Down The Rabbit Hole, Part 1

quiff2The weekend is a broken ornament, a beautiful twisted relic lying fractured on the floor, glistening in the early summer sun. I stagger as I lean down to pick through the myriad pieces – the rabbit hole; the headphone dancers; the Strang man; the sunken wreck; the land time forgot; the synthetic dream; the funfair; and the rolling stone – because I’m bewitched.

It’s early Friday evening when we stumble into the Alice in Wonderland bar, the rush of alcohol washing us down the rabbit hole and out onto the street with an awkward step. Our guides await us, a stylish mess standing in that graceful, honest way that only the young and reckless can manage, like rocks sliding down a deserted hillside.

It’s a warm evening, the air fragrant with the hypnotic scent of freshly bloomed flowers and freshly smoked marijuana. People throng around us, a clash of festivals – music and theatre – belching forth an eclectic brand of modern madness. A congregation mill around us, giant lanyards strung around their necks so that they resemble oversized children with a day pass to the theme park. A man on stilts tiptoes between them making regular, ovoid laps, his head bouncing back and forth like a jack in the box, his smile a sea of teeth. A band of brave dancers tear through the centre, headphones pinned to their ears as they swagger and sway to a song no one else can hear. Our senses buckle but hold and we are transported.

The shop, built to hold 15, already holds 50 and as the band gather behind a hastily assembled stack of speakers, more push through until we are a mass of heat and sweat and spilt lager barely a hand’s width away from the men from Madrid. The drummer, yellow cape cascading down his back, counts a beat, the guitar roars into life and we explode, a spiralling corkscrew of expectant energy. At the heart of it, one of our guides conducts the chaos, bouncing and buffeting but immovable, the room pivoting around him. The Parrots adore us as much as we adore them, their crazed brand of 60’s punk-pop psychedelia is a deafening roar overwhelming and empowering us all.

20 minutes pass as if time were racing against itself and, suddenly, we stand briefly alone and forlorn until a DJ presses the needle to a 7 inch. Beguiled, we consider asking him for the name of the song, instead reaching for our phones and then, Shazam! We are away again.

We drop anchor at a crowded bar, a swell of distracted chatter obstructing any path to the bar. In the far corner a fairly decent band are broadly ignored. Someone needs to take charge of this menagerie before momentum is lost. We need a Strang man. He emerges from the side, skinny and wilful, powering his way to the front, and we follow in his wake. There is a restless buzz to Kane Strang’s music, his artful 90’s DIY pop a mask worn to obscure the doubts and fears that are strewn within his lyrics.

Outside, we cast the stragglers onto a passing truck as it pauses to recruit. In the gathering night, glowsticks twist leaving an echo of colour in the air, bass thumps through our bodies and many are drawn away to a brighter, noisier future.

We stagger and smoke, somnambulant as we await the call. Sound reverberates from the depths, a forgotten wind whispering and whistling in the distance, the press of a single ivory rising above the quiet cacophony as if from a long forgotten piano in the bar of some sunken wreck. Our guides return to lead us by the hand, plunging downward towards the seductive melancholy until we are submerged, happy to never to return.

Matt Maltese’s vocals are dark and heady. His lyrics, visceral and harsh. His music, warm like the barrel of a fired gun. He is where we end part one.


Dark side of the tune

It’s not exactly profound to suggest that there is a link between the quality of art produced and the state of the world. Yes, art requires funding and support and education and people to have enough time and money to both enjoy it and pay for enjoying it. And, yes, there is a point at which art becomes basically impossible for people because they have neither the time or resources to make or enjoy it. However, it’s also true that some of the greatest art comes from some of the most difficult times. That for many artists struggle is an important part of their process. That it’s how they find their voice. Every protest needs an anthem.

In music, you can look at the folk and blues that came out of dustbowl, depression era America, or the rise of punk and new wave from the industrial meltdown of late 70’s and early 80’s England. To me, it feels like the last year has resonated in a similar way to those times.

