Marvin GAYE and Diana ROSS: DIANA AND MARVIN

Diana and Marvin

A Couple In Love

Drunken Vinyls: The place where we cast a fond lost look back to the years that have gone astray. The place where we hold a mirror to the soul of your disposable culture and shiver and say the words of every lie we have ever heard. The place where we grind our teeth, shake a fist at a Godless universe, point at you and say: “Look! Look what you have done! Look on your work ye mighty and despair!” The place where the only intelligent response is, “Hang on. Let me just text my mates first.”

Drunken Vinyls: The place where you listen to records, get pissed and try to have it off with your mate’s wife down the pub later.

Drunken Vinyls: The place that officially supports follically challenged weirdmeister Doctor Hilary Jones of television’s Daybreak, endorsing his attempts to appear young and tantastic, a with-it-hipster dude. Who certainly isn't thinning at a remarkable rate and attempting every which way to disguise it, no sir! He's just trying out some amazingly spiky new hair fashions. Heard today in the studio, this: - “Wow, new haircut, Doctor Hilary – you look grey-ate!”

 Hello you. How are you? Good week?

“What’s for tea, mum? What’s for tea? Jam sandwiches and cake with a beaker of milk, then wait for Dad to come home from work? Can we watch ‘Magpie’ before we do our homework? Can we go to the park and play footy? Will you and Dad take us to feed the ducks in the park?”

These were the words often heard in a household after school when there were two parents in a house. Amazingly and strange as it seems in our more tolerant times, it was quite normal for two adults to live in the same house and rear children. They would nearly always be ‘married’. That meant that they made a promise to stay together through the good times and the bad times and be responsible for any children they created if they indulged in ‘a bit of what you fancy does you good’.

Curiously, research shows that ‘married’ couples would nearly always comprise of different gender couplings. Names like Judy and Steve would be quite normal in such a relationship as opposed to the current norms of Barry and Larry or Brenda and Hilda. Books like ‘I’ve Got Two Mums’ and ‘Long Distance Parenting’ were frowned upon in those less enlightened days and the current bestseller ‘Where’s Dad?’ would almost certainly have been put on the banned list.

Cultural Reference: ‘Where’s Dad?’ published by Faber and Faber, March 2009; a children’s picture book where each page consists of thousands of miniature people dressed in striped jumpers and woolly hats in dilapidated urban settings hidden amongst which is ‘Dad’, a strange and mythical figure. The child’s challenge is to find him.

Furthermore it was absolutely unheard off for these different gender couples to take to the streets, jump up and down blowing whistles and scream “Look at us! Look at us! We’re married and we’re proud!”

We weep inside for these almost people and the secret shame of their deprived, frugal lives. Not for them the pleasure of Hip Hop Artists and Gurus named Reveal, double barrelled surnames like Wayne Smithnjones-Pdiddy or Leah-Kylie Snetterton-Walker. Their children had the misfortune of only one television in a house, books instead of game machines, sixpence a week pocket money and in bed with by half past eight. They were the forgotten generation. And for this we should pity them. Truly, the black secret at the heart of our progressive prosperity.

Setting Up Time!

Diana and Marvin; A couple in love. A love affair captured in stereo on vinyl.

They made a cracking tune called ‘Pops We Love You’. And in those days we all loved pops. Coco Pops, Lolly Pops and Top of the Pops. We didn’t care. We were mad. Mad!

Pops We Love You. What the Sam Hill was that all about, eh?

As old men we actually went to see some ‘pops’ on Saturday in Exeter. As befits our modern times they were called ‘Bondage Boys’. Well actually they might have been called ‘Boys into Bondage’, ‘Male Bondage’ or ‘Male Bonding’ but we feel absolutely certain it was something like this. To be perfectly honest we were a bit drunk at the time. And they rocked, you know? We have had severe tinnitus for six days now and sick, idle fantasies about the tanned female bass player and her tight vocal harmonies.

Upon exiting the venue or ‘gig’ as I believe some of you call it (we usually take gig to mean some sort of rowing boat), we were accosted by a thirteen year old yoof in a hooded pullover who said “I is a rappah, bruv, I is got X factah, yoh, I is go on stage, give me moo-lah.”

