I wake up and vow to do something about the records in my living room. They're a microcosm of the world. Overflowing. Without direction or purpose. Or coherence. They need to be put into boxes. Channels. Irrigated. Given infrastructure and purpose, Order. Coherence..
But first there's time to run a bath. Boil an egg. Take my pills. Listen to a Graham Parker & The Rumour record and then cup my ear to the latest from Tame Impala. Great name. Shame about the record. I have time for their earlier stuff but this immediately strikes me as wanting to have its cake and eat it. Cake is there to be eaten. More tea vicar?
So to Deadbeat. Nice sleeve. An image of paternal love. The record? It's not dead. It has beat, Syncopation. Singer songwriter on the dancefloor. Underworld grooves. But as so often with this stuff that wants to get you on and dancefloor and also listen to the words it make you wonder what exactly it's trying to say.'Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis.
I suppose I'm being unkind but it's all terribly bland and rather kitchen sink. Bar thymes with Pablo Escobar in Dracula my personal nadir moment. Car rhymes with spectacular. Time for that bath.....
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