It’s not been the busiest year here at diskant but I hope you’ve enjoyed our writings. Instead of a failed attempt at any kind of end of year (or, god forbid, end of decade) poll, we’ve decided just to celebrate the fact that none of us listen to the same records and do a series of catch-up posts. Starting tomorrow, you can tune in here at 10am every day (except Christmas Day and New Year’s Day – go and like, have some fun in real life!) to find out what records, films, books games, TV etc. has been thrilling us this year.

Now that I have an iPhone (woo!) and a WordPress app, I might actually start posting more regularly. You have been warned.

Thanks for continuing to visit diskant, and Merry Christmas!

With all this festive talk of Rage Against The Machine versus Simon Cowell for the Christmas number one this really should be a time to reflect on what is important in the music industry, of what is pure and decent and away from all these Sony promoted monsters, of what is independent in spirit and ultimately more deserving of being played at the end of the Christmas Top Of The Pops just because it celebrates what is in earnest the happiest time of the year.

More in keeping with Fairy Tale Of New York and (Here It Is) Merry Christmas than the two pieces of shit whoring their way to the top of the charts, Kunt And The Gang is here to save Christmas music for everyone with a crass sincerity that should make X-Factor, Rage Against The Machine and Sony all bow their heads in shame.

This is not the first time I have championed Kunt And The Gang on these fine pages and at this rate it will not be the last.  Once you get past the blunt and puerile humour that fuels these songs things suddenly click into place as the tunes remain fixed in your head and his pop claws dig in.  The premise is simple, this guy is John Shuttleworth mixed with Wesley Willis reading from the pages of Viz all packaged in a wonderfully Essex manner.  For such foul mouthed content the songs are surprisingly upbeat, positive and happily despite the language despatched and involved not in the least aggressive.  Forget raging against the machine, forget being a wet lad covering Miley Cyrus – this is where the real fun in music is come Christmas.

OK, so the sentiments of wishing your neighbour a kuntish Christmas on “Kuntish Christmas” after he borrows and breaks your Strimmer are perhaps a bit negative but schadenfreude rocks in the right context.  Likewise referring to Mary’s snatch as a “sausage wallet” on “Jesus (Baby With A Beard)” is actually quite testing to the senses, exceptional both in the offensive and creativity stakes.

The closer is “Santa’s Sack” which features the tale of Kunt as a child discovering Santa Claus having sex with his Grandma, a song that more than once features the word “disturbed.”  Very apt.

This is as far removed from Scrooge and The Stooges as you can get.  Where’s me jumper?

Merry Christmas!

Thesaurus moment: chuckles.

Kunt And The Gang

Kunt And The Gang live

At some point something really bad happened to Aidan Moffat.  I’m not talking about all the drunken antics and shenanigans his poor man’s growling MacGowan songs were talking about but it was some kind of moment of clarity, a weird epiphany it would seem that spoke to him and told him to “stay the course, you’re doing fine.”  Was it his inner child?  Did an angel Aidan appear on one shoulder and a devil Aidan appear on the other and the angel Aidan won?  Whatever it was that happened to him he just fucking changed.

Personally I no longer feel comfortable around his records.  Is this supposed to be some kind of serenade?  What is going on with the music that accompanies this?  It’s almost as if he is betraying his gin soaked roots.  Be foul, be nasty just don’t be like this.

Thankfully the flipside “The Lavender Blue Dress” saves the day as its Ivor Cutler crossed with Irvine Welsh wrapped up in a Dirty Fan Male delivery is the ramblings of a dirty dirty man, like a nonce reading from Dr Seuss.  Its not that content is x-rated it is that the person doing the reading is, the whole concept of the absurd positioning serves to make it seedy and when the inevitable moment of smut you expect is waiting around the corner never arrives once more you feel tricked by the most cunning of foxes.

The back cover of the single features Moffat lying on the floor in a hospital room next to some bedpans and a fan.  I hope he gets better soon.  There’s a ship coming in, its time to get well.

Thesaurus moment: dank.

Aidan Moffat

Chemikal Underground

Initially I thought I was playing this record at the wrong speed but alas a change of speed did not improve things any and suddenly the realisation hit that Deerhunter do indeed sound like a shoegazing vision of The Strokes.  Forget all the My Bloody Valentine and Pavement comparisons, with warm and fuzzy vocals and train track straightness of the guitar line there is no question that they sound like The Strokes.  Now whether that is something to be treasured and/or trusted is another thing.

