Leekly Review Album Edition: Night Time, My Time by Sky Ferreira

Maximum alert turkeydogs!

For my last review of the month, I’m going with Night Time, My Time by Sky Ferreira. I was going to go with a classic album for this final one but truthfully I play the album while I write these reviews… and this was what I wanted to listen to. That’s sign enough for me.

Starting into this one, I was again trawling a best albums of the year list and I was expecting from the name some sort of low-rent Keisha. I’m sorry she prefers Kei$ha. Ugh. Kill everyone immediately.

Do not get Kei$ha near your eyes or mouth. If this happens, wash with soapy water and consult a physician.

Night Time, My Time kicks in with “Boys” which unlike the immensely more saucy David Bowie song (“Boys keep swingin” maybe we will David you underfed minx) of the same name has a very strong resemblance to Going to the Chapel of Love by the Dixie Cups.

Incidentally, total choon. Check out the bell work.

There is a little bit of Pink in here, who I’m not particularly keen on, but instead of faux-snarling and over-awareness of putting forward a “character” (in lieu of having some, sniff) she strikes a more balanced mix of moaniness (Meg’s description), assertiveness and apology. Top song for me is probably Ain’t Your Right, the second track, with a brilliant 11 22 drumline in the intro. “If you consider sleeping over, I’ll consider you.” which from the lyrics is either about forgiving cheaters, rapists or just having low standards for men. Could easily be all three.

This wasn’t an album I was expecting to like, much like today I wasn’t expecting to write about it. But so frequently, I sit down in front of my info-cube and this is what I choose to listen to.

If you have any suggestions for something for me to review for next month, don’t be shy, speak up. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

There are some things to be afraid of…

The Toner of Leek

To-To-ner of Leek

His hairdresser went back to school, but never did learn,

It’s former Leinster hooker, Shane “Mega-Mullet” Byrne.

Hooker as in rugby. At least.

Hello fellow mellow fellows!

Since I have last bloggified my autobiograpical wares, I up and went to Africa. Ba-ba ba ba, ba ba bo BUUUUMMMM! As this was a work gig and no one strictly instructed me otherwise it was business class all the way. Indeed it still is. I’m writing this from Johannesburg airport, I’m all Africanised now. Everything’s Braais, Boks and Boko Haram. I’m Africanised like one of those bees everyone assumes is terrible. Has anyone ever tried talking to them? What’s their story? How many Africanised bees were in my graduating Masters class? Zero. Prejudice much? Just think we should give them the benefit of the doubt. Or the Bee-nefit.

Business class, it turns out is no guarantee of sufficent amounts of sleep. Feeling strange. Bee-ling strange. Can’t stop.

So after loading up in the luxury lounge in Heathrow (strict pre-flight diet of peanuts, red wine and as much chicken tikka as I could cram down my throat in 20 minutes) I boarded the lap of Luxury. Isn’t that such a creepy phrase? Sounds like I’m about to rub my keester on someone’s lap so they’ll gift me something shiny. Something luxurious no doubt. “Work it!” screams Luxury. I weep and keep wiggling my rump.

In my head, this is Luxury. He hasn’t showered to teach his Mom a lesson since she left town in the 90’s to become a potter like she always said she would. The bitch.

I had a recliney seat, even with some massage action in the cushions. Important to remember to turn these off before lying down otherwise it feels like the front of a small submarine slowly, but powerfully attacking ones man-ovals. Which given the right context might be fine (or even… much more than fine) but sleep on a plane is already my white whale so I didn’t need the distraction. After pretending to try to sleep I arrived at the end of leg 1 in Johannesburg the next morning, sweatily stomping out of the aircraft (heroically forgetting my iPhone charger) taking my first breaths of the wild forbidden air of Africa. Ba-ba ba ba, ba ba bo BUUUUMMMM!

After getting through the ramshackle customs desk (they didn’t know where one of their staff was, seemingly in more of a Taken way than an early lunch way) I tentatively proceeded into the shopping zone in order to purchase a replacement iPhone cable. Tentative becuase Joburg easily has the worst reputation for crime, drugs and general mayhem of any city in South Africa. And South Africa is not exactly known for its lack of mayhem.