We slapped him. We think he liked it because one of his mates filmed it and said “Yoh, bruv, LOL, whoop, you is ‘appy slappy.”

Upon hearing this, he fell to his knees, outstretched his hands in supplication and cried in anguish. “Why the devil came you between us? A scratch. A mere scratch! But tis enough! Ask for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man! You have made worms meat of me!!!”

Stopping briefly to congratulate him on his excellent free stylee rapping, and thus inspired, we rushed towards the nearest petrol station with a minimart looking for a bomb, a stone to shiver down the glass. We turned our jackets backwards, sticking our arms through the sleeves to approximate the hooded experience and marched, grimly fiendish, through the doors.

“Do you have beer and pork pies, bruv? We is a rappah mon, we is got moo-lah, whoop whoop.” We cried.

They only had Guinness. And Twix bars. Urgh. We hate Guinness and Twix. We now do repent us of our fury that we did chuck our cans out of the car window.

Now – then - was it just a coincidence that the very next day, at D.V.H.Q. (location near Tracey Island alongside that suspicious hollowed out volcano) this irritating incident happened? An illiterate looking yoof dressed in an ill fitting cheap suit and holding a plastic clipboard upon which were notes he was clearly having trouble deciphering knocked at our door. “Yoh brov, like I is loft inspector stylee. I no battyman, dude. LOL. I want cavitee insulate yoh loft mon. Freestylee bruv.”

We raised our eyebrows sceptically. “Card?”

“No mon, you is asking for card, like, yeah, yeah, I unnerstand you proof, me freestylee cavitee loft inspector broh. You luk at me like dat agen you is gonna get sum licks, yea? Cool. I enter?”

We slapped him. It was a merciful act.

Still, the absolute turd on the waterpipe this week was listening to overpaid sports personalities of the year going on strike. First it was Andy Murray with his impotent threats to down tools and cause a racket by staying on the bench. It wasn’t so much the bench warming we objected to but the tedious way he expressed himself in interviews on our radio. Doesn’t that man have vocal chords for Christ sake? Now we hear that Argentinian super hero, Carlos Tevez, refused to put on his boots and play for ten minutes in the league of Champions. Suspended for the next two weeks and under threat of being finished at City, his lawyers issued an immediate cover story. He had – it seems – been misunderstood. His boots were made for walking. All the way back to Argentina. If he’s looking for another strike partner we can no other suggestion make but Andy Murray.

Former boss Alan Pardew, poured lotion on the wounds of a hurt nation. With infinite wisdom born of a lifetime quite near to some football pitches he was on hand to make sense of the situation: “I can see Carlos Tevez playing for City again. Football is like that. You can never foresee what might happen next.”

Of course he didn’t specify which City.

Diana and Marvin: What’s the Story?

Diana Ross had a long and chequered career. Quite literally. In her early life she earned a reasonable living playing speed draughts (In the US known as checkers). An interesting game, it is played on a board with black and white squares placed equidistantly across in a north-south and east-west direction with red and black circular pieces. Each player takes it in turns to move in a northerly or north easterly direction, piling up the pieces into a vertical column, sometimes known as a stack. Once each stack is a foot or so high, the player must then balance carefully atop, face his opponent and attempt to stab the other’s eyes out with a fork.

But life as a champion eye stabber had its drawbacks and Diana longed for a change of direction. As she wandered disconsolately across the Blue Ridged Mountains of Virginia, she came, by chance, across the 1994 soccer ball world cup. It was an epiphany. “I have always loved the 1994 soccer ball world cup,” she sighed. “If only I could score a penalty for America in the opening ceremony whilst singing my most favourite song ‘We come Together like a Chain Reaction’ that would be like a dream come true to me, that would.”

In a pouf, Diana saw that her fairy godmother was there from ‘The Wizard of Oz’ although she had renamed it ‘The Wiz’. “You SHALL kick the ball, Diana,” cried The Wiz. And so it came to pass. Well, it came from a pass on the left wing to her feet. She shoots! And do you know what happened next, dear Future-Kind?

As for Marvin Gaye, he had a simply terrible life spending his every waking hour denying to the world that he was actually gay. It was just his misfortune to be given a really suggestive surname. Every week he tried changing it, to keep the showbiz mystique but lose the tag: Marvin Fag, Marvin Poof and, indeed, Marvin Marmite were brave attempts – but the scandal simply worsened. This record was his last ditch attempt to show the world that they were wrong.