I have to concede away from the hype and away from the impossible comparisons to match in aspiration taken without preconceptions this is a joyfully mesmerising thing and as proceedings slowly/subtly grow into a swirling mess there is plenty of charm to be taken from the emissions.

The lauding of Deerhunter this year has served as a painful reminder of just how old and out of touch I really am and to now endeavour to party with the cool kids is running the risk of being viewed as some kind of nonce at a disco (or nightclub as I believe they are called these days).  Its all very warm and subtle, snugly in a manner that feels foreign and difficult to/for me.

Elsewhere on the other side “Microcastle Mellow 3” feels like something of an indulgence, a spit in the face of a person giving the band a benefit of the doubt.  Where am I going wrong with this band?  Should I trust my gut instincts or those of a pale skinny kid in clothes several sizes smaller than my own.  Growing old is devastating me.

Thesaurus moment: nook.

Deerhunter

Sub Pop

There is a distinct air of crappy on purpose attached to Times New Viking and as a result it is a beautifully damaged thing.

“Move To California” for me was one of the standout tracks from their last album Born Again Revisited, an album I initially thought was actually called Born Against Revisited in some barbed tribute to the band of the same name, such is the fractured snap of proceedings.

I’m not quite sure what California holds for these peeps but you do feel it is not much as here appears to be an act that thrives on misanthropy, of not fitting in or having peers or compliments.

The single is housed in a ramshackle package where the inner sleeve is made out of the crappy kind of brown crate paper that in bygone times you would have got your fruit and vegetables handed to you in.  Then slipping out comes the insert which you suspect is going to tell you the name of the pretty girl playing keyboard but instead it is a reprint of an angry email declaring how Times New Viking are the worst band that they have ever encountered.  The suspicion that this declaration is coming from the dude in Kasabian is still to be confirmed.

Boasting four tracks of true enlightenment I have to concede that I think I got my initial perceptions of their album completely wrong.  There is a genuine identity to this recording technique, one away from the origins of lo-fi that only adds to the conceit and methodology.  So as a result coupled with the exuberance and hook display on this single it is win all around.  I love this band.

Thesaurus moment: optimistic.

Times New Viking

Matador Records

This is a truly bold and nasty sounding statement of a piece of vinyl.  Stripped bare there is fuck all information held within the limited packaging giving the vessel something of an air of mystery seemingly with the intention of leaving things pure for the music doing all the talking.  With no Myspace or record label attached there is no dog and pony show necessary.

Charging out of Sacramento this is a severe and frenzied attack on the senses that recalls the heyday of the Butthole Surfers at full strength crossed with a host of acts on Gravity Records such as Antioch Arrow.  Also throw in the sensation of a speeded up Bardo Pond on uppers instead of downers coupled with Pussy Galore gestations and you have quite the sonic soup.

For a while now there has been a real buzz surrounding Mayyors as the band appears to be serving as a vehicle for a number of seasoned and accomplished musicians (primarily Chris Woodhouse of FM Knives fame) to let loose and take off in a new, more experimental direction away from their existing and established outfits.

As with all things swinging on a hype there is the risk the listener may eventually get their fingers burned but for now Mayyors rule the roost.

Highly recommended.

Thesaurus moment: ghoul.

Mayyors

Overspill Poets are an alt-country/indie combo who have dramatically changed in sound since their first incarnation as nineties Kitchenware outfit Hug Their debut album Thompson Falls is released on Revenge Western and was made for listening to on a summer day trip.

The journey begins with the title track that laments lost love. While by leg two the boys from the North show off their instrumental skills. The band are clearly no strangers to the work of Teenage Fanclub as in ‘Sound of Sirens’ they manage to blend that sound with a Jersey Rock feel. Reggae/dub track ‘Summer,’ sees them take another turn in the road. Pastoral folk song ‘Boxing Gloves,’ looks back in time with a narrative comprising the two mythical figures Holly Golightly and Hazey Jane.

‘London’s gear when you grew up round here,’ sings front man Tim Taylor on ‘The Neon Lights are beautiful.’ Curling licks are provided by guitarist George Kitching.  Mid trip ‘Inner Space,’ takes time to reflect on lost opportunity. ‘I don’t need a volunteer to bang a drum and bend my ear, pull me out of here before I lose another year.’  While ‘Independence Day’ is a rousing protest anthem. ‘Northern Star,’ sounds more North Carolina than Newcastle, as the indie boys take to Americana like a fat kid to cake. The experience draws to a close with some psych era Beatles and a ballad which is lead by a heartfelt vocal. The standout track for me is the simple and affecting ‘Ricochets,’ where the instruments literally rebound off each other.

