Everett True

The return of Everett True | 61. The Bastards Of Fate

The return of Everett True | 61. The Bastards Of Fate
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I have a Bastards Of Fate album here, clutched in my sweaty paws. Not literally. It’s called Vampires Are Real And Palpable.

‘Winter’ reminds me of Gogol Bordello fighting over who gets to keep the kitchen sink.

‘Further’ is like David Bowie if he still had some joy and imagination. With Antony And The Johnsons duking it out unmercifully on the sidelines. Last man standing kind of thing. Last woman standing. I am way disappointed it doesn’t end with a klaxon.

‘Chromosome’ isn’t. It scares, the way you don’t. A chaotic inchoate mess of light-bulbs swinging. Preparatory to instigating a criminal act. There’s no violence here, only violence in the backbone.

‘True Love’ makes me want to reproduce this blog entry in its entirety.

I can only follow where others lead. Here boy. Down Rover. Here Fido.

It’s the title of my new music magazine. Where Others Lead. Every week in constipated black and white, 20 jaded douchebag Australian critics rediscover the bands that Vice was writing about six years ago, and dress them in clothes of zero visibility. Earplugs will be issued because it is A Danger To Future Life to listen to music without some form of self-inflicted impediment. Words will be paraphrased relentlessly, and whole sections of Bob Christgau’s Consumer Guide to Rocks will be quoted according to grade and condition. There will be no hypothesising or marginalising and certainly no – what are those damn things called again, he boilks, looking momentarily like Johnny Depp as a trillion-dollar Willy Wonka – hyphenating. The cover art will always be printed bigger than the review. When I say ‘cover art’, I mean the iTunes symbol for an MP3. No band will be featured unless they’ve performed a minimum of four Nirvana covers, preferably in support to Girls. GI URLs. Leashes will be mandatory. (Little-known fact, but Brighton’s own Kate Bush tribute act Bat For Lashes were originally called Back For Leashes, in anticipation of this very moment. There are photographs in existence. FACT.) If an artist is to be deemed “worryingly listenable” then they shalt be excluded, as the readers of Where Others Lead do not appreciate being worried in their pursuit of pleasure. Simon Reynolds’ Retromania will be viewed as something akin to a bible. Unless we decide to use it as a baton.

Spelling is not at a premium. Bowels will be tickled. Distortion is to be frowned upon, unless it hasn’t been.

Heads will pop when you least expect it.

This band will be on the front cover in 2022. Guaranteed. Unless they’re not.

And this will be the opening editorial, not credited because … what’s the use? Critics only decide Paul McCartney’s career. We have no power over anything real or lasting, unless of course we already have had.

‘ID Theft’ is confusing like spiders. I’d describe it as circular except I fucking hate chainsaws. It’s all about the pause button.

‘Own’ is bedroom futuristic, the way someone else once was. A love song for the bedridden generation.

‘Ultimate’ grates, the way you can’t be arsed to. It is the fourth child. Trust me on this. It is the fourth child. Wonderfully, we have not been here before.

‘Credit’ is soda. I’ve seen your repulsion and it looks good on you. It is more pop than weasel. It grinds inexorably to a series of orgasms none the less potent for their brevity.

‘Copilot’ is the parachute falling on your head.

‘Optometrist’ is a paradigm and melee of bitter-fought virtues. It is destined to be misspelled and misunderstood, the way Melvins once were. A rumpus, a commotion, a disorder.

Here’s the website. What are you waiting for, sitting on your flaming arse looking like a Flaming Lips apologist? GO THERE NOW!

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