Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven by Godspeed You Black Emperor! (Oct 12, 2012)

Project; After the Event.

Log #47

23/11/09 AD2198

It's been three years now and I am still no closer to understanding artefact KRANK043 than I was when we first unearthed it. Having scrutinised the paper and the cardboard outer layer, handling them delicately with tweezers, any clue, any hint of what this might have represented before The Event has led to a dead end. Oftentimes it feels as though a cruel joke or as though the architects of this widely debated archaeological find are laughing from their graves as we try to reconstruct the message delivered in this thing of untameable power. The most recent of these was the lead which we followed when we made the connection between the band in the photograph inside and the Nazi Punk movement of the late 20th Century. Having sourced some of the music from this genre we could only conclude that the band pictured were most certainly not the band that we hear on these discs and furthermore, the words on their clothing look to have been superimposed, which only adds to the mystery as this could well be another statement being made to the people who lived before The Event. Perhaps a warning of some kind?

On the reverse of this photograph is a timeline which seems to describe the path of the music and assembled sounds. This has furthered our understanding of what the musicians were trying to achieve but, alas, has also opened up more avenues of thought amongst the professors studying this relic. There are moments in "Gathering Storm" where the mood does seem to create an image in the head of the listener of a gathering storm of heavy clouds which eventually breaks, but it is followed by an announcement issuing a warning against people not affiliated with Barco AM/PM; some thinkers are proposing that it was members of the Barco AM/PM cult who instigated the events leading up to The Event whilst others dismiss this as paranoid ramblings of clueless men, but argue instead that a black cloud of pollution did cover the earth during the early years of the 21st Century, and the fear that these musicians had was that it would break and their efforts to warn the planet of the dangers that they would face should it rain down on them were crystallized in the very dark and sombre mood which follows the moment when the storm breaks. But then the gathering of the storm sounds quite beautiful and the first drops of rain that we hear are very gentle.

So this part of the evidence can be frustrating to look into, particularly as the timescale seems to be incorrect in many instances and the numbers seem to be purposefully misleading as opposed to helpful or enlightening. But I have nowhere else to turn and I am running short on answers. I know that it remains imperative that I come to some conclusions as this has been a discovery which holds so much power and knowledge if we can only extract it. There is a chance that there is a warning hidden inside, a warning that might help us to avoid another event like The Event.

The only thing that I can be completely sure on is that this artefact can take me by the throat and drag me, sometimes against my will, through every aspect of the human condition; with it playing I can feel every emotion that our forefathers felt before The Event. Rather than just fear and hunger I can feel the human response to beauty; sometimes during what we have come to call "World Police and Friendly Fire" every hair on my body pricks up on end and I feel for a moment the electricity and the rush of absolute terror, a memory I have from my early childhood just before The Event. There is elation and thrilling excitement for a brief moment and the disappointment when it is snatched away as quickly as it was given some time during the indeterminable section we are guessing is called "She Dreamt She Was a Bulldozer". Sometimes I think that all of my research is in vain, that no single interpretation is ever going to be enough. I have tried without success to convince the head of the research team to allow me to release this to all of the survivors in the hope that collectively we can all understand it, and that it can enhance their lives as it has mine and the other members of the research team.

There continue to be mysteries to unfold but I personally feel that I cannot unfold them alone; there is something very human about this and it is as hard to unlock the complex workings of our brain as it is to unlock the message which this music is undoubtedly delivering. But as we enjoy the company of others, and often for reasons that are completely unknown to us, so too could we all benefit from regular exposure to artefact KRANK043. Healing the wounds following The Event could maybe be sped up tenfold or more with a glimpse at what once made us great as a race, without all of the things that brought about our downfall.

End.

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews ( ) by Sigur Rós (Jul 30, 2007)

Scene: interior of Sigur Ros' management offices on a cold day in Iceland.  All exchanges will be in English to make it easier for the reader. 

Manager: Alright lads!!  How's it going?  How's the new album?  Come in, come in, give us the lowdown.  You got a name for it yet? 

Jonsi: No, we're err, we're not going to have a title for this one. 

Manager: Right, right.  Might be difficult, but I like it, yeah, good marketing point.  Okay, but what about the songs, have they got...... 

Jonsi shakes his head slowly 

No, of course not, why have song titles if you haven't even called your album anything?  Okay, I can probably get round that too.  What I need is an idea, some themes, what are you singing about? 