It was either this or jumping up and down blowing whistles, you know.

THE NOT QUITE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF DRUNKEN VINYLS

1. Thou shalt play both sides of the record in their entirety
2. Thou shalt drink one can of Fosters or its alcohol equivalent per song
3. Thou shalt record ramblings as they occur to thee for the duration of the running time
4. Thou shalt edit out the swearing the next day
5. Thou shalt not suffer a Blueberry user to live

Are we all set up and ready? Okay, Future-kind, hoist up your skirts and off we go!

Side one

"You Are Everything" 

Ok - nice and loud – we are really and genuinely looking forward to this slice of magic. This is better than aural sex – ahahaha. Can you dig it listener. On the vinyl it sounds so good, like hot chocolate. Almost immediately, the sighs subside and the descending piano chords herald Diva Diana – the melody is sublime. She sees a man – he looks like her lover (ex lover?) – she calls out – but…it isn’t him! The hoi-polloi should be tied to their seats and have this force fed to them over and over and over. They should have it smashed into their ears until they bleed. There’s a lesson in those them words.

Slight suggestion during the fade that the two might be a little competitive over who can emote the best – but we’ll let that go. Simply, simply great. Oh mercy. Mercy me.

"Love Twins"

Now this electric piano and bass sounds like Stevie Wonder on ‘Boogie On Reggae Woman’ if you know that one – but hey – love twins. Let’s be love twins. They want to be love twins – you know what/ I think Mick Hucknall was paying a lot of attention to this LP when he wrote his meisterwork ‘Stars’ Anyway, this track is spellbinding, it is a major to minor duet which descends and soars appropriately, oh and then the instrumental break – you smile involuntarily. I wish Stevie Wonder had played it.

"Don't Knock My Love"

Have you noticed how each title is about love and togetherness? This is cool – all up-tempo and grintastic brass, electric pianoforte and tight harmony. Just adore us, Los Paranoias. Don’t knock it? We ain’t knocking it, we love it!

"You're a Special Part of Me"

Well, this one is soaring close harmony and very slow. As simple as a nursery rhyme – this is all about love and how each to the other is a part of the other – very symbiotic. In a case like this, if these two were cast asunder they would surely die for each has something the other needs and vice versa.

"Pledging My Love"

Okay, by this time, and taking our pledge to drink a new drink each track - pledging our love of drink, if you will – as you do too dear hearts, we are a little sozzled. But not so pished as to hope that this song is not about the furniture polish called Pledge. Useful accoutrement but strange name. Pledge – furniture polish. Why Pledge? Has it something to do with Wedge? As in a wedge of wood or the golf club wedge? Quite honestly we don’t care. We will, dear Future-Kind write immediately to find out to the makers of Pledge to find out. Just for you.

Side two

"Just Say, Just Say"

This one begins with a lazy horizontal line – and some close harmony. But just when you think it’s safe to go into the garden to water the lawn, it soars upward and there’s grintastic bass.

"Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart)"

Quite frankly, we were so scared we wet the bed nightly when Alvin Stardust became the Green Cross Code Man - with the emphasis on cross, very cross. "Stop Look Listen," he would scowl whilst pointing at the traffic menacingly. OO that’s lovely. Seven rum and cokes in are we now. He was always extremely cross with his comedy robot Mental Mickey too, which was in no way a cheap cash in on the popular Star Wars movie which was all the craze at that time. It was the way he pointed his be-ringed finger at the traffic and said “Coo coo I do love you. Will you cross the road with me too? If you do my dreams will come true. Cross the road  my coo coo choo”  Later on he graduated on to the age of the trains and told us about clunk click every trip. But that might be an allusion to hairy twatflake Noel Lee Travis. We can’t be sure.

"I'm falling in Love with You" 

We may have thrown three cans in the road last Saturday. Not good. Allegedly. 

"My Mistake (Was to Love You)" 

It is never a mistake to fall in love. However we have loved and lost so many times now that we despair. But the message on this record is clear. You’ve got to fight for your love and try to make it last as long as you can. What kind of message is this you stupid seventies hippies? It’s much better to have children, get divorced, remarry, get divorced again and then any accidental offspring get the bonus of a cool hyphenated surname!

