." One of my favourite phrases, and one with the flexibility to be utilised in any given situation, whereby "body" is replaced by the noun most relevant to the situation, while "shame about the face" is retained, to the pleasing bemusement of listeners. Thus, of Warrior's Dance, I declare, "Nice video; shame about the face". A private joke between me.
The video is indeed cleverly done, with that typical cheeky and riotous élan so typical of The Prodigy. The song itself however begins well and does not go anywhere else henceforth. Ironic that a song of such energy should induce such a listless reaction, but it just feels like a lazy effort. Sure, it will get people up on the dance-floor and shape-making with a manic ferocity, but as a song in its own right it's rather bland.
Please do not think I am berating it for lack of plot; far from it. Its problem is a lack of action. The furious up-tempo beat, reminiscent of a 90s rave, may sound action-packed, but is uninventively repeated.
Perhaps the sticking point at All Action No Plot Towers is that Warriors' Dance is such a curious choice of a single for general release, bearing so little similarity to the rest of the album (which is far more big-beat and angry, in a Fat of the Land vein). There was a grand old choice of singles, and selecting Warriors' Dance does not really do just to the album. A curious choice.
The video is indeed cleverly done, with that typical cheeky and riotous élan so typical of The Prodigy. The song itself however begins well and does not go anywhere else henceforth. Ironic that a song of such energy should induce such a listless reaction, but it just feels like a lazy effort. Sure, it will get people up on the dance-floor and shape-making with a manic ferocity, but as a song in its own right it's rather bland.
Please do not think I am berating it for lack of plot; far from it. Its problem is a lack of action. The furious up-tempo beat, reminiscent of a 90s rave, may sound action-packed, but is uninventively repeated.
Perhaps the sticking point at All Action No Plot Towers is that Warriors' Dance is such a curious choice of a single for general release, bearing so little similarity to the rest of the album (which is far more big-beat and angry, in a Fat of the Land vein). There was a grand old choice of singles, and selecting Warriors' Dance does not really do just to the album. A curious choice.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Making History - When 500+ Pages Is Not Enough
Making History represented my first foray into the world of Stephen Fry’s fictional witterings, and probably earned itself the slightly disappointing Sound-But-Unspectacular stamp.
Perhaps unavoidably, the novel suffers for the identification of its author, for I found it impossible to judge as a work in its own right. This was not helped by the fact that the lead character might just as well have been called Stephen Fry, as many of the asides, musings and scathing rants of the Cambridge graduate central character had more than just a tinge of the autobiographical about them.
Given this, it was disappointing that the prose itself was not really imbued with a genuine and heartfelt relish for the evocative capacity of language. While witty and intelligent, there was none of the Wodehouse-esque moulding of language that grabs one’s funny-bone and hammers at it relentlessly until it cracks under the strain of mirth. Instead, the 500+ pages glided by with a pleasing but perhaps over-simplistic ease.
Neither, curiously, were there any real sub-plots to speak of, but this did not matter greatly, for the subject itself was hugely entertaining and thought-provoking. The question of how history would have panned out had Hitler’s birth been prevented is explored in intelligent and enjoyable style. The theme is worthy of exploration, and is duly done justice. Fry does a grand old job of detailing the alternate history of mankind as a whole, amusingly juxtaposing it with the bewildering personal perplexities one would presumably encounter when suddenly dumped into a parallel reality. It’s an impressive feat, and one achieved with cheerful aplomb.
Some of the literary devices used seem a little contrived and unnecessary – the occasional mozey into the world of screenplays does not add a huge amount to the novel, and if anything is a rather lazy means of injecting pace. One would have thought that the author possessed greater literary tools and invention within his intellectual arsenal.
Nevertheless, this remains an enjoyable piece of mindless fluff. It’s a worthy exploration of an intriguing notion, and for that, thumbs are enthusiastically upturned at All Action No Plot Towers. It is just a nagging shame, that given the author’s ill-disguised identity, the narrative style was nowhere near as luscious as it might have been.
Perhaps unavoidably, the novel suffers for the identification of its author, for I found it impossible to judge as a work in its own right. This was not helped by the fact that the lead character might just as well have been called Stephen Fry, as many of the asides, musings and scathing rants of the Cambridge graduate central character had more than just a tinge of the autobiographical about them.
Given this, it was disappointing that the prose itself was not really imbued with a genuine and heartfelt relish for the evocative capacity of language. While witty and intelligent, there was none of the Wodehouse-esque moulding of language that grabs one’s funny-bone and hammers at it relentlessly until it cracks under the strain of mirth. Instead, the 500+ pages glided by with a pleasing but perhaps over-simplistic ease.