Jonsi: Well, I'm not actually singing any words, just making noises with my mouth that sound a bit like words. 

Manager: O............K. 

Jonsi: Well, technically, it's our own made up language, but it doesn't mean anything.  Essentially I'm just going la la la la, blurblurble, lala.   

Manager: Again, interesting, but I'm really going to be struggling selling this one to the public.  You crazy kids.  I mean, how are you going to sell this? 

Jonsi: Well, look here, look.  Peer into the mystical sea shell and your questions will be answered. 

Inside the sea shell there is a vision of Heaven, it is the day after Judgement Day, the results are in and God is handing out the prizes. 

God: SO, THAT WAS THE CORRECT WAY TO LIVE YOUR LIFE.  NOW, NEXT UP WE HAVE THE BEST ALBUM BY A NON ETHEREAL BEING.  THE CONTENDERS ARE: 

RADIOHEAD, PINK FLOYD, THE BEATLES AND SIGUR ROS. 

SO, LET'S OPEN UP THE ENVELOPE. 

AH, MY FAVOURITE TOO, THE WINNER IS................SIGUR ROS WITH THEIR ALBUM WHICH IS UNUTTERABLE BECAUSE IT IS IN FACT THE WORD OF GOD, AND DOWN THERE ON EARTH, YOUR TINY LITTLE EAR DRUMS WOULD HAVE BLOWN APART IF YOU HEARD ME SPEAK. 

RYM Member with little respect for the supreme being:  But why that one sir, why not Revolver?  We all know that that is commonly regarded as being the best. 

God: WELL, WHY DON'T WE ASK MATTHEW OSBORNE, HE CAN PROBABLY EXPLAIN IT BETTER THAN I CAN. 

Matthew Osborne: Thanks God, the reason it is the best is because it can move you like when you realise that one day you're going to die, but at the same time it reminds you of all the goodness and light in the world. 

God: THANKS MATTHEW, VERY SUCCINCT AS USUAL.  NOW, IF WE CAN MOVE ON TO THE NEXT CATEGORY OF BEST ASS.................. 

Jonsi closes the sea shell and gives the manager a knowing look 

Manager: Okay, I'm sold, that sounds pretty good, and a recommendation from Matthew Osborne gets my approval every time.  One thing though lads, why didn't you just play me the album, rather than reveal that you have secret powers beyond those of mortal men? 

Jonsi: Well, that wouldn't have made for a very interesting review now, would it?

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews This Nation's Saving Grace by The Fall (Jan 26, 2006)

*How to successfully jeopardise your chances of continued employment with your current employer in six easy steps* 

Step One:  Turn up late and noticeably hungover, dump your bag and coat at your desk and disappear immediately into the bathroom for a fifteen minute paid poo. 

Step Two:  After returning from the bathroom, fix a little breakfast and talk about the previous evening loudly using vulgarities that can be heard by anybody calling the office by telephone. 

Step Three:  As the stares from your colleagues intensify and their frustration begins to boil over, pipe down, finish your breakfast and then go and wash up the bowl and make a cup of tea, offering nobody else a drink, assuming that they all made one for themselves when they arrived at work half an hour before you. 

Step Four:  Log in to rateyourmusic.com to see which album you have been assigned to review on the "Go Review That Album" thread.  Discover that it is The Fall's obnoxious classic This Nation's Saving Grace and realise that you are not very well versed in it as you have only owned it for a few weeks. 

Step Five:  Realise that you have This Nation's Saving Grace loaded onto i-Tunes on your company owned computer and decide to give it a spin.  You will notice that it is having a visible effect on your colleagues; "Barmy's" incessant, catchy-in-that-annoying-way riff will draw sighs from the accounts department, and you can increase their annoyance by drumming the two beats on the table each time the riff comes back in.  "What You Need" has a similarly repetitive riff that sounds like a drunk walking unsteadily home and will get on your colleague's nerves, especially if you jig around in your seat.  Turn the volume up as loud as the computer speakers will tolerate and enjoy the rest of the ride, swirling noise, sudden hooks that verge on pop, then vertical descents into shouty punk, taking in a bit of doo-wop along the plummet.  When you reach the end of this glorious cacophony, allow the dust to settle in the office, take in the relief on people's faces, then double click on the eerie "Mansion" and play through it all again. 