The rise of far right, nationalistic, xenophobic politics magnified through the prism of Brexit and Trump. The never-ending crises of war, poverty and famine leading to an explosion of  refugees who are seemingly to blame for having nowhere safe to call home. The continual failings of modern capitalism to balance individual freedom with societal responsibility leaving meritocracy as a fading dream. And all this punctuated by moments of terror about which we must show no fear, because to do so would be to give the criminals that enact these horrors exactly what they want.

Meanwhile the music has got better and harder and more honest. In the States, alternate hip-hop – led by a vanguard of YG and the returning A Tribe Called Quest – has found it’s voice again. Musically, the spectrum is as broad as it’s ever been and the beats as strong. Lyrically, there is a new-found vigour. No one is going quietly into the night.

KXNG Crooked’s Alternative Facts seems almost whimsical at first. Over a lackadaisical beat you’re encouraged to lie to your girlfriend, your boss, the police and your family. And why the hell not? After all, if the President can do it, why shouldn’t you?

The message here is really important. It’s not just about what Trump does, it’s also about what he represents. What does it teach us when the ‘leader of the free world’  thinks it’s not only okay to lie, but also that it’s not a lie if enough people believe it to be true.

Mr Wise’s The Man of Orange is a menacing first person encounter with the mind of Donald Trump. The President’s own words are swallowed whole and spat out again in angry roar. As I learnt to my cost, you shouldn’t listen to this at full volume in your car,  unless you want to give people the wrong impression.

And we haven’t even touched the excellent new tracks by Joey Bada$$ and J. Cole. Maybe, another day, because I can’t get through this blog without mentioning the fantastic ‘Our First 100 Days’. 100 artists, 100 songs, one for each of the first 100 days of Trump’s presidency. This compilation has been providing fuel to my musical fire for months now and if you haven’t got on board with it, then you should. For a minimum donation of $30 you too can have all these tracks. Not only is this a complete bargain but all the profits go to charities fighting for LGBTQ rights, sensible climate change and immigration policies, and access to safe, objective family planning options. If you haven’t got the point yet, this project  gives me a warm, tingly feeling and that’s before we’ve talked about the music.

Adam Torres is relatively new to me but has been quietly stretching the Americana envelope for a decade now (his 2008 record Nostra Nova, in particular, is really great). Dreamers in America is melancholy and gorgeous:

Nathan Bowles is a fantastic banjo player from Virginia. His track the I In The Silence gently quakes my heart, reminding me a little of Dirty Three in their quieter moments:

I cried when I first heard the Piano Version of Julien Baker’s Good News. Her album from last year, Sprained Ankle, was pretty great but this is a wonderful, if brutal 4 minutes:

Most of these songs appear on  May’s Skewed Quiff. You should listen to it and then go and buy some music.

1 Arabesque by Pronto Mama
2 Different Now by Chastity Belt
3 Mockingbird (w/ Mimikyu) by Luupy
4 Two Of The Lucky Ones by The Droge & Summer Blend
5 Luxury Vintage Rap by Nick Grant
6 Keston Cobblers Club by Almost Home
7 Filthy Boy by Mental Conditions
8 The I In Silence by Nathan Bowles
9 Imagining My Man by Aldous Harding
10 Good News (Piano Version) by Julien Baker
11 Moonfire by Boy & Bear
12 Let The Drums Speak (Dj XS Right Thing Edit) by Bah Samba
13 Walk Don’t Run by Chimney
14 Animals by Laura Gibson
15 High For Hours by J. Cole
16 Hot Thoughts by Spoon
17 Hey Can You Come Out And Play by Megan Sue Hicks
18 Bird by Kelly Lee Owens
19 Permanent by Carla Sagan
20 Vintage Red by Jay Jay Pistolet