"Include Me in Your Life"

Darling darling darling – was used by Blondie for In The Flesh – a lovely finish to a superlative record – we loved it tonight and can think of no other answer but we were amazed and know not what to do.

So ... Tonight: What lessons have we learnt?

We have learnt that spiky punk rock haircuts look natural at a Bondage Boys gig but sit less well on top of an aging 50 year old Doctor. We have certainly learnt to never trust a hip hop cavity wall and loft insulator in a Bon Marche suit. And finally, hold on to your love because it’ll never get better than this.

FOX by FOX - The Eponymous LP! Or Self Titled (If YOU prefer)

FOX by FOX

Let us take you back – Future-kind - to an earlier, happier and more innocent time. It is 1979. A time before Blueberries, Hip Hop Artists called Reveal, Political Correctness and Downloads; a time that many of us remember with great affectation.

A sophisticated, romantic night in with the ‘trouble and strife’, ‘her indoors’ or even ‘naughty Norma’ consisted of sumptuous fare: Tinned North Sea shrimps in brine, tipped lovingly into glass dishes are now swimming in liberal lashings of crimson Rose Marie sauce, whilst, in the kitchenette, a boil in the bag Vesta chow mein for two simmers softly on the hob as the complimentary crispy noodles – five each and one for the dog – splutter in the chip pan. Then, to follow, a delicious dessert of Bird’s Eye super mousse scooped out of the plastic tubs and served with wafers and dream topping. Wash down with a schooner of Liebfraumilch, whilst all the time watching the latest edition of ‘Play Your Cards Right’ with Bruce Forsyth. Look! Here come those dolly dealers now. “Higher! Higher! Lower Lower! Oh! Oh!” It could still be a good night if you’d played your cards right - it’s up the apples and pears and straight into the loaf of bread for a little bit of what you fancy. Does you good, of course it does. Feeling nostalgic?

Well don’t let us try to convince you. ‘Strictly Come Bonkers’ supremo himself, Bruce Forsyth, our guest tonight, reminisces about those happy times:

“Good game, good game. There was me, Jimmy ‘Tarby’ Tarbuck, Bernard ‘what’s racist about that’ Manning and Dick ‘OO you are awful’ Emery – we called him ‘Paper’ – along with Peters and Lee out of Crossroads. We’d crouch around the candles during the power cuts and when the lights came back on we’d say “Nice to see you, to see you nice!!” How we laughed. And when the lights went off again, we’d dance around the candles like cavemen with spears all over my kitchen diner – well Peters had to be a bit careful at this point although, to be fair, he didn’t really notice – chanting “Generate! Generate! Let’s meet the eight we’re going to generate!” Sometimes we’d set fire to Zippy out of Rainbow and throw him at The Chuckle Brothers. When it was all over, we’d push Lee onto the hostess trolley, spin her around the room violently and get her to sing ‘Welcome Home’ for a bit whilst force feeding her with leftover North Sea shrimps, afterwards congratulating her with, “Didn’t she do well?!!” Nowadays, you see, people don’t realise that The Generation Game was inspired by our ways of passing time during the strikes, you see? Lovely.”

Yes, Brucie was masterful in his endorsements of the super seventies. As he was often wont to say - “Is your mum a super mum? Stork margarine helps a good mum become a super mum.” He would then dance about with a hoover shaking powder everywhere and consent to being tied to a tree whilst some singing children, dressed as red injuns, taunted him with Fruit Pastilles.

And nowadays? Nowadays, friends, a dinner for two almost always consists of your missus on the sofa gazing vacantly at Downton Abbey, fiddling with a laptop whilst all her mates keep texting every two minutes about her secret lover on Facebook.

The seventies signalled the death knell of vinyl records, of course, and that’s where we come in. Let’s go back there now, shall we? Shall we promenade together, you and us, one last time? Oh, go on. Get out your turntables and amps, find the recording and – Let’s Play!