Step Six:  Spend the remainder of your paid working day flicking between a projected cash position for company funds and a six paragraph review of This Nation's Saving Grace, the latter of which will no doubt be the more fulfilling of the two.

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Close to the Edge by Yes (Aug 11, 2006)

According to Chris Squire, "There was a period in '70's America where, if you put on side one of Close to the Edge, you had twenty minutes of uninterrupted music in which to get the deal done....that song and some pot....it was the way to get laid.  In later years I met so many women who told me that they'd lost their virginity to Close to the Edge."

What poor girls! What an ordeal! Sure, the opening minute is all charming swirls and hisses but what follows is the sort of love making music that only the highly experimental or loftily theatrical would be caught partaking in. I tried to picture myself in a position where I would plot the successful vanquishing of a lady's chastity, making sure to include the first storming barrage of unfathomable time signatures and off kilter key changes.

"Hey babe, smoke some of this sheet, it's gonna make you feel reeyal nice."

"What is it?"

"Don't worry, you'll love it, now, a little mood music I think? Are you familiar with a popular beat combo called Yes? No? Of course not, you're a virgin, how else would you have come across them unless somebody else had tried and succeeded in seducing you?"

"Oooh, it does sound really relaxing, I'm feeling sooooo horny all of a sudden, why don't you touch me here?"

"All in good time babe, let me just get this mask on, I've gotta be quick or I'll miss it when it kicks in. Here, climb into this animal skin, we're seconds away from getting jiggy with it!"

*"Close to the Edge i) The Solid Time Of Change" kicks in*

"Awwwwwwright, now just rub against things, we'll meet in the middle during the reprise of "I Get Up, I Get Down" but til then just wriggle."

"Are you sure this is how we're supposed to do it? Aren't we supposed to connect physically?"

"*sigh*  Listen treacle, this is how all the cool kids are doing it. Right now we have to interpret the music and channel the sexuality through our bodies. Now be ready for 'aaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!' the sudden changes and you'll start to feel incredibly attracted to me I'm sure you'll find."

"I found you attractive to begin with, this is just freaking me out."

"Don't have a cow 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!' man, watch me for the leads."

*Later, probably twenty minutes later*

[exhales cigarette smoke] "So, how was it for you?"

"It was great!  But I'm glad we turned that bloody record off, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am actually. I'd heard that it had aphrodisiacal qualities but I was too quick to jump on the bandwagon. Close To The Edge is a good record, but it's not love making music."

"God you're interesting when you talk about music, I could listen to you harp on about the intricacies of a 17/12 time signature, as appears on "Siberian Khatu"......"

"...hey, you're learning....."

"...all day, and you're right in what you say about this Yes record. You should put it into a review one day, you'd be good at that."

"Yeah, I could get paid for it too."

"Hahahahahahaha!  Yeah right!"

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Master of Puppets by Metallica (May 25, 2006)

03:28 EST 

28th February 1986 

James Hetfield awoke from slumber like a startled rodent and erected himself in his bed hurriedly.  He wiped the cold sweat from his frontal lobe and tried to catch his frantic breath.  He turned to his girlfriend sleeping quietly by his side and shook her awake. 

"Wha... whats going on Het?  What time is it?" 

"I've just had the most awful nightmareeeeah!" exclaimed James Hetfield, over exaggerating his last syllable as he was prone to doing in song, the dream still having some kind of effect on his social functions. 

"Awww, pussy-ribbons, wot's de matcher, are woo fwightened?" asked the soon to be Mrs. Het, adopting her nurturing voice in order to calm her frightened little boo boo. 

"Yeah I am, it was horribleeeaaah.  I dreamt it was 2006 and me and the band, we were old-ah and sad and miserable and pathetic-ah.  We wrote a record and it was an obvious fucking ploy to get the young kids to listen to us again-ah." 

"Calm down love buttons, it's just a silly dream, right?  You're in Metallica, and you've just released what is perhaps going to be seen as your crowning achievement, Master Of Puppets which has pushed the boundaries of heavy music to levels nobody even wanted to go to before." 

"Master Of Puppets?  Oh yeah, we didn't call it St. Anger then?" 