1 Do The Whirlwind by Architecture in Helsinki
2 Sparkle (Teck-Zilla Remix) by Camp Lo
3 The Lives Of Elevators (Findspire live session) by Orouni
4 Chance The Dog (The Song) by The Kraken Quartet
5 Predator by Will Johnson
6 The Sea by Eliza Carthy
7 Turncoat by Pickwick
8 Alternative Facts by KXNG Crooked
9 Smoke Of Dreams by Thurston Moore
10 Laminated Cat by Jeff Tweedy
11 Can’t Hold On by Black Lips
12 One More Love song by Mac Demarco
13 The Man of Orange (prod. by Team Demo) by Mister Wise
14 Modern Highway by Luke Abbott
15 Hellhound in The House by Hip Hatchet
16 Halfway Home by Broken Social Scene
17 Caramel Dreams by Blue Movies
18 Just A Dream (Alternate Take) by Bert Jansch
19 Lil Dead Eye-d by Richard Edwards
20 End Of The World by Sharon Van Etten

Treading carefully

The problem with life – because there’s only one problem with life, obviously – is that you constantly want to embrace new things, to be mesmerised by the wonder of something new and vibrant and beautiful but that you often don’t notice what you’ve lost along the way.

Taking music as an example (and Quiff is as bad as most for this) new music is too available to us now. We can get it when we want it and can organise and arrange it as we want it. Artists no longer need traditional means to get their work to you and this means there is a profundity of music out there. There is a bygone era where you had to go a shop and buy a record if you wanted to listen to it, now it’s a few clicks away and – if you’ll excuse the extended metaphor – the shelves are infinitely long and wide and fully stocked with every type of music you could imagine.

This is a wonderous thing, I truly fucking love it, but along the way the ease of access and sheer volume of choice has meant that we have stopped listening to albums anywhere near as much as we used to. Albums should be the high point of a musicians output. Months, years even, put aside to the creation of a singular object. All that heart poured into a perfectly formed hour. Getting an album right is hard, much harder than writing one great song, but the reward for both performer and listener is so much greater.

At this point some of you’re thinking either a) fuck, this is a long and fairly inane introduction or b) fuck, this is hypocritical for a blog that puts out a compilation of 40 odd tracks a month all by different artists, sourced almost wholly from the Internet. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were thinking both.

So, by way of explanation, this blog came about because earlier this week someone asked me what albums I’d been listening to and I didn’t have much to say. As a result, I decided to list some of my favourite LPs of the year so far so that you can indulge yourself in something special:

Laura Marling – Semper Femina

Marling’s six album may be my favourite yet. This is an artist at the height of her powers, musically and lyrically.


Jay Som – Everybody Works

A record of endearingly anxious and frazzled bedroom rock that twists and twirls through different styles. It’s frankly lovely.

Tinariwen – Elhan

Masterful, driving desert blues crossed with American folk. I struggle to see how anyone couldn’t love this.

Patch & The Giant – All that We Had We Stole

London based folk excellence from Patch. Recorded with care and love this is the album that captures their live sound and should catapult them towards stardom. Instead, they’ll probably just end up with a Radio 2 folk award nomination.

Loyle Carner – Yesterday’s gone

I’ve banged on enough about Loyle in the past but this is a great record. Refusing to bow to the huge pressure to make a bunch of ‘bangers’ and hit the radio 1 playlist hard, Loyle has done what he does and made an intimate, funny and warm album. More like this please.

Julie Byrne – Not Even Happiness

I’ve saved room for a little bit of bleak in here. There is heartbreak and wisdom writ large across this record.

Priests – Nothing Feels Natural

Priests debut album is so cool and considered it hurts. Sometimes a band just knows what it’s doing.


From Here: English Folk Recordings (Compilation)

A while back a few people decided it would be wise to wander around the UK getting a bunch of folk artists to record a song from their local area. It was wise.


Michael Chapman – Fully Qualified Survivor (reissue)

Imagine that it’s 1970 and Bowie and Jansch decide to make a record together. Imagine that it’s actually great. This has just had a vinyl reissue and is a necessity for your collection.