Neither, curiously, were there any real sub-plots to speak of, but this did not matter greatly, for the subject itself was hugely entertaining and thought-provoking. The question of how history would have panned out had Hitler’s birth been prevented is explored in intelligent and enjoyable style. The theme is worthy of exploration, and is duly done justice. Fry does a grand old job of detailing the alternate history of mankind as a whole, amusingly juxtaposing it with the bewildering personal perplexities one would presumably encounter when suddenly dumped into a parallel reality. It’s an impressive feat, and one achieved with cheerful aplomb.
Some of the literary devices used seem a little contrived and unnecessary – the occasional mozey into the world of screenplays does not add a huge amount to the novel, and if anything is a rather lazy means of injecting pace. One would have thought that the author possessed greater literary tools and invention within his intellectual arsenal.
Nevertheless, this remains an enjoyable piece of mindless fluff. It’s a worthy exploration of an intriguing notion, and for that, thumbs are enthusiastically upturned at All Action No Plot Towers. It is just a nagging shame, that given the author’s ill-disguised identity, the narrative style was nowhere near as luscious as it might have been.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Prodigy - Invaders Must Die: Keeps This Crowd Happy
How does one faithfully recreate the lustier elements of an all-action-no-plot masterpiece, without eschewing the need for originality? Simply to replicate the original is one, rather unimaginative option; but to wander off in directions anew is an approach fraught with risk, which could undo all the good work of the original.
(Pose not this problem to the producers of Terminator 3, for they will throw money at the idea, rearrange the deckchairs and ultimately leave punters shaking their fists and seething with outrage. I shudder to recall, but Terminator 3 was neither an improved re-working of its predecessor, nor a work of sufficient originality to win plaudits for all sorts of new reasons - as Terminator 2 had itself been, ironically.)
However, if anyone knows how to re-imagine themselves with more verve and bravura than previously, it is The Prodigy. Following the success of their debut album Experience, they wandered off in a completely different direction with their follow-up, Jilted Generation, yet still produced an improvement. This was itself then trumped by another re-invention, in The Fat of the Land.
Unfortunately, this was the zenith. Their fourth album, Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned, was fairly forgettable, and the greatest hits compilation of a couple of years ago seemed the sensible, if rather shameless escape route.
The news of another studio album was therefore greeted with a raised, and rather dubious eyebrow, here at All Action No Plot Towers – for what new route could they tread? Surely Outnumbered, Outgunned was sufficient illustration that there were no more worlds for The Prodigy to conquer?
Well – yes, it was. So the band (or, more specifically, Liam Howlett, The Prodigy’s prodigy) have basically rehashed Fat of the Land, and called it Invaders Must Die. Nothing particularly original in terms of genre and sound, but it produces enough in the vein of Fat of the Land to keep this particular crowd quite happy, thank you very much.
The guitars’n’drums’n’bass’n’guttural lyrics combo does not deviate too much from the winning formula of Fat of the Land, but more than ten years since the success of that album, another hour worth of similar stuff is quite welcome. It’s up-tempo and aggressive, very much cut from the all-action-no-plot cloth. Interestingly, the spikiest tracks are those which do not rely upon samplings, and which are therefore are all the band’s own work – namely Invaders Must Die, Omen and Colours.
The album just about, by the skin of its teeth, avoids over-use of Keith Flint’s vocal – ahem – talents. Flint was perfectly used in Firestarter, back in the day, and the more understated contribution on Breathe was well-judged. A similarly limited input in Omen works jolly well on this album. However, his delivery of lyrics which, frankly, sound laughably like a nursery rhyme, in Piranha and Take Me To The Hospital, would be rather problematic, if the music were not so adrenaline-pumpingly manic.
The sound occasionally varies, but never for long. Warrior’s Dance almost harks back to the rave-happy nature of their first album, while closing track Stand Up is as close as they will ever get to a big orchestral finale, but for the most part the band sticks to a tried-and-trusted formula.
It’s neither particularly original nor clever, but if you reconcile yourself to an absence of originality, and accept this as an extension of Fat of the Land, it ticks the boxes.
(Pose not this problem to the producers of Terminator 3, for they will throw money at the idea, rearrange the deckchairs and ultimately leave punters shaking their fists and seething with outrage. I shudder to recall, but Terminator 3 was neither an improved re-working of its predecessor, nor a work of sufficient originality to win plaudits for all sorts of new reasons - as Terminator 2 had itself been, ironically.)