"No bubbles, that's a stupid name for a record.  No, no, your new record is non-stop groundbreaking metal through all of it's eight tracks.  It rocks like a motherfucker, and, even if I do say so myself, it just makes me want to hump you to release this excess testosterone that it gives me, and I'm a woman!" 

She snuggles up to the Het and wraps herself seductively around his muscular arm, built up from years of vigorous palm muting.  He stares vacantly into the darkness of the room.  The Het Man is in no mood for love. 

"Please, just leave me."  By this point his unusual vocal phrasing had abandoned the Het-meister, so deep was his woe.  "It was awful, Cliff wasn't in the band anymore, we had some other guy with a fat neck and an attitude problem and I beat the Hell out of him and then he left and then we got in some tribal chief to play bass." 

"Oh woopsie, you're so silly, you know Cliff's in the band, and he's one Hell of a bass player, he keeps up with you using just his fingers!  And his orchestration abilities are second to none, that track "Orion", man, that's some ambitious shit going on right there." 

The Het was not interested. 

"And Kirk's hair was falling out and he looked like a pimp.  I was embarrassed to be seen with him!" 

"Snuggles, you're being so ridiculous!  Kirk has a lovely full head of hair, and you'd never be embarrassed to be seen with someone who can solo so well, I mean, you always know when it's a Kirk solo, they're so distinct and memorable, so exhilarating!" 

The Het Monster eyed his girlfriend suspiciously, momentarily distracted from his troublesome dream by her apparent infatuation with his colleague.  Seeing his icy stare in the dim half light, Miss Het caught herself.  "But, but without you, the riff Lord, what would he have to go on?  I mean the riffs you write, they're just awesome, knock-me-down-on-my-back-with-my-legs-spread awesome.  Meaty, that's the word I use to describe it to my girls, meaty." 

Satisfied the Het resumed his vacant stare into space. 

"And Lars, oh dear God, Lars, he was an awful drummer, so dull, y'know."  He looked to his woman lying beside him for support, but she offered him nothing.  The Het frowned.  "I said...." he said. 

"I know what you said," she said.  "It's just, well, you know, Lars isn't the world's greatest drummer, but you know, he, he, er, he keeps a steady beat and that's what counts, isn't it?" 

"What's wrong, Lars been hittin' on you again?" 

"No, no, just speaking the truth." 

"And you know what?  We were like a sad bunch of middle aged men trying to remain vital in a world where we weren't the heaviest they come anymore, and I wore a stupid beanie hat all the time and stormed off in strops, and we made a movie called "Spinal Tap"?  Was that it?  I think that was us." 

"Oh my little honey bum, you're always going to be the heaviest they come, how can anything get heavier than "Battery" or "Leper Messiah"?  I mean, really, you are at the height of your powers right now baby boo, and as long as you don't let money and fame go to your head then you'll be fine." 

"Promise?" 

"Promise," she pulls him close and hugs him tightly, kisses him on his head. 

"Because if you go back on your word, and all this shit does happen, I guarantee I'll be psychologically traumatised and buy one of those stupid kit cars you hate so much." 

"Oh Pooky, it's never gonna happen, here, let's listen to your new record, then you'll see how truly awesome you really are, won't you?" 

The Het bounces excitedly in the bed, "Yeah, yeah!  Master Of Puppets, Master Of Puppets!" 

"Alright, settle down, I know it's good, but I need some sleep, alright baby, so you put on your headphones, and no rocking out too much, okay?" 

"Oh alright then, give me the headphones."

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Ride the Lightning by Metallica (Nov 03, 2009)

One Tuesday evening as the hours became wee and small, fifteen year old Freddy Funpants - the victim of regular bullying and abuse at his school due to the hilarity that his name caused and the cruelty of other kids his age - sat in front of his computer screen which beamed the pages from an illegal file sharing torrent site into his dingey room. It was the sort of room that only families with no money can buy. Freddy Funpants had heard a couple of songs by a band called Metallica, and the aggression and anger that their music was fuelled by had struck a chord with his own anger, one that raged like a trapped bird inside of him. He had done some research on the internet but found very few sites where he could listen to their music for free. But something about Metallica had inspired Freddy enough to refuse to give up and his lack of money had led him to turn to illegal file sharing.  

Ride the Lightning had come highly recommended and he had only just clicked the link to download the album's file when the phone rang.  His parents were out drinking so Freddy hurried to answer it in case it was the police asking him to confirm an alibi again.