Many of these tracks either appear on this month’s new Quiff or last the two months. All of those can be checked out here:

Give them  a listen and then get down to your local record shop and buy some lovely, lovely albums.

Something From The Weekend

Friday night is fuelled by release. Release from work, release from pressure, release from the everyday irritations that add up to being responsible. We are in the pub for a truly English end of week, an intoxicating blend of overpriced drinks, empty stomachs and sexual tension descending on us like an invisible mist, whispering through our skin, driving us to frenzy like a plot device in some mid-budget horror movie.

Conversations happen in brief, random bursts, individuals and groups colliding with each other before spinning away, a shower of flames and debris left in their wake. The carefully preserved mask of social niceties cracks and frays. There is emotion here, love and joy and anger and fear, too much emotion. So, we pack away what we see and hear and do tonight, an unwritten pact that let’s us embrace the wild nothing. Only God Knows what happened.

Saturday is bathed in glorious sunshine and we nestle under trees, the sunlight dappling across our skin, the breeze crisp and sharp through our hair. We form a chain, a factory line of alcoholic intent, each person with their designated ingredient, lime, mint, sugar, soda water or rum. We consume slowly but methodically and as the light descends we rise and play.

Under the glow of paper lanterns, half a dozen people serenade a dashing hero, the rhythmic pulse of guitar battling with a tinny speaker lost somewhere on the ground. Some gather in the corners, plotting and planning and promising a series of events that will most probably never happen. Others sit cynically aloof, both actor and audience in this little play. Philosophy, culture and politics flirt with inanity and a quiet joy settles across the fallen paper cups and picnic blankets.  There is chaos here, as before, but it’s benign, gentle almost.  We whirl and cartwheel and cavort only standing still long enough for a photograph.

Sunday feels like a mistake, as if someone else has commandeered our bodies and then left us to pick up the pieces. The world smells of fresh vomit and stale bodies and tiredness kicks like an angry mule. I spend an unnecessary amount of time wondering whether I’m empty or worthless, as if there should be a winner, as if a decisive vote one way or the other would at least give me a path to follow.

Fortunately, I’m rescued by a call to arms, an overly ambitious walk and the warmth of dear friends. We continue as we left off, cocktails in hand, quietly, happily watching the weekend collapse. The sky drifts from blue to grey, the sea mist rolling across the streets, the heat dissipating within minutes. We sit and shiver and smile, cigarettes glowing in the darkness, a comfortable silence embracing us. It could be the apocalypse. To my addled mind it feels like the apocalypse. We should be miserable, but no one is.

All of these tracks will be appearing on the new Skewed Quiff, which should be with you this week. In the interim there’s loads of fantastic music here.

Tues Gaze

The new Skewed Quiff is almost upon us. All it requires at this point is for me to actually get my shit together and do something, which may have to wait a few more days as I’ve been enjoying one of my more maudlin periods of late. Okay, so enjoying may be a little strong but there’s definitely something in my personality that revels in an occasional mope.

As such, I’m as excited (or coolly disinterested) about the new records about to drop from indie stalwarts Slowdive and The Jesus & Mary Chain. The rejuvenation of the shoegaze scene has been truly serendipitous – given my recent mood. It would, however, be remiss, and out of character, if I focused on these fairly well-known artists. There are a bunch of bands out there who have listened to these great bands and then done it their own way.

Luxury Death are a Manchester based duo who’ve just launched the Glue EP – as a follow-up to two singles from last year. Listerine is a wall of chilling organ broken by a sweet duet of vocals and warm washes of furry, fuzzy guitar. It’s as if life could be washed away by something as simple as a 3 minute song, as simple as mouthwash:

You can buy the ep from Luxury Death’s bandcamp page.

Rebel Kind released their 3rd full length album in December and amazingly it got lost in the pile of stuff I was listening while compiling my end of year lists. Since then Just for Fools’ brutal simplicity has been burrowing into my consciousness like an angry realisation. This is just one of those songs that refuses to be overlooked:

You can grab the new record here.