It has been an interesting and varied journey, driven by a band who speak from the heart. Each chapter tells a story and the vocals compliment the surprising guitars.  Lo-fi and lush with an edge, this album will find a place in your heart. Warm beat driven melodies sound track a road trip that is more Interstate 5 than M62.

http://www.myspace.com/overspillpoets

Much as I enjoy his movies, I suspect that Werner Herzog and I have very little in common. I’m not German, have never had a mustache, and am not an acclaimed director. In fact, I suspect that our lives probably only intersect on one tiny point. Neither of us have seen Abel Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant. Not that it really matters. Port of Call… was never intended to have any connection with that film, and it’s title seems to have been dictated by a marketing suit who happened to notice that both films involve… well… you know. It’s an unfortunate decision that gives this film the air of a dashed-off sequel when it very much deserves to be judged on its own merits.

Nicolas Cage plays the titular copper, who starts the film as a reasonably good lieutenant – at least as good as anyone in the film gets – who injures his back in the line of duty and quickly becomes hooked on prescription painkillers, so beginning a downward spiral of addiction that takes in everything from gambling to heroin. On the journey to rock bottom he struggles to keep himself together long enough to solve the gangland killing of a family of illegal immigrants, maintain some kind of relationship with his equally damaged prostitute girlfriend Frankie (Eva Mendes), and not get killed by one of the many, many people he pisses off on the way.

It sounds grim, but it’s played as a comedy, albeit a pitch-black one. Cage has never been the man to go to for a subtle, nuanced performance. He can, however, be immensely entertaining when let off the leash and allowed to gnaw on the scenery, and Herzog knows this, having clearly seasoned every last prop and encouraged him to indulge his vices in tandem with his character, albeit vices of performance rather than chemical consumption. The film never tips into pantomime however, not least because of Herzog’s traditionally documentarian style, which deliberately limits the use of multiple camera angles to lend a odd veneer of realism to scenes of bug-eyed crack-addled insanity, while some delightfully off-kilter inserts shot on video keep the audience unbalanced.

Screenwriter William M. Finkelstein is a veteran of TV police procedurals, having spent the majority of his career writing for the likes of L.A. Law and Law & Order, but anyone coming to Bad Lieutenant for a cop movie is likely to be disappointed. In a sense it has a lot in common with Herzog’s 1977 movie Stroszek, replacing that film’s doomed immigrant protagonist with one born and raised in the USA. Indeed, Bad Lieutenant explicitly references Stroszek on at least one occasion, suggesting that the similarity is not accidental. Herzog, who now lives in Los Angeles, was allegedly displeased with the way his earlier film was seen purely as an indictment of America, and perhaps this film can be seen as an attempt to soften that interpretation by placing greater responsibility for his downfall in the main character’s hands, though facilitated by modern society.

In any case, Bad Lieutenant: Port Of Call New Orleans should be relished for the bleak insanity of the Lieutenant’s rollercoaster ride of self-destruction, though it’s a ride likely to turn your stomach by the end.

Cops & Robbers have listing the best bands at the best DIY gigs in Leeds, hands down, for a decade now. What do you mean you’ve never heard of them? They’ve even got a half-decent website now! Being a non-profit organisation, they do need to raise funds to cover overheads now and again – sometimes gigs, sometimes other means. Today, here’s a brilliant little DVD compilation of various Leeds-based bands and friends – and it’s only £3.99! Totally bargainous, eh? Put together by Claire from Printed Circuit and featuring some super-swanky artwork by Kathryn Cooper, I have no hesitation in recommending you buy one now. But hang on a minute, maybe you want to know what’s on it? Okay, heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere goes…:

The finest live rock band in the land, Bilge Pump, open up proceedings with a rough video recording of their performance at the C&R 10th anniversary jamboree at the start of this year. Their song is the oft-quoted classic “Thank You Very Much”, and features even more giddily-excited call-and-response choruses from an ecstatic crowd than ever. A fantastic way to start.

Next up are the fabulously costumed Beards, who look like something out of Willy Wonka’s candy-addled nightmares and contribute a choppy and mildly deranged live track “Gold Medal”.

Executive Legs have a live version of “Monkey” recorded at an infamous Chinchillafest at the venerable Brudenell Social Club. Their track is bouncy, feisty, wonky fun fun funk.