"Hello?" said Freddy.

"Is this Freddy Funpants?" rasped the voice on the other end of the phone. It sounded like the man was trying to sound menacing and his voice lacked any of the usual attempts to stifle a laugh when he said the word Funpants.

"Yes," replied Freddy a little warily.

"So, you like Metallica do you?"

"I think so," Freddy was startled by the coincidence.

"What do you mean, you think so?" asked the voice, taking on an even poorer attempt at a menacing growl.

"Well, I heard a couple of tracks by them and liked them a lot, and I was just about to download Ride the Lightning when you called. It's quite a coincidence in fact that you should call."

"AHA! Gotch'ya! You were about to illegally download the music of Metallica! You admitted it!"

"Who is this?" asked a by now startled Freddy Funpants. "How did you get this number?"

"I got one word for ya, F. B. I."

"That's not one word."

"Alright, one acronym, but what I mean is that I got your number from the F.B.I, they give me everybody's number who tries to illegally download the music of Metallica."

"Why?"

"Because you're stealing from Metallica, you're stealing my money, I'm Lars Ulrich, you may remember me from such drum fills as that one at the start of "Fade to Black", that one in the silent pause in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and, well, others."

"Well, I'm afraid I don't because I haven't even had the chance to listen to it yet. Listen Mr. Rich..."

"Ulrich."

"Sorry, Ulrich. I only did it because I really felt  some connection with the couple of songs I have heard by your band, but my family is poor and my parents spend all their money on booze. All I wanted was one record."

"That may very well be Freddy Funpants, but did you ever stop to think of all the work we put into creating a masterpiece like Ride the Lightning?  The hours me and James..."

"Who's James?"

"The other guy in Metallica. Did you ever stop to think how many hours we spent in his garage writing those killer riffs?"

"I thought you were the drummer."

"Well, okay, did you ever think how many hours we spent in James' garage drinking beer and rocking out so that we were solid enough for my drumming to compliment perfectly James' killer riffs?"

"Well, no."

"Did you ever think how many hours of guitar lessons Kirk Hammett had to..."

"Who's Kirk Hamlet?"

"Hammet. He's another guy in Metallica. Did you ever stop to think how many hours of guitar lessons he would have had to take and pay for to be able to pull off the solos that he pulls off on that album?"

"Well, no."

"Did you think that song structures as epic and inventive as we came up with back in those good old days just come to us in the night, without the blood, sweat and tears and consequent lack of earnings?"

"Well, no, but like I say, I haven't heard the record because it's not downloaded onto my computer yet and I've been talking to you. But if it's going to be this much trouble I won't bother."

"What, you're not going to listen to it?"

"No."

"But it's a classic."

"Well, that's what I read, but if it means going to jail I'd rather not hear it."

"But it's worth going to jail for. Most prisoners love Metallica anyway, there are loads of Metallica fans in jail that you can enthuse about Metallica with when you're in there."

"Why do so many criminals like Metallica?"

"They weren't criminals before they listened to Metallica, illegally. Did you know about 65% of prisoners incarcerated in the prison system of the US are there because of illegal file sharing of Metallica's music?"

"No."

"It's so good that people will risk it all just to hear it."

"Look, what are you trying to acheive here, do you want me to hear it or not?"

"Yeah, I want you to hear it but I want you to pay for it."

"Well I can't afford to."

The voice on the other end of the phone hesitated and then Freddy Funpants heard the caller let out a long sigh.

"Well, okay then, go and listen to the album, I'll let you off just this once."

"Really? Thanks."

"You should pay particular attention to the drum sound, the power in those toms took us absolutely ages to acheive, but it was worth it as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Well, I'll go and check it out then."

"You do that."

"Thanks Mr. Rich."

"Ulrich."

Freddy Funpants put the phone back on the receiver and ran excitedly into his room. The file had downloaded and he performed all of the technical ins and outs that made it play on his computer. It started off with classical guitar and Freddy thought for a moment that he'd been duped by that weird Rich guy but then with a swell of distortion the album began proper and like a relentless juggernaut nearly detonated the young man's skull.  He felt empowered as euphoric rush after euphoric rush of guitar ecstacy flooded over him and took up residence in his room without asking, but he was very glad that it was there.