Teen Daze is a Canadian producer who, despite being five albums deep, has previously escaped my attention. His newest record Themes for Dying Earth came out last month with the track First Rain catching my attention because it featured S. Carey (an artist who featured on a Quiff some time back in the dark ages). This is a beautiful slice of ambient wonder that hangs in that moment just before dawn, the icy chill of a winter’s night ebbing away in the rising heat of a spring morning:

You’ll be shocked to discover that this too can be found on Bandcamp.

All of these tracks will, eventually, feature on March’s Skewed Quiff. I’ll pop a link up when that actually happens..

Tuesday’s Twitch

The rain is pouring and I’m still shaky from the drive home ploughing through newly formed rivers of muck behind an articulated lorry which has turned my car into an extra from the Warrior Run.

My ability to write this blog has only been saved by asymmetric beats and gentle waves of musical calm so a few choice cuts await your listening.

Papertoy is a Sydney-based producer who likes to mess with hip-hop, r ‘n’ b and your mind. Like his music he seems an whispery, ephemeral concept. Someone who may or may not exist, given his limited real world presence, but who has a Soundcloud page filled with nuggets of joy.

He recently (well, back in August) contributed TexasHigh to Paper Garden’s latest volley of electronic music which is definitely worth checking out on Bandcamp. You can, of course, name your price and support an independent record label, should such things give you a sense of enormous well-being. In the meantime, allow yourself to be rolled over by this quietly euphoric ruckus:

While we’re in Sydney (gosh, there’s some great music coming out of Australia, right now) we should stop by Floating Pyramids to check their Avalanches’ infused madness. Out Of This World is a cornucopia of surprise, twisting and turning through 3 and half mesmeric minutes of playfulness:

You should absolutely grab this while it remains a free download.

Stoop Kids swayed my way last year with the gloriously funky Motions and have barely caught breath since. Hey Banana is a fuzzy hybrid of funk and hip-hop, as filthy as it is wonderful. Just when you think you’ve got it, it finds a new way to shock you:

We’re only days away from the new Quiff, which will feature all of the above, as well as last week’s treats, plus a whole load of other brilliance that I’ll be sharing over the next few days. If you really can’t wait then trot over to my Mixcloud page and check out my favourite tunes of 2016.

Sunday’s Soul

I spend most of my Sundays alone. I like to let the day drift by, to lazily count the minutes and seconds, to appreciate the passing of time in a way that often feels impossible. The music that I listen to – there’s always music somewhere in the background – is melancholy and soulful. It breaks you down and builds you back up again.

In the past year South London’s Sampha has made quite a name for himself guesting on both the Kanye West and Solange records, as well as putting out a couple of pretty fine singles. His debut album is slated for release next month and in the interim he has given us this rather beautiful piece:

The song reminds me of being at my best friend’s house as a teenager, standing swaying in his dining room as his fingers danced across the keys of the old piano pushed up against the wall. Of how in those moments, the usually constant confusion of inexperience and hormones would die away, leaving me serene.

Laura Marling’s muse shows no signs of abating and she is back in March with a new record, Semper Femina.  Wildfire, one of the first few tracks to surface, has me, almost literally, purring:

This is soft and soulful, yet tinged with a folk edge. At one point there is a feathering of a drum that sounds like the braying of a horse. I’m in a little in love.

St. Paul and The Broken Bones‘ second record Sea of Noise almost snuck past me last year, released as was to a considerable lack of fanfare but they continue to plow their own furrow of beautiful soul. The new record is gentler than their first and there are times here that Paul conjures the ghost of Otis Redding as if it were as easy as tossing a die:

Old Man Saxon is a new voice to me. The Colorado rapper seems to have been around for a few years, cutting his teeth on the circuit, trying to break through to the kind of sustainable existence that seems, unfortunately,  to evade many a gifted musician. His latest EP, the Perils, came out last August and the lead track has a beat that makes me gloriously weak:

This is a song about the struggle, about the pretense, about trying to appear as the industry expects you to appear. It’s about continuing to fight even though all you want to do is go home. It takes something difficult and makes it wonderful. It breaks you down and builds you up again.