I shit you not, an actual anti-car theft device in South Africa.

Maybe it looks worse than it… never mind.

Anyway with a strong awareness of my own impending death, I ventured onwards into Joburg airport. I had maybe 200 metres between me and the Business class lounge and a few reviving cups of terrible coffee. Would I make it? At least the crack team of highly trained profilers and martial arts experts at passport control were keeping the worst of things at bay behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at the poor sods still in the queue on the wrong side of the barrier. “It’s all over for you turkeys. You’re already dead. Well not me. I won’t let it happen TO ME!!!”

I sprinted across the concourse, terror-urine beginning to speckle my trousers from the inside as several friendly looking people from the Burberry shop quietly rearranged some purses. All convicted murderers probably. I made it to the lounge with not a scratch on me which I largely credit to me swinging my carry-on bag over my head the whole way and shrieking the word “Ebola” at the top of my voice.

Ebola is a serious business there, with seemingly every airport doing fever-scans to check if anyone might have early symptoms. They also spray some weird stink spray in the airplane cabins even though it was only in one small part… of Africa.

Ba-ba ba ba, ba ba bo BUUUUMMMM!

I then re-embarked for my final destination of Namibia. Chewing on my breakfast bacon we were informed over the intercom that we had just passed through Botswana and into Namibia. I immediately snapped the window cover up and looked out on the… flat dirt. For an hour over Namibia, all I saw were waterless riverbeds and not a single proper road. We were put-puttin along, still without a single feature to speak of below us when they up and decided we were there and started dropping out of the sky. You can often get the faintest hint of what’s going on in a country from the airport. From Namibias airport ads, there was some stuff on anti-corruption, off-shore diamond mining and plenty of people asking whether maybe you have a touch of the old Ebola. No shrieking this time.

Namibia, was officially a part of South Africa up until 1990 and even now has very strong connections to sweet SA. Similar racial breakdown, somewhat better on integration, crime and so on, but land-wise they really drew the short straw. Rather than vineyards and grassy pastures, Namibia is more in the Mad Max vein. Huge tracts of flat dirt, interspersed with rolling tumbleweeds, arid shrubbery and the very occasional baboon. Half the population of Ireland in a country the size of France. Namib desert? Kalahari desert? That’s Namibia.

How did I get on? Well you’ll have to wait for the next dispatch of the Toner of Leek from the proud continent of… Africa.

Ba-ba ba ba, ba ba bo BUUUUMMMM!

Was that four? I think that was four. <scrolls up> Yeah it was four. I can do it now.

If you don’t click, survey says you’re a joyless dink.

In other news, while I was away Meg made a new friend. She was woken from a deep sleep by shouting in the street. She staggered to the window and lifted the blinds to come eye to eye with an Elmbridge Town Council worker sitting in a cherry-picker afixing the Christmas lights, staring back at her. If this wasn’t disconcerting enough, it was an unusually warm night and Megs clothing quotient was lower than normal mainly (I suspect entirely) focused below the mid-secton. Poor Peeping Thomas didn’t know where to look I’m sure. Both barrels.

I fully expect him to be there tonight.

To-To-ner of Leek

The Leekly Review: Album Edition, Woman by Rhye

Dear Honkadonks,

As I sit here, trying not to bonk my sleep-deprived head into this keyboard I decided to do a Leekly Review.

I am one or two behind due to setting a few days aside to re-fail my driving test and coughing up the Kerry colours (green and gold, UP THE KINGDOM!) into the sink every morning. Incidentally I write this from the capital of Namibia, it’s been 10 hours since I peeled myself off the flight here and I’ve already eaten 5 new kinds of animal.

You’re running out of places to hide… American Bald Eagle.

So the review this time around is of Woman by Rhye. Now, this is normally the kind of stuff I loathe. Lighter than camomile tea from a thrice-recycled bag, a bloke doing the singing who sounds like he’s soundtracking a documentary about restaraunts in the 90’s (yes I mean he sounds EXACTLY like Sade) and a self-assured minimalism of instruments that can make me want to parachute in Chilli Pepper Polymath John Frusciante to overlay 40 layers of almost identical guitar on it. Like a boss.