Following the thrilling climax to "The Call of Ktulu", which had impressed Freddy Funpants so much that he remembered something Mr. Rich had said about song structure, the album finished and there was a disappointing vacuum left in the room. Freddy reached for the mouse again to click play when there was a violent knocking at the front door.

"Open up, It's the F.B.I. Open up immediately, do not flush your stash into the recycle bin! We know what you're up to in there!"

Freddy wondered whether the prisoners in jail could smuggle in copies of Metallica's other records or whether this would be the last he heard of the band that had changed his life for many years. He clicked play and then got up from his seat and went to the door.

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Marquee Moon by Television (Oct 14, 2005)

I think that this is due to be the 100th review of Marquee Moon, so rather than repeat the same congratulations to the guitarists that 99 other reviewers have made, and instead of patting Tom Verlaine on the back for his song writing abilities, I thought I might compare this debut from Television to tonight's terrestrial UK television. 

7:30 Coronation Street vs. "See No Evil" 

Endlessly entertaining as it is to watch inbred northerners have affairs with their son's fiance, or gigantic pit-bull-faced women smear themselves in orange day-glo tan whilst shouting at their partner until a church is found for their reluctant union of hearts, Television come out on top in the first round if only for the fantastic jangly riff that fills my heart with more happiness than ugly fat women belting seven shades of shit out of each other ever could.  The solo is fretwank-tastic too. 

8:00 Eastenders vs. "Venus de Milo" 

More miserable ashen faces, more over-the-top disputes between people that not only live and work in Albert Square, with other residents of the Square, they also socialise in the Square and no one owns a washing machine so they all have their dirty laundry washed and aired by Pauline Fowler.  No wonder they're so bitchy.  Television (the band) are triumphant again here, little contest between misery and musical mastery.  Guitars that seem to imitate a peel of bells, a conversational chorus, and spacey solos.  Inspired. 

[earlier that evening] 6:30 Hollyoaks vs. "Friction" 

A soap so ridiculous that not even wooden acting can hide the shockingly unrealistic plot twists.  Supposedly the cast are picked on their looks, but to be honest I've seen better looking chicken curries splashed against the porcelain of my toilet bowl. 

These scouse/mancunians are no match from the kinky funk of "Friction", which is also meritable for it's success in squeezing "Take note of my Dick.........Tion" in amongst all of the musical haphazadry, a cheeky play on words indeed. 

9:00 The 9 o'clock News vs. "Marquee Moon" 

Lately it seems that God has finally given up on us and decided he's given us enough chances to all get along and decided that he will give us an unpleasant dose of his infamous Wrath.  There seems to be natural disasters every week, there was even a Tornado (the second this year)where I live in Moseley, Birmingham, England.....England??!!.  Is this a media frenzy or is this just the end of the world?  There are constant reports of death from this ridiculous religious crusade of America's, and not even the local news channels have happy "Cat stuck up tree and rescued by animal-loving grandma" stories anymore. 

"I remember how the darkness doubled/I recall how lightning struck itself/I remember listening to the rain/And hearing something else."  These lines seem to take on new meaning now.  "Marquee moon is and obvious winner because it's far better to listen to the rousing climax of the finale to the solo section than it is to hear about what a cruel world we live in. 

7:45 England vs. Poland 

Finally England find their form and beat neutral Poland 2-1.  But there is only one winner here, you guessed it, it's those Television boys.  There are immense amounts of fun to be had trying to hit the cymbal beat in time with the record after the chorus line; "Elevation, Don't go to my head"-boom.  Or is it "Don't go to my he-boom"?  I get it right about one in five attempts. 

9:30 Some Celebrities Attempting to do Something 'Reality' based vs "Guiding Light" 

Have you ever watched a society 'It' girl wank off a pig?  It's much less arousing than you might think.  Television (the popular beat combo) win hands down and un-clenched! 

10:00 CSI Miami vs. "Prove It" 

Crime solving has never been so digitally enhanced, nor so quick and easy, nor has it been so sexy.  Only in Miami can you walk onto a closed crime scene without your hair tied back and wearing no protective clothing, and make a bee line for the one piece of microscopic forensic evidence that will solve your entire case.  All of this is done in a smashing blouse.  Of course. 

"Prove It" wins for being able to prove it more realistically than this show ever could. 