You can catch more Quiff over at my mixcloud page. All of these tracks will appear on my February mix which should be out in a couple of weeks.

12 Plays of Christmas – David Thomas Broughton

As we draw to a close we leave behind the buzz of the city and drift into the dark and dreamy landscape of Yorkshire’s finest folk eccentric. The Crippling Lack EPs are 90 minutes of sparse, crackling beauty. A collection of epic folk reflections on humanity spun on a web of organic samples, bass loops, fidgety acoustic guitar and meandering vocal. Veins of darkness and humour and love run through these tracks like seams of gold hidden beneath the earth, occasional  glimpses rising and falling with the undulations of the land.

Silent Arrow, with rickety guitar and mournful harmonica, recalls Neil Young during his 70’s hey day. It shares his slow, deliberate reflection and feels like a long walk in the countryside. The beauty is in being there, in feeling the cool air fill your lungs, in the sense of space between the moments:

The beginning of Dots is almost broken, a foal taking it’s first hesitant, wayward steps before finding it’s balance. A marching drum beat begins to underpin this new found freedom, an understated resilience rising up to eat away the doubt:

Concrete Statement ponders how we can ever trust that which we or others say. It is the search for grains of truth amongst the dirt and rubble of everyday conversation. It is a night where you drink too much and cannot sleep, the alcohol chafing against your dreams, refusing to let  go until a resolution is found:

Spend a long time waiting for some hard-boiled words
Some concrete statement
Such jellied, opaque promises will be nothing come the sun
Your tatty cloth remarks are never sewn into anything that I can wear

Gulf is a song about regret, of how easy it is to open gaps with people, gaps into which trust, previously so sturdy and sure, collapses. How on both sides a moment can change everything. It is filled with sadness and is one of the most beautiful songs of the last year:

Plunge of the Dagger, featuring London-based artist Luke Drozd, is a series of daily vignettes describing someone seemingly contemplating suicide, though never quite getting there. It is a series of daydreams that are filled with tragedy and pathos and dark humour. That understands that comedy is never far from tragedy. Turn the page and one becomes the other. They spin across the ballroom floor, elegant and inseparable. It hates and loves life:


I have decided to drink myself death

I’ve calculated how much alcohol is needed in order for my organs to pickle

And my frame to collapse into a pool of its own detritus

However, I do not drink so I have chosen to use the equivalent in lemonade, homemade and cloudy

My god, it’s delicious

Crippling Lack is an album to wallow in ,to cast aside the world to. A gentle and dark lullaby that takes you away to somewhere sad and and beautiful and funny and human. It is a deep and satisfying record, like supping hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day or crawling into your bed after a seeming eternity, the freshly washed linen crisp against your naked skin. It is the brief, accidental brushing of skin against skin sending sparks rushing up your arms and across your chest, your heart-rate rising with the sheer, seductive simplicity of it all.

You can buy The Crippling Lack EP here.

12 Plays of Christmas – Kate Tempest

For those of you who’ve been following this blog closely over the last few weeks you’ll have noticed that many of the albums that I’ve chosen from last year share a common pattern. There’s a dash of politics, a certain darkness to the music and lyrics that lend themselves more to poetry and storytelling than is regularly  found in pop music. This record is the obvious culmination of my current tastes.