THE NOT QUITE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF DRUNKEN VINYLS

1. Thou shalt play both sides of the record in their entirety
2. Thou shalt drink one can of Fosters or its alcohol equivalent per song
3. Thou shalt record ramblings as they occur to thee for the duration of the running time
4. Thou shalt edit out the swearing the next day
5. Thou shalt not suffer a Blueberry user to live

SETTING UP TIME!

This week we were very amused here at DeeVees to listen to Nick Clegg’s inspirational speech about Kendall’s Mint Cake at the Liberal Party Conference. We remember with fondness Neil ‘Windbag’ Kinnock crying “Oh Yay! Oh Yay!” like a demented town crier whose bell has been painfully and forcefully inserted somewhere rude (well up the arse, really) by a disconsolate public. “Oh Yay! Oh Yay! OOOOOH YAAAAY!” But Nick ‘I agree with Nick’ Clegg stood on the stage, commanding the proscenium arch like a colossus, his party in tatters, his reputation ruined and seized the initiative to send out a tsunami of optimism to his followers thus: “And me? Me? I gave French President Piere LePeepee a bar of Kendall Mint Cake!”

We were fascinated to note a new word gaining currency amongst the cognoscenti this week. The word – it is RESILIENCE. Oh it’s everywhere. Resilience this, resilience that! Perpetrated by the neo trick cyclists, we all need resilience, people, you heard it here first! Britain needs resilience to withstand the riots and general calamity. Out of work? You need resilience my friend. International debt crisis, world in economic meltdown – no matter – we’ll all get through if we demonstrate our resilience! It’s the universal cure-all.

Personally we prefer lager.

Interestingly, or possibly not, word coining is a phenomenon that we here at DeeVees have often noticed in these fickle modern times. A word becomes popular and then, like an unloved puppy, is dumped into the lake of language by a feckless public. We give you – for example – the word eponymous, once fashionably everywhere but now replaced by the lazier ‘self titled’ – much easier to pronounce but not quite as beautiful.

Finished setting up and bored? Then try our tricky ten minute teaser crossword whilst we connect the last cables and crack a couple more cans of lager.

And talking of lager; a final observation. Yesterday we were – intrigued – whilst driving to work as we were detained for some minutes, at a quarter past seven in the morning, at the roundabout if you please - as four members of the public meandered listlessly across the road in front of us. The foremost clutched a can of Carlsberg Special Brew in his hand whilst he pushed his offspring uncertainly and inconsiderately in front of the traffic in a less than roadworthy buggy. He seemed to be enjoying himself anyway.

We applaud his efforts here at Drunken Vinyls and would invite him over, put fear he might lose his sickness benefits if asked to put the needle on the record.

FOX

By FOX

Eponymous Album

(or ‘self titled’, if it pleases you)

WHAT’S THE STORY?

Noosha Fox. Sultry, sexy and with a great line in sibilance, she dominated the charts during the super soaraway seventies. Whilst Bruce Forsyth did not sing on her eponymous debut LP ‘Fox by Fox’. She was aware of him. In later life she admitted as much: “I was aware of him but did not approach him to sing on the album.”

Much of the subject matter of imaginatively titled LP ‘Fox by Fox’ is the occult, magic or voodoo. This was because Noosha had been watching Thames TV series ‘Ace of Wands’, wrapped in her picnic blanket, in between the power blackouts. Looking at lead character Tarot, whom she quite fancied, with his pet owl ‘Hooter’, not to mention a fox, she breathed ‘He’s Got Magic’ and lo, side two was off and running. As you listen, see if you can follow her themes – juggling with balls, letters, magic moments and babies. No wonder a generation of boys have poor eyesight.

Lead off single from the self-titled LP ‘Fox by Fox’ was the catchy ‘Imagine Me Imagine You’. All longing sighs, breathy vocals and ‘too-lang-a-langs’, it helped many a teenage boy pass the long lonely bedroom nights of power cuts during the ‘Winter of Discontent’ as they crammed eager ears against transistor radios tuned into Radio Luxembourg 208. This song also helped launch the careers of tribute artists the Bay Shitty Rollers – who’s ‘Shang-a-Lang’ was not a rip off by any means - and later was not, in any way, reworked by Dexy’s Midnight Runners as part of the tribute hit ‘Jackie Wilson Said’.

Foxy Noosha Fox. I’m in heaven when you sing. Let the music do the talking, let the fingers do the walking. Only you can.

Here we go!!

Side 1

Love Letters

Oh – ‘tis a bit crackly my dears. Sultry voice and the piano right up in the mix. Not at all subtle. Rancid mouthorgan straight out of ‘The Searchers’ staring John Wayne. Bloody vinyl, eh? There was a skip – now THAT was a skip – now we have a moog synthesiser that sounds as though it came from rancid hit Pepper Box by The Peppers – when I was a kid there was this place called Wigan Casino and nearly every hit in the hit parade related to Wigan bloody Casino. There was ‘Footsie Yeah!’ by Wigan’s Chosen Few – as you might guess there weren’t many of them – thank God – for Queen Mab had been with them, THEN there was a really poor track called ‘Skiing in the Snow’ by Wigan’s Ovation – they were knobs – you had to pretend to use ski sticks whilst you were dancing around your handbag but I’m sure Brucie would have loved them.

Imagine Me Imagine You

We’re on WKD tonight, the orange variety. WKD. Stupid name, stupid adverts. Add some port and you’ve got a ‘Cheeky Vimto’ which we once had in Wolverhampton with some delightful Arsenal fans. They were most charming prior to the game and - of course Cesc Fabregas scored about twenty goals. This is a lovely song. Cesc would approve. Imagine me imagine you inside each other’s eyes – what? Is that the best we could hope for? I wish it could be something hotter, though. Bugger – I keep imagine Wigan’s Ovation thrusting fake ski sticks hither and thither on Top of the Pops. I’m sure we can get out of this reverie with effort. Christ! It’s bloody Pepper Box now.

The Juggler

Pop’s a funny thing, though. Too-lang-a-lang-too-lang. It sounds great when you hear it, poor when you write it. Okay we’ve landed on track three and it’s a stinker. He’s a juggler by day, he’s a juggler by night – I can only hope there’s some sexual innuendo in there somewhere. OOOOO! She just said ‘Tie me down.’ As any fule no – that’s naughty! Nope – this is very poor.

Patient Tigers

‘Ace of Wands’ scared us shitless when we were kids. What the bloody hell is she wittering on about now? Patient tigers? This is a piano ballad in ¾ waltz time. We might deliberately and violently push the stylus on past this one. We now repent us of our fury that we did mock Sheena Easton last week. Tiresome. In extremis.

Only You Can

When we were in the Royal Navy we knew a chap called Skinner with a mighty chin and beak like nose who was more than fond of Wigan Casino. His trousers (for he did wear big trousers) had three buttons at the cummerbund and when he danced he was on the floor, down, as though it were physical jerks, kicking his heels upwards like a demented Russian doing a barynya. Forever etched on our memory is he as he danced to ‘Sky High’ by Jigsaw. Now the song. Good. Yes. Not bad, this one, even if Noosha keeps sniffing as though she was in need of some Vicks Sinex. Nice middle eight as the synth tries its best to be psychedelic. More like it, Fox, this is where it’s at. Ironic since the next track is actually called ‘The More’. We have GREAT HOPE. We really do.

The More

Crap.

Side Two

Spirit

Side two begins with some funky bass lines – and breathy vocals. If you ignore – and why wouldn’t you – the lyrics, this is more promising start than Side 1. The tune changes tempo – and the always welcome brass section sound their horn - ooer – and look – a change of key too. This is much better. Don’t know what the feck she’s going on about – but the best song so far by a country mile. Whatever that means.

He’s Got Magic

YEEEES! – very glam rock. Oh we like this. The ecstatometer is rising ALL the time. Plonk plink plonk goes the bass while he’s got magic and he can make you drunk even without wine. Obviously at DeeVee we can’t endorse the notion of getting drunk WITHOUT wine, nevertheless we will join you Noosh for some magic, some too-la-la, and – well - who knows? The evening is just beginning. Pepper Box by the Peppers is well and truly banished. AND – a false ending! Waddya know?

Pisces Babies

Well an unpromising title to be sure, but – hey – a nice Santana-esque bosanova groove -  tell you what, they saved all the best tunes for side two! Oh no, Noosha, we don’t want no spiritual leaders, we want the groove.

Love Ship

I wonder who sexy Suzy 2000 actually is? Why is she following us on TWITTER and what does she want? Phone you, you say? For sex? Over the phone? Is that even possible? Interesting – how would it be accomplished and what would you actually do? Good ladies, please do tell us. I’ll bet it’s something to do with mobile phones, arranging a rendezvous with men of easy persuasion somewhere in a lay-by just off the M69 near Coventry. Ladies. Get-a-life!! 

Red Letter Day

A string quartet heralds the close of this patchy LP – very Eleanor Rigby – and I’ll tell you something for nothing, I need a better copy – really crackly. I’ll give it a lick like Debbie Harry and no doubt it’ll be okay. I was right about Ace of Wands, though, she’s whingeing on about bloody magicians, owls and hooters again. The record is stuck. Maybe we’ll die as the record sticks and be found by the police to an endless chorus of ‘red letter day eh, red letter day eh’. Oh. Black thought. Not good. Still, this way the record lasts forever until six tons of burning space debris hits us – one in three thousand chance of that, you know.

Great track, though – red letter day indeed.

Side Two – fabulous.

So, Future-kind  - have we actually learnt anything today from listening to Noosha Fox? Let’s have a drink and think about it. Hmmm.

Yes. Yes we have. And it goes like this. You are more likely to be hit from space by a sleeping satellite than you are to find love in a lay-by south of Coventry arranged, over the phone, by the good people of Facebook.. We rest. And, Ladies, if you ever visit Wigan, be sure to take your ski sticks.

Goodnight and God Bless!

Sheena Easton Take My Time

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF DRUNKEN VINYLS

1. Thou shalt play both sides of the record in their entirety
2. Thou shalt drink one can of Fosters or its alcohol equivalent per song
3. Thou shalt record ramblings as they occur to thee for the duration of the running time
4. Thou shalt edit out the swearing the next day
5. Thou shalt not suffer a Blueberry user to live

Tonight, on Drunken Vinyls, we are simply and bed wettingly beside ourselves with excitement, for WE bring YOU, from the super-brain of The Great Burk of the Galaxy, Gene Jizzberry himself – an exciting and stimulating innovation!

Oh here she comes, here she comes, here she comes again – the same old painted lady from the brow of the super brain. Stop. Hammer time.

Imagine, if you will, lovely Councillor Troi from Star Trek the Next Generation. Stop sniggering, Jenkins, and pay attention. I would like you to take the time to picture her saying the following: ‘Farpoint Station – even the name sounds mysterious’ remembering that she enunciates it slowly, intriguingly and in a lilting accent that supposedly hails from the stupidly sounding rent-a-planet Betazed, although to the untrained ear it sounds as though she comes from just north of Chard in Somerset . ‘Faaaaarrrrr-point Staaaaaaaytion – even the naaaaaame sounds meeeeeysteeeerious.’

We, here at Drunken Vinyls, are justifiably proud to have actually asked Councillor Troi here, tonight in our bedroom (if you please), to introduce this week’s piece. Although we can’t actually afford the equipment to reproduce her voice as an oral experience as such…JENKINS! Go and stand outside and put THAT disgusting object away…we nevertheless reproduce her unique inflections through the medium of the written word. Over to you, Deanna! We may call you Deanna, mayn’t we?

‘Drunken Vinyeeeels…even the name sounds meeeeeysteeeerious.’

Exciting, wasn’t it? Pardon us while we get tissues. It’s gone everywhere.

So it goes. This week we feel honour bound to apologise for recently rude comments about our hapless leader, David, as he continues his search in the garden shed for any soul record by ‘Urban Hip Hop Artist and Youth Guerrilla Reveal’. Pity the leader, for the search has been long, fruitless, frustrating but necessary, for if anybody has his finger on the pulse of the nation, it is He. One word from Him and David will surely be able to lead us out of the utter chaos our great Country has descended into. Only He can Reveal the way. Ah-ha-ha.

Pity also the youth of today who, after the excitement of riots, suffer long nights of the playing of downloads, the executions of X Box, the texting on Blueberries and the voting on television ‘for the nice sweet guy from the broken home with the voice that made us cry whose mum has Asponger’s Syndrome’

Yes indeed. It has been a week of strange portents. It is said that horses did eat each other, the birds of night did hoot and shriek in the marketplace and naked men were seen aflame atop a pile of a hundred ghastly women.