All of that said, I came across this in one of my occasional pilgrimages to Pitchfork to listen my way through their top 50 albums from the year (6% hits, 94% shits). I got it going while doing something else and found it relatively easy to listen to compared to some of the competition which often just sounds like someone wedging thier privates into a fridge motor or using a single xylophone hammer to bink their front window.

But it took root in me, literally notes at a time and there was always somefeature in a song on the previous listen that was… flawless.

The second track, The Fall is clearly the best of the lot and has weird semblance to me of the start of More More More by (apparently something called) Andrea True Connection. The little bit at 15 seconds. And NONE of the rest of it, bar the repetitious “Ooo’s.” Listen for yourself below.

SOUNDS LIKE:

Speaking of I never caught that weird Califortion one-hit wonders “Len” sampled the shit out of the Andrea Glue Apoplection or whatever for the embarassing lapse of my taste that was “Steal My Sunshine”

I apologise for NOTHING!

Anyway, way off the point. Woman is a really top album, with plenty of subtle lyrics, amazing moments like the drumroll and trumpet wail of 06:22 in The Fall, or the intro to Last Dance at 07:21, with muted guitars, glissing bass and a single trumpet hit because that’s exactly what needs to happen after those first two things do.

Full album below:

Speak soon with plenty more Africhatteroo.

The STEIGENBERGER!! of Leek

He got a mean-assed moustache and a moose pelt,

It’s fight murderer naturalist Teddy “They’re named after me ’cause I didn’t shoot a specific one of ’em” Roosevelt

That’s a real picture by the way. Kinda puts Barack HUSSEIN (I’m very political) Obama’s record of long pauses in speeches and flipping the most on-switches of murderous robots into perspective. I’m sure he’s great and all, but let’s ask ourselves, is he riding-a-moose great?

Okay, so it’s round and I dropped it. It’s the ball. The past few weeks got out of hand schedule-wise and I ended up adopting radio (bloggio?) silence for over a week. Entirely my bad but when I tell you my schedule, I think you’ll cut me slack.

After my last post I went straight to Brussels, to rock it out in the European Parliament. It really is a wild place. Tuesday is jelly day in the canteen. Lemon AND lime? Those motherfuckers just don’t quit. And if you like airport lobby style architecture from 1992, fogeddaboutit! Highlights included watching Nigel Farage wander about murmuring racial ephitets into his Chinese-made phone (he really was on his phone a lot), desperately wondering how the name you’ve heard is spelt (clue: more j’s than is at all reasonable) and trying to wash the label-glue from a wok in the bathroom so it could be filled with seal meat. I don’t have a normal job.

Our new fashion campaign. I wore the same brown trousers for 5 years. It’s not a normal job.

The following week I was off to the Frankfurt Airport Hotel STEIGENBERGER!! for the annual big fur thing. I’m not totally sure how it’s spelled, but all caps was definitely how I was saying it. Things the staff of the STEIGENBERGER!! like are allowing you to set you watch by their exactly once hourly chance of ordering a coffee, making sure there is a precise 5mm gap between the shower door and the wall to properly irrigate the hotel room carpets and showering the local population with endless (and peerless) slabs of veal. The annual big fur thing itself went well and without major problems. I chaired an international meeting of conservationists without any sprained ankles or similar booboos, learned of the secret power of the Estonian frat-boy and got another tantalising glance of the good life in the BA lounges. Bacon rolls and whiskey. No flight is worth leaving that room. I might still be there. You wouldn’t know.

After two mid-weeks on the road, I was all set for a relaxing weekend, rebalancing my chi, uncoloring my pee and washing my… knee. I didn’t have a third thing.

Instead it was dinner in London town with the folks, Indian to infinite. Quail kebabs, minced goat on brioche and something spicy that happened to a boar. Then onto Cardiff for the shouting-at-rugby festival!

The Irish team were rather up for it

All of this exertion left me in an exhausted and apparently weakened state as I have contracted a cold for the first time in 4 years. It is a certified bollocks. Coughing like Palestinian rock throwers under fire from IDF smoke bombs (I’m very political), a voice like a Barry White in bee form and my trademark roar-sneeze. It’s very dignified stuff.