Let Them Eat Chaos is the darker more grown-up sibling of A Grand Don’t Come for Free by The Streets. It shares many of it’s musical themes but is lyrically more ambitious – as you might expect from a spoken word poet. Usually, I like to present my highlights of an album, to give you a taste of its medicine, but this is not how you should listen to Let Them Eat Chaos. Each track is tightly bound with the others. This is a family of songs that come together to tell a thrilling and important story and deserves to be listened to in that way. To not do so is the equivalent of just turning up just for the second act of a play or only reading alternate pages of a novel. No doubt there would be good bits but you lose its overall sense and the experience is devalued:

We begin in glorious nothing, spinning in a vacuum before plummeting towards a beautifully ugly planet, our velocity ever-increasing until we crash into the surface only to rise unbroken and unflustered in the pinnacle of modern, liberal, western capitalism that is London. Time freezes and we step out to look at the world. It’s 4:18 am.

The story spins out into 7 separate lives: Gemma, pondering the constant cycle of temporary that is her life with bitter self-recrimination; Esther, a late night carer just getting home sharing her worries and fears; Alisha, who hears the ghost of her dead partner lost in a war in a far away land; Pete, stumbling home after another reckless and wrecked night, who is saving for a future that never comes because there’s too much distraction, too many drugs and parties in the present; Bradley, who’s career is going great, who has all the trapping of modern live, but who only feels lost and empty and purposeless but doesn’t know why;  Zoe, as she waits to be evicted from her flat, who looks at the place where she grew up and doesn’t recognise it any more, who is displaced by gentrification; and Pius, the girl with the broken heart trying to heal it with a sticking plaster of casual sex and cheap thrills.

If there is one story which sums up this sadness, confusion and anger, it is Europe is Lost a fomenting, boiling, raging torrent of consciousness. A scream you never hear but already know, because it lives inside you:

I am quiet, feeling the onset of riot
Riots are tiny though, systems are huge
Traffic keeps moving, proving there’s nothing to do
‘Cause it’s big business, baby, and its smile is hideous
Top down violence, a structural viciousness
Your kids are dosed up on medical sedatives
But don’t worry bout that, man, worry ’bout terrorists
The water level’s rising! The water level’s rising!
The animals, the elephants, the polar bears are dying!

Stop crying, start buying, but what about the oil spill?
Shh, no one likes a party pooping spoil sport
Massacres, massacres, massacres/new shoes
Ghettoised children murdered in broad daylight
By those employed to protect them
Live porn streamed to your pre-teen’s bedrooms
Glass ceiling, no headroom
Half a generation live beneath the breadline
Oh, but it’s happy hour on the high street
Friday night at last lads, my treat!
All went fine till that kid got glassed in the last bar
Place went nuts, you can ask our Lou
It was madness, road ran red, pure claret
And about them immigrants? I can’t stand them
Mostly, I mind my own business
They’re only coming over here to get rich, it’s a sickness
England! England! Patriotism!
And you wonder why kids want to die for religion?

It goes, work all your life for a pittance
Maybe you’ll make it to manager, pray for a raise
Cross the beige days off on your beach babe calendar
The anarchists are desperate for something to smash
Scandalous pictures of fashionable rappers
In glamorous magazines, who’s dating who?
Politico cash in an envelope
Caught sniffing lines off a prostitutes prosthetic tits
Now it’s back to the house of lords with slapped wrists
They abduct kids and fuck the heads of dead pigs

But him in a hoodie with a couple of spliffs
Jail him, he’s the criminal

What joins these 7 together is their sadness, their isolation, and that none of them know where they are going. What joins them together is a violent storm, an apocalypse, that calls them all from their houses, and finally just as it is too late, brings them together.

At heart, Let Them Eat Chaos is an album about our selfishness, about how we distance ourselves from others, watching the world disappear on a TV screen, convincing ourselves that ‘we’re engaged when we’re pacified‘. That individualism is a myth. That any other person’s pain is also our pain, however or wherever it happens and that until we face this we guarantee our own extinction. It is angry because anger is the only logical response to the predicament we face. It is also hopeful because it believes we have the power within us to remedy this, to save our brothers and sisters, to save our children, though we may have to eat chaos to realise that.

You can but Let Them Eat Chaos here.

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