Tagged: self-parody

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bo(m)b

So the next scheduled Apocalypse isn’t until October. Good; I have stuff to do before October, but little to do after it, and at the current rate of Armageddon I won’t need to pay off my student loan. More importantly, Dylan was 70 on Tuesday.

One of my favourite theories/lies/facts about Dylan is that the lyrics to ‘It’s a Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ consist of titles or opening lines for other songs which Dylan felt he wouldn’t have time to write before nuclear conflagration moved these matters rather lower down everyone’s list of concerns. In similar manner – and because I’m quite aware that most of my writing is what you’d get if you fed ‘The Libertines’, ‘class war’, ‘wank’, ‘appalling pun’, and ‘cultural history’ into a Random Lyrics Generator – here is a blog post consisting of titles for other blog posts which I doubt I’ll ever get around to writing. Only about two of these are serious proposals, of course, and the rest self-parodic. But the two keep changing. Continue reading

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Good taste is death. Vulgarity is life.

My life at present is alarmingly full of content, so, in order for me not to dwell on that, here’s a post that’s almost entirely content-free.

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All I want for Christmas is a brand-new leopardskin pillbox hat. I have wanted a brand-new leopardskin pillbox hat ever since I heard the song, at the age of eight or so, an early inkling of my eventual adoration of Dylan. I had at that age very little idea of what a leopardskin pillbox hat might be; all I knew was that it was undoubtedly a Fabulous Thing, and that I coveted one of my own. In all my subsequent years upon this earth, I have sought and never found one, but still I do not give up hope. I would look upon such a thing, should I obtain it, as the sum total of all the earthly richness and splendour that any soul could hope to possess.

NB please do not link me to online images of brand-new leopardskin pillbox hats; they will not be the hat I seek. I have seen and discarded these pretenders, and anyway they cost more money than I have to spend. The hat I seek is a Platonic ideal of a hat, one in all probability too Fabulous to exist within this mortal coil. It would ideally be shiny, and have some sort of black netting forming a veil over one of the wearer’s eyes. I know not if this embellishment would render it no longer, strictly speaking, a pillbox hat. Nor do I care if it does.

I will not receive a brand-new leopardskin pillbox hat this year either. But I do hope I come by such a hat, one day. I have exactly the shoes to go with it.

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This song has proved difficult to find online, although, really, every home should have a copy of Blonde on Blonde. Here instead is Dylan being awesomely young and obnoxiously awesome, from the Martin Scorcese documentary No Direction Home.

Shock of the Newport: notes on Goldie Lookin’ Chain’s ‘Your Missus is a Nutter’

Marx’s Europe was haunted by a single spectre, but the furthest shores of the Welsh cultural psyche are stalked by two figures as powerful as they are petrifying: the Mam and the Missus. Such well-ploughed dichotomies as that of Madonna/whore are wholly inadequate as explanations of this particular view of feminine duality. Here I shall focus on the Missus, a figure who inspires both hypersexualised fascination and visceral dread of her destructive powers. This delicate divide between titillation and terror is nowhere more suggestively straddled than in Goldie Lookin’ Chain’s seminal release ‘Your Missus is a Nutter’. A full transcription of this sadly underexplored work is available for reference here. Continue reading