Despite all of the events and travel, all of it went rather well, so I’m a bit short on moaner news. With that admitted to, I move my attention to a feeling I’ve had lately while glancing at American politics. To summarise, it’s a shamey feeling.

Let me explain. I am fighting a natural urge at this stage to take a large and cylindrically-formed TrumpDump. Did I just birth a hashtag? Entirely possible. A (#)TrumpDump is when someone goes on an anti-Trump rant. It’s pretty safe territory as almost everything he says is pure, reactor-grade bonkers.

But my guilt comes from looking directly at the auburn, malodourous solar eclipse of ego-shadowing democracy that he is. He is a dreadfulness, not the dreadfulness that America wants (likely a mix of crystal meth dyed with blue food colouring, thank you very much Vince Gilligan, and large mugs of carbonated sugar) but the dreadfulness it deserves. I’m a big fan of America in many regards. It’s kind of hard to poopoo a nation of 318 million and not be at least partially wrong. But at the vanguard of democracy they are given maximum opportunity to throw up on their “We’re #1” t-shirt. And that’s not even mentioning the vast platters of ribs.

America is just some bunch of jerks, no more or less so than I am a singular jerklet. They share an optimism (and coming from Ireland I can say, yes the U.S. is still an optimistic place) in their ability to transcend, but by allowing human brains to self-indulge by looking at the shiny thing they (and we) derelict on a duty to the societies (I prefer the term jerk-hives) in which we live. Paying attention to Trump is like racism. You know it’s dumb. You know it’s wrong. But the human brain is a real deadbeat and likes to take any shortcut it can, including and beyond generalising on the basis of what people look like.

So take your #TrumpDumps now, but be aware that paying attention to something so poisonous, irrelevant and crashing head-first into its own sell by date is like letting your brain do all that stuff you stop it from doing on the day to day because you know it’s real bad for you.

In my case it’s singing this every moment of the day

In other news, Meg and I are currently cutting a pathetic figure, eating half-meals and making daily trips to the pharmacy, accruing enough assorted pills and medicines to fix whatever the hell is going on with Randy Quaid. On Saturday… I’m going to Namibia and briefly Johannesburg in South Africa. Again, this is not a normal job. I will be updating on Sunday/Monday whatever the hell is happening with that.

The STEIGENBERGER!! of Leek

The Leekly Review: Album Edition Light Up Gold

Alright, so month number two of my new review to-do!

Internal rhyming denotes a maverick willingness to bend the rules (for reference see the Mel Gibson movie, “Maverick”, not the Mel Gibson movie, “I have opinions about Jewish people that mean I no longer get work”) and to speak like a Lewis Carrol character who is going through an emotionally difficult time.

October will be all albums, mainly newish ones that I have become massively keen on. Largely I listen to music via youtube while I compile labyrinthine spreadsheets of animal skin prices (the fur trade is a harsh and surprisingly numerate mistress) and in my current job the first album I got into was Light Up Gold by Parquet Courts.

They are from New York (whadda cannoli! etc.) and are in some ways reminiscent of the Strokes and Pavement and are super-American. The rhythm guitar is pretty simplistic, even repetitive but in a somewhat more joyous way than the aforementioned tiny leather jacket wearing grumpuses, more like the utter maniacs in DEVO.

Lyrically, they aren’t anything particularly special but the lyrics are delivered with a nice mix of solid melodies and a little bit of shouty atonality. They’re happy to drop out of singing mode (all Mariah all the time is never something that swells my orbs) into a little shoutiness or talk-singing but the album as a whole gets a nice balance of these different qualities even if individual songs favour one over another.

Highlights include the really strong start of the two first tracks (“Socrates died in the fucking gutter!”), the moaning chrome-clad guitar solo at 5:06 and the slight reaching for lyrical space in No Ideas.

This is not an album to change the world of music, likely no album ever will be again. Music doesn’t work that way any more. But its does have some cracking high tempo songs, music that feels fun even if the lyrics sometimes veer towards the critical (“But there are still careers in combat my son”) and the Toner of Leek Guaranteek that this is a good album

…even if you might disagree.

Listen below: