I can't always find something new to write about that's just come out when it comes to posting a song of the day . So at that point I'll go back, Today to 2010's Poets of England. The only album til now by The Vermin Poets.
On cursory investigation I find it's Billy Childish and his silly mates. In cool outfits, facial hair, great hats and second hand jackets and coats and artistic poses for the camera. I've got a lot of time for Billy and his entourage. In the gutter but looking at the stars. They'll namedrop Bukowski and Rimbaud.
They'll rip off old Clash and Subway Sect songs and attitudes. They don't think about it too much. They know they work in a tradition. They have fun. Spit it out,
Throwaway Punk and New Wave. This stuff knows where it comes from and where it wants to go. Oddball early Who singles. Pretty Things. Creation.Then onto Punk and the pubs of the East End and Kent.
Traces of poetry and political ranting. That doesn't take itself too seriously but from people that say that they're poets and so are, Not waiting for recognition from the Hall of Fame. A merch table to the side of the room will do for them. They know their tradition and claim it with glee in their grubby chewed finger nailed mits..
The records a joy anyhow. I listened to it last night and now I'm listening to it again as I start the day. I wish I was experiencing them in their natural habitat. The room of an upstairs pub. Beer and fag ends and banter flowing. England's better dreaming. 'The truth is only known by guttersnipes...' Who wrote that. Oh Uncle Joe.
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