The
BBC reports on the battle for the Christmas number one, 19 December 2013.
X
Factor winner Lucie Jones is the surprise victor in this year’s tussle for the
UK Christmas number one.
Jones’s power-ballad version of MIA’s Paper Planes was the lucky beneficiary of
a determined media campaign to unseat the early-90s US alt-metal bands who have
held dominion over the UK Christmas charts for the past four years.
It marks the end of an ignominious seven days for grunge veterans Soundgarden,
whose Jesus Christ Pose seemed certain to make it five festive number ones in a
row for over-earnest, minor-chord-bothering Stateside metallers.
Earlier in the week, singer Chris Cornell had launched a scathing attack on
Radio 1 for supporting Simon Cowell’s underdog protégée, reserving particular
bile for Alexa Chung and her “trendy-schmendy” love for the X Factor. Many
believe this is where the tide turned.
Radio 1 Breakfast Show host Chung launched the campaign on 10 December – two
days before Jones’s winning turn, and coinciding with Soundgarden’s
chart-topper-elect being restocked in the download stores. “This is all about
getting good music back on top at Christmas,” Chung declared. “We’ve had to
stomach this grungey crap for way too long. Everyone’s grandad rushes out in
the middle of December and buys the latest Pearl Jam reissue, leaving the real
music-lovers high and dry. It’s high time some cutting-edge MOR recaptured this
iconic position.”
It had seemed a hopeless quest for Chung and Cowell. When Rage Against The
Machine grabbed the 2009 Christmas number one, the tone was set for alt-metal
festive hegemony for the next three years. Alice In Chains’ Angry Chair
followed in 2010, with The Screaming Trees taking Shadow Of The Season to the
top of the pile a year later. When Tad triumphed over the Pitchfork-backed Susan
Boyle last year, it appeared defunct US rockers had an unbreakable hold.
But in the end, the British public prevailed. One young shopper at Oxford
Street’s HMV Download Booth this evening gushed, “I’m so pleased Lucie’s number
one. I don’t usually buy records the rest of the year, so it really matters
that something good is number one for Christmas.”
Meanwhile, media movers and shakers were quick to air their thoughts. NME
Editor Krissi Murison expressed her relief at Jones’s triumph. “To be honest,
none of us really liked Nirvana in the first place,” she sighed.
What critics will make of Bob Dylan’s next three albums.
Here Comes Stonking Bob An album of novelty song covers
“The masterful juxtaposition of Dylan – the most
eminently serious musician of the last half-century – with the absurdity of Mr
Blobby is superb.” The Guardian
“I wept as he choked his way through Bob The Builder.
Can he fix it? The answer for this reviewer could not be more positive if he
had wired up his head to the nobbly end of a battery.” Pitchfork
“Those of a sharp eye may wonder if Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody
on a Theme of Paganini is actually a novelty song. But does that even matter
when you’ve got Bob Dylan’s throaty warble so warmly caressing every note? The
most underrated phrasing in the world, backed by the most underrated instrument
in the world – the kazoo.” Rolling Stone
Bob Dylan’s #747 Dream An album of jet impressions
“Ever since 1970’s Self Portrait flummoxed
narrow-minded fans, Robert Zimmerman has been pushing his adoring public to
examine music in its most fundamental form. This is a marvellously simple
record. Eleven tracks of grating, whining growl rising in pitch and volume.
Basic. And brilliant.” The Times
“It is a hard-hearted listener who doesn’t have their
heart broken by Dylan’s portrayal of his non-stop touring through engine
noises. The pain of the musical process is in every interminable groan and screech.
Mystical in its force.” Mojo
“Bob’s decision to sell the songs for use on
commercials for an airline and an oil company are clearly an inspired political
statement. This is an album of huge import to the ecology movement. Every
almost unbearable shriek is made for our children and our children’s children.”
Uncut
Bob Dylan Is Screaming For Fuck’s Sake
Can You Not Hear This Shit? Bob screams ‘What the fuck is wrong
with you fucking idiots?’ for 77 minutes
“After 40 years (SUBS TO CHECK), Dylan remains able to
push boundaries. And not just musical ones, this time. Amazing Dolby Wizz (tm)
technology means that the listener can actually get the sensation of Bob
urinating into his eye, every time he plays the CD. And that pee is nectar to
the sinus.” The Word
“The fact that you can only purchase this record from
Robert Mugabe for $10,000 (US) - placed in a box marked “For torture of
political opponents” - is Dylan’s most loquacious political statement since
Time Out Of Mind. You may not like it – but you can’t deny that it confronts
you with its intellect.” Blender
“The best thing I have ever heard. Really. It is a
return to form.” Every Bob Dylan fan,
again
Cliff
Richard’s debut album review from The New Musical Express.
Cliff
Richard: Cliff (Columbia) (Five stars)
Get ready
for the ride of your life! Cliff Richard is HERE, clear, and will make your
parents feel queer. Squares might not like Cliff. He’s just too much for them.
He’s crazy, man. Wacko. Harold Macmillan don’t like him much. He’s raw. He’s
angry. He’s young. If there’s one
word you could use to describe Cliff, it’s edgy. Like a knife... laid on the
wrong side of the plate! Get used to it.
And we
here at the New Musical Express are not afraid to back him. We reckon there is
absolutely no doubt he will feature alongside Lita Rosa as the biggest star of
the next decade. Hyperbole? Well we said the same about Donegan, and he's
skiffed YOUR world - so who's boleing?
There are
those in our groovy office who fear that Cliff’s star is burning just too
brightly. Not only do the housewives not like his banging sounds, he’s so out
there, different and unsafe that perhaps he’s destined to burn brightly and
fade away. We are concerned that he may find the pressure of being a huge star
too intense and turn to those all-too familiar means of relaxation – late night
Canasta, high speed Whist Drives and the thing most likely to ruin a young
man’s career – supporting an Association Football team.
Take the
first song: Apron Strings. Cliff states in a low grunt his desire to be “tied,
tied, tied” to an unnamed woman’s apron strings. It is evident what this means.
He wishes to find a wife. So soon, Cliff? The so-called arbiters of good taste
and decency who run our country will tell us not to listen to such racy “wife
chat”. We should not be focused on the opposite sex, they tell us. Quite the
opposite. Let’s hope that Cliff doesn’t listen.
Similarly
thrilling for the youngsters is Living Doll. Cliff has crafted a woman out of
other material (“Take a look at her hair, it’s real”), who he wants to lock up
in a trunk. Despite what the fuddy-duddies will say, really what could be more natural
for a young man?
This
electrifying album continues with tracks like Baby I Don’t Care (written by the
promising Wendy James, aged just -7!), the savage radio favourite Down The Line
and the commanding Move It bursting into our ears. It’s furious, angry and
fresh. And yet melodious.
We now
know how the first people to hear a jazz record must have felt. We’re on the
verge of something special. Get living, dolls.
The Daily Telegraph reviews Louis Armstrong And His Hot Five, 13 April 1928.
We have received many missives from readers concerned by Charles Lindberg's recent air-borne voyage from the former United Kingdom all the way across the Atlantic. If this faddish airborne travel catches on, surely more and more of the dissolute, upstart race will begin to return to their natural homeland, enticed by our superior food, climate and culture?
Listening to Mr Armstrong's latest recordings, we are duty bound to report that this may well be the unfortunate happenstance. Any nation that is subjected to “music” as offensive as this must be on the verge of mass emigration.
While we do not wish to grievously insult Mr Armstrong, were it not incontrovertible scientific fact that black people are incapable of playing music we would suggest that Mr Armstrong was a negro. Sue us for libel if you dare Mr Armstrong - we are prepared!
For Mr Armstrong should be aware he is consorting with fraudsters and rapscallions of the worst sort. We have consulted Buckingham Palace and discovered that the Earl Hines named as pianist on the record is a Baron at best. Beware country house owners of England! We can only assume that Hines has assumed the identity of a peer in order to purloin a cow creamer from you.
The “music” that Mr. Armstrong and his quintet conjures is an assault on the ears. There is none of the gentle caterwauling of a madrigal. Instead there is a repetitive rhythm and trumpet sounds that do not even sound as if they have been prepared before hand! What next, Mr Armstrong? In the unlikely event that this type of syncopation is enjoyed by ears, and governments allow it to flourish, we will end up with some bizarre futures.
Perforce Mr Armstrong will improvise parts of his songs? Or even dismiss the instruments all together and have us dance in a room to a simple drum beat! Or perhaps he would have us listen to the banjo as the centrepoint to a four-piece band playing only rudimentary chords and using foul language?
