Slightly Askew

I haven’t posted for a while; naughty me.

Okay, so by now you’ll have probably heard this delightful little ditty by Noah and The Whale. It’s called Five Years Time.

Amusingly, the plebs at Censorship Central (I don’t if such a place exists, but I’m happy to go with it if you are…) have decided that the following lyric is far too disturbing:

It was fun fun fun when we were drinking;
and it was fun fun fun when we were drunk.

So on NME TV, the words drinking and drunk get that silly reverse treatment - saving our kids from such a disgraceful sentiment.

Shame on you Noah. And your whale.

And not just for your alcoholic tomfoolery, but also for your apostrophe omission.

Surely it should be Five Years’ Time.

The logic being that we don’t say one week time, we say one week’s time (and there has to be an apostrophe in this because one weeks doesn’t make any sense).

So, similarly, the apostrophe must also be used for the plural, i.e. five years’ time.

But even Hollywood gets it wrong.

You either put up, or shut up.

And when someone does put up, it’s worth mentioning.

Swanfest is this weekend. Three days of live music and DJs in a little pub in the middle of Ipswich. The pub is called The Swan. Everything becomes clear.

I’d like to consider Damo - the landlord - a good friend of mine, although I haven’t okayed this with him yet. And what he’s doing is quite remarkable. They’ve got wristbands, programmes, t-shirts, and even VIP passes (of course I have).

And the bands are great too. I went to see Rosalita and Cheeky Cheeky and the Nosebleeds last night, James Severy is playing tonight, and my beloved NovaSouls are playing tomorrow night.

There’s no clever marketing plan, no focus group, no SWOT analysis. Just a damn good time.

Look hard enough and you’ll always find a reason not to do something.

Stop looking, start doing.

Ah, the serial (or Oxford) comma

You may have heard Vampire Weekend’s take on it.

Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?

Erm, I do.

No idea what I’m talking about?

Some people would write

Red, white and blue.

I prefer

Red, white, and blue.

The serial comma is the comma before an and or an or (the conjunction, darling) in a list of three or more things.

Without the comma, white and blue seem somehow related. And less important than red. The serial comma restores equality.

We’d say “red… white… and blue” with equal pauses, so why not let the comma denote that pause?

And when using semicolons to separate a list, it’s common practice to put a semicolon before the last and (or whatever conjunction you decide to use) - so why not with commas?

My real bugbear is that many copywriters pretend to worship the classic Strunk & White book The Elements of Style, yet decide not to use the serial comma.

Did these copywriters give up at page one?

Because on page two of that book it reads:

In a series of three or more terms with a single conjunction, use a comma after each term except the last.

Thus write,

red, white, and blue
gold, silver, or copper
He opened the letter, read it, and made a note of its contents

Who knows what fate has in store for my beloved serial comma. Its usage on these shores is slim, but our American cousins keep the flame burning.

At school, I wasn’t taught to use it. Thankfully I’ve seen the light. My schooling ruined my education.

And it’s lost me some friends (they were bizarre drunken conversations), but nobody said that finding clarity in writing would be easy.

Maybe I’ll send the words “I give a fuck” to vampireweekend@gmail.com.

Here’s a heart-achingly intense magical 4 minute moment.

i will turn - i will turn your tide
do all that i can to heal you inside
i’ll be the angel on your shoulder
my name is Geraldine, i’m your social worker

Amazing.

Anybody who has used Wordpress and tried to embed a Youtube video will have suffered the frustration of code getting stripped whenever you edit a post.  Enter EasyTube -  a wonderful YouTube plugin for Wordpress.

Now, without any hassle whatsoever, I can post YouTube videos into Wordpress.

Here’s a video by Theresa Andersson.  The song makes you feel ill halfway through the second listen, but it’s a clever live performance.  Quite why she set up all her equipment in her kitchen baffles me.  It’s probably because that’s where her muse was or something (she does, after all, play barefoot, like any respectably self-indulgent singer songwriter).