However, if anyone knows how to re-imagine themselves with more verve and bravura than previously, it is The Prodigy. Following the success of their debut album Experience, they wandered off in a completely different direction with their follow-up, Jilted Generation, yet still produced an improvement. This was itself then trumped by another re-invention, in The Fat of the Land.
Unfortunately, this was the zenith. Their fourth album, Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned, was fairly forgettable, and the greatest hits compilation of a couple of years ago seemed the sensible, if rather shameless escape route.
The news of another studio album was therefore greeted with a raised, and rather dubious eyebrow, here at All Action No Plot Towers – for what new route could they tread? Surely Outnumbered, Outgunned was sufficient illustration that there were no more worlds for The Prodigy to conquer?
Well – yes, it was. So the band (or, more specifically, Liam Howlett, The Prodigy’s prodigy) have basically rehashed Fat of the Land, and called it Invaders Must Die. Nothing particularly original in terms of genre and sound, but it produces enough in the vein of Fat of the Land to keep this particular crowd quite happy, thank you very much.
The guitars’n’drums’n’bass’n’guttural lyrics combo does not deviate too much from the winning formula of Fat of the Land, but more than ten years since the success of that album, another hour worth of similar stuff is quite welcome. It’s up-tempo and aggressive, very much cut from the all-action-no-plot cloth. Interestingly, the spikiest tracks are those which do not rely upon samplings, and which are therefore are all the band’s own work – namely Invaders Must Die, Omen and Colours.
The album just about, by the skin of its teeth, avoids over-use of Keith Flint’s vocal – ahem – talents. Flint was perfectly used in Firestarter, back in the day, and the more understated contribution on Breathe was well-judged. A similarly limited input in Omen works jolly well on this album. However, his delivery of lyrics which, frankly, sound laughably like a nursery rhyme, in Piranha and Take Me To The Hospital, would be rather problematic, if the music were not so adrenaline-pumpingly manic.
The sound occasionally varies, but never for long. Warrior’s Dance almost harks back to the rave-happy nature of their first album, while closing track Stand Up is as close as they will ever get to a big orchestral finale, but for the most part the band sticks to a tried-and-trusted formula.
It’s neither particularly original nor clever, but if you reconcile yourself to an absence of originality, and accept this as an extension of Fat of the Land, it ticks the boxes.
Monday, 1 June 2009
Bonkers - Best Served on a Dancefloor
On first listening this didn’t amount to much at All Action No Plot Towers. Puzzled looks were exchanged, as music scribes silently urged Bonkers to edge back onto the well-trod dance path from which it was wildly veering. In fact, such sentiments remained in place after the second, third and fourth listenings. I suspect that if the patrons of AANP Towers had not recently set foot in London nightspots, Bonkers would still be greeted with a weary shake of the head.
However, come a JD-and-coke fuelled midnight hour, on a heaving London dance floor, and the relentless bass of Bonkers slips seamlessly into the pantheon of cracking dance-floor winners. This may not be at the cutting-edge of MC mastery, but it’s a ruddy good adventure in the land of foot-tapping pop, and for that Mr Rascal should take a bow.
Actually, it’s probably Armand van Helden who deserves the plaudits. The lyrics are typically inane, and delivered with what one assumes is self-deprecating irony, but ‘tis the music that makes this tick – and as this is a collaboration between both D. Rascal and A. van Helden Esquire, one imagines that the former took charge of lyrics, while the latter oversaw melodies and beat combos. Bonkers - definitely one at which funky shapes can be made – nay, hurled – with gay abandon. Cracking stuff on a dancefloor; less so, perhaps, on an iPod in a tube carriage.
However, come a JD-and-coke fuelled midnight hour, on a heaving London dance floor, and the relentless bass of Bonkers slips seamlessly into the pantheon of cracking dance-floor winners. This may not be at the cutting-edge of MC mastery, but it’s a ruddy good adventure in the land of foot-tapping pop, and for that Mr Rascal should take a bow.
Actually, it’s probably Armand van Helden who deserves the plaudits. The lyrics are typically inane, and delivered with what one assumes is self-deprecating irony, but ‘tis the music that makes this tick – and as this is a collaboration between both D. Rascal and A. van Helden Esquire, one imagines that the former took charge of lyrics, while the latter oversaw melodies and beat combos. Bonkers - definitely one at which funky shapes can be made – nay, hurled – with gay abandon. Cracking stuff on a dancefloor; less so, perhaps, on an iPod in a tube carriage.
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