11:00 Britain's Best Loved Love Songs vs. "Torn Curtain" 

Up against the likes of Robbie Williams' "Angels" and Chris de Bergh's "Lady In Red" you wouldn't expect an epic finale like "Torn Curtain" to struggle, and you'd be right to think that.  With a few exceptions (including "Unchained Melody" coming in at number one - The Righteous Brothers version), this list of songs lacked any sincerity and was like an identity parade line-up of all of the worst cliches imaginable by the human mind.  "Torn Curtain" spanked it like a naughty little boy's backside, and finished the evening on a soaring high for Television (the instrument fondlers). 

So, if anyone wants to know how good Marquee Moon is, you can tell them with confidence that it is far better than last night's television.

Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Five Leaves Left by Nick Drake (Nov 16, 2009)

On the photos that adorn the inside covers of this record Nick Drake bears an uncanny resemblance to my father when he was a young man, so much so that conspiracy theorists and nut-balls alike might be inclined to argue that Drake never actually died but slipped away from the lemon light (never having experienced the lime light) in order to marry my mother and start a family with her.  I know this to be untrue as my mother has never heard of Nick Drake, and neither had my father for that matter until I brought his doppelganger to his attention.  Unless of course they are continuing to live out an elaborate lie to which I can never be privy. 

Fortunately I am neither a conspiracy theorist nor a nut-ball and do not think for a moment that I might be the offspring of one of the 70's most unappreciated talents.  There are many logical reasons for me to think this way, not least among them being that my father, though a fan of music, displays very little musical talent.  Sure, he played drums in a band up until he was over his mid-life crisis, and true, he taught me some of the skills which helped me become the drummer I am today.  However, sit him in front of a keyboard or plonk a guitar on his lap and he takes on the appearance of a first grader discovering a book on complex algebra and trying to apply it to the picture book reading material they give to kids today.  Unless he is taking his elaborate lie to the extreme of never wanting to touch the guitar again in his life then he is clearly not Nick Drake because Drake's finger picking style belies a love for music and a dedication to his art.  Touches of classical brighten up more traditional folk styling and make songs such as the brooding "Day Is Done" or "Three Hours", with its thrilling pace change, into masterpieces that once written could never go un-played.   

Similarly my father’s piano playing abilities are non-existent and whilst Drake's are in no way virtuosic nor a match for his guitar skills, he does have a lovely way about him and "Saturday Sun" is evidence enough of this making for a wonderfully uplifting album closer right up until the last couplet where the Saturday sun turns to Sunday rain.  My father would never think so morosely as this either, he has an upbeat temperament and, aside from when he is sitting in traffic or making sure we all get somewhere on time, tends to look to the positives in life, unlike Nick. 

Having such little musical ability on anything beyond percussive instruments, my father would likewise struggle to know where to begin with orchestration for larger ensembles of musicians which would make his ability to write songs such as the stunning and haunting "Way to Blue" nigh on impossible because if you can't comprehend something then there is little chance that you could use that lack of comprehension to create something so musically brilliant and moving almost completely by accident, with or without the help of Robert Kirby or Harry Robinson. 

And, unless my father is determined to conceal every part of his considerable talent in order to live out this elaborate lie, then his ability as a vocalist certainly would prove beyond a doubt that he is not Nick Drake.  My father refrains from singing as much as possible but when I do catch him singing along to his favourite songs, which never have included anything particularly folksy, his understanding of tone, pitch or melody are conspicuous by their absence and his attempts to stay in tune are heavy handed and in direct opposition to Drake's soft, calming and meditative note perfect voice. 

Finally, if my father was Nick Drake and if Nick Drake was determined never to play music again and wanted to hide his abilities for the rest of his life, then surely some of his talent would have passed down the DNA chain to me and I would be able to write, if not songs of equal magnificence and majesty, then at least ones that are even halfway decent, but as years of trying have proven that that is not the case. 

So, in conclusion, Nick Drake is not my father; he died years ago when everyone said he did and took with him the talent which has been recognised more and more with each passing year.  But I am glad of this as I like my Dad the way that he is, and living in the shadow of such a musical talent would be hard, especially as I seem to be amounting to nothing more than a struggling musician myself.  But then Nick spent his life being unappreciated so we may not see evidence of my own genius until I have either died or taken on a whole new identity and begun living the lie myself.