Anyway, here it is:

Some time last year when Springsteen’s show at the O2 Arena sold out in milliseconds and bastardface ticketmaster timed out on me, I gave up hope of ever seeing the great man perform in the flesh.

Last friday (30th May), however, yours truly got a second bite at the cherry.

Yup, not content at seeing The Boss a few days before my twenty-sixth birthday, in Anaheim, California, me and my old man went to watch the Emirates Stadium be “baptised”.

The E Street Band’s first night in London was the first ever gig at Arsenal football club’s beautiful new home.

You either get Bruce Springsteen or you don’t.  If you don’t, that’s your problem. I’m not going to pander to your idiocy.

Anyway, at around 7.45, the house rockin’, pants droppin’, earth shockin’, hard rockin’, booty shakin’, love makin’, heart breakin’, soul cryin’, death defyin’ legendary E Street Band walked onto a bare stage - no fireworks, no light fantastic, no introductory video.  This was about the music.

Three hour flashed by.  From Tenth Avenue Freeze Out to American Land, I watched and sung my inferior lungs out as Springsteen gave a lesson on why:

1. They call him The Boss
2. Everything else is completely shit in comparison

Sadly, they’re not getting younger.  Danny Federici - the band’s organist - died of cancer in April.  (If you have the time, I suggest you read Springsteen’s eulogy to Danny on the website.)

They may never play these shores again, but it really doesn’t matter.  What they’ve given us is more than enough.

If you don’t know where to start, start with Darkness on the Edge of Town.  Then let your heart lead you.  It’s worth the journey.

I got some tickets to see The Boss at the Emirates Stadium off Ebay.  A bargain, I think.  Although they haven’t arrived yet, so I shall reserve judgement.  The last time I saw the great man, he played Thunder Road first.  If Heaven exists, I imagine it sounds like those first tinkling piano chords.

I’m watching less and less television as I approach twenty-six-and-a-half.  So when I do choose to watch it, I generally avoid ITV.  Two independent sources told about some dancing dog on Britain’s Got Talent though, so I had to resort to YouTube.  I wasn’t disappointed.

Spine-tingling.

Occasionally, a video makes a song better.

Yes, yes.  I know we’ve spoken about The Courteeners before, but some bands are worth the effort.

St Jude has been looping on the Creative Zen for quite some time.  (I have the heavyweight 12″ vinyl too, darlings.)

And it’s brilliant.  Quite breathtakingly brilliant.

Not in the way that post-OK Computer Radiohead albums are brilliant.  No, definitely not.  With those Radiohead albums, you listen to them a few times, can’t decide whether they’re awful or not, and go with the trend (In Rainbows = brilliant, Hail to the Thief = poo poo).

No, St Jude is a much brillianter brilliant.  Like putting Bucks Fizz on your Rice Krispies.

Okay, so there’s a fourteen-year problem with this idea, but it’s almost as if the Oasis classic Rock’n'Roll Star was written about listening to this album.  There’s a swagger.  A real swagger.  Not a Twang swagger.

Idiots will tell you that

the lyrics are a bit like the Arctic Monkeys

but ignore them.  They know nothing.  Bands did write songs about real life before the Arctic Monkeys came along: Pulp’s Common People being the most perfect example.

So frontman Liam Fray bites…

Just because my newspaper pages havent been the Times in ages: does that mean that i don’t know as much as you?

No you didn’t, no you don’t

…amuses…

The mothers take a shine to you; that’s not the case with the dads.

How come

…and stirs the soul:

Come sing your heart out with me.

Bide your time

And all this through about five-and-a-half guitar chords.

But songs have always been more important than fancy musicianship.  Which, incidentally, is why you’ll always look a dick playing air guitar. 

So expect to read reviews about how it sounds like Babyshambles (it does, but with more guts and conviction) or The View (just no, fuck off now).  Expect the Manchester cliches and the “he’s called Liam” bullshit.  Expect the cynics.

And just be thankful.

Thankful that, every now and then, we do get the bands we deserve.

Roll on Shepherds Bush.