Printed Circuit contribute a hilarious video of their future club-classic “My Butt Hurts”. It’s like Spike Jonze’s video for ‘Praise You’ re-imagined as a laugh down the pub after a few pints, and is all the better for it.

Cowtown‘s home-animated video for their classic “Kitty Runs Away From Garlic” features Mario, Pokemon and runs like Michel Gondry’s kid let loose with a video camera and a bunch of toys.

Yoko, Oh No!‘s video for “I Play Guitar” matches the ultra-glitched-up electro-pop against tweaked computer animation and an unexpected “cameo” by Mayhem, of all people.

Cleckhuddersfax do live track “Buses”, which sounds like Super Furry Animals on some particularly strong PCP and features some beautifully honky keyboard sounds.

a.P.A.t.T. serve up a music video for “The Face Of A Crow”, which looks and sounds like prime ’80s-era Prince funking it up with a broken Moog, and features some arsing about whilst dressed up as a crow from the old Kia-Ora adverts. Reassuringly weird.

Chops‘ completely bastardly broken rock-electro-noise is given a visual accompaniment with a distinctly home-made chop-up of archive video and bizarre staged rituals for their song “Ill-Eagle”. It’s very strange indeed.

Tigers! pop up with a super-rough, super-rocked live track “Taipei”, which features glittery costumes, a guitarist dressed up like an Ewok and a completely distorted bass sounds that only adds to the feel. The “Oh yeah!” shouted when they stop the song on a dime makes everything feel fuzzy and warm.

Last up, non-Leeds-based Caifornians Kit do a soundcheck and 4 songs live at the Leeds Irish Centre as support to a Deerhoof gig, strutting their herk-a-jerk Shaggs-meets-Deerhoof-uptown-with-Huggy-Bear stuff. Sorry, it’s better than that, featuring a totally awesome headbanging drummer and the ugliest bass guitar you’ve ever seen.

So that’s it. Pretty bloody good for less than £4, eh? Plus, if enough copies of this are sold there’s promise of a second volume, featuring an entire Quack Quack gig! You can buy this DVD from the Maximum Party website for £3.99 postpaid anywhere in the world. Go! Buy! Go buy now!

http://maximumparty.net

http://www.copsandrobbers.net

This just might be the future of presenting albums: release it as a DVD of videos only.  No CD, just DVD.  Years ago Sonic Youth did it with their Goo video but the plums went and released it as a conventional record also.  Plums.

Sputniko! is a female Japanese artist currently residing (and inventing) in London.  Citing Takako Minekawa (Mrs Cornelius) as one of her many influences here possessed are thirteen tracks of demented and subversive chiptune, almost J-Pop songs in that neon manner only Japanese artists seem able to construct/contrive.  With the cute smiles they get away with murder!

Things begin with “Google Song” and the tale of shy Japanese schoolgirls too scared to speak to boys they fancy who instead put their name into Google as a fluffy adventure into subtle stalking.  Playing on stereotypes, perversion and a wicked sense of fun early Sputniko! reveals herself as a cunning exploiter of the listener’s awareness.

With the invention of Wakki Sputniko! demonstrates her invention of being able to play an instrument designed by herself with movements of her armpit.  On the DVD she later demonstrates that Wakki is a knitted soft toy with a Wii controller inside it and on “Wakki Song” this is where the gift is best examined and executed.

Live favourite “Chinko Song” continues the silly theme of the piece especially when considering that when this pretty young lady is repeatedly singing “chinko” as the chorus she is singing the Japanese word for “penis.”

Slowly the album begins to resemble the music equivalent of commuters reading Anime porn on Tokyo underground as “Child Producing Machine” becomes possibly first and definitely the most explicit ever pop song about a lady having her period.  During the middle of the song she gives birth in what feels an increasingly uncomfortable listen from a lyrical standpoint especially when considering the tone of the vocal delivery and the upbeat Nintendo music guiding the song.  With lyrics such as “I’d rather be a cyborg than a goddess” who can fail?  Here comes a nervous smile from the listener.

Basically here is the dark undercurrent that ripples beneath the beautiful neon lights of the Japanese experience, the one where cartoons are about killers, bears are gloomy and the females are not so subservient after all.  There is part of me that suspects she is something of a female Japanese Borat but at least a good one with it.

In this format accompanied by a grand set of clever videos expertly delivered on a small budget this is a really stunning offering caked in humour and cultural difference confusion.  Sumptuous.

Thesaurus moment: edifying.

Sputniko!

Sputniko! live

360 Degrees Records