And that was just on the X Factor.

We must also applaud the efforts of gruesome duo Ed Rubberband and his brother Dave Milipede as they railed and plotted against the striking of the public workers. For clearly they misunderstand the pledge of comfortable retirement and bountiful pensions made in a hasty moment over 13 years of Government. And – in any case - why don’t they seek contentment by also downloading, shooting, texting and voting on the X Factor? Heavens – they might even vote in a real election one day! But clearly not for you.

Drunken Vinyls are further disgusted this week by the brand spanking new crime of Dwarfing and stand shoulder to shoulder with our leaders and cognescenti in condemning this vicious practice of putting rude and insulting messages on Facebook tribute sites. ‘Urban Hip Hop Artist and Youth Spokesman Reveal’ pronounced thus: ‘Facebook tribute sites are a useful and necessary social convenience. By instantly and competitively setting up such a site, a yoof can signal that they are the first to care, the first to mourn and the first to pick an appropriate emoticon. And all from the comfort of their own lap.’

We agree.

It is totally inappropriate to write underneath ‘Terry done a wee-wee, LOL.’

SHEENA EASTON: TAKE MY TIME

WHAT’S THE STORY?

Tonight’s vinyl recording has a long but, we think you’ll agree, exciting history. Glaswegian petlet Sheena was born to two parents in the suburb of Grungecesspitgrot, near to the industrial shipbuilding heartlands of the city. What is less well know is that her original name was Weston but her parents, with staggering prescience, decided to change their name to Easton by deed poll, ‘in case she decided to grow up into pop starlet Sheena Easton’. How wise they were. They had kept abreast of the budding careers of songstresses Sally Northton, Gladys Southton and Agnes Weston and knew that Sheena would have to be conspicuous in an already crowded arena of pop tarts. They also ensured that she was endowed with an amazingly prominent pair of breasts so that she could still further stand out and be noticed.

And noticed she was. It was only a matter of time before a member of the public sent an amusing picture of her to the late seventies BBC1 consumer orientated variety show “That’s Pork!” hosted by the dentally challenged but winsome Esther Bonkers and sidekick Cyril – pronounced Seeereel. Constipated Cyril excitedly waved the picture towards the cameras as, for him, it was an unusual item. Normally he would be the proud possessor of a carrot shaped like a cock but tonight he had a picture shaped like a girl.

A sentimental and eager public embraced Sheena (Gawd bless her) to its foolish collective heart, instantly demanding a fifty nine part serial, called ‘The Big Yawn’ starring the Glaswegian, making her very first recordings. The BBC could scarcely refuse because it could be popular and really really cheap to film. The first record, ‘Oh No I Sound Terrrrrrible!’ was unleashed upon the UK. The rest, as they say, is barely worth writing about.

SHEENA EASTON – TAKE MY TIME

Don’t Send Flowers

Disco beat – promising start – a bit adenoidal – some synths. We do like her voice. Music by numbers – something about flowers. There’s a computer programme that writes songs like this. Don’t know what she’s going on about but it’s heartbreaking, it really is. Don’t send flowers from Mallory Towers give me some hours – and then she ran out of rhymes. Thank gawd that’s over.

Cry

Sometimes doing this requires real patience and a stiff drink. We’re down to the bottom of the sock drawer and Wolves have got QPR tomorrow. But it’s okay, Joey Barton and Karl Henry get on quite well – seven dodgy tackles last year. This is crap. We’re not holding out much hope for Take My Time, neither. Hopefully it won’t take too much of our time.

Take My Time

This is not a nourishing sound – sort of schmingey. Poor man’s Fleetwood Mac off of Rumours.

When He Shines

However, this is much better. It reminds us of meetings where we don’t like our office, we don’t know what to do and we don’t like our office. You can actually have a meeting about meetings you are about to have. It’s called recursion. And recursion is what we’re up against. It reminds us of when you have a chance to have sex but the drink and apathy brings forth the melty man.

One Man Woman

This is like a regular constitutional. We’re braving this one. Playing it twice. It’s up tempo, it’s now. It has something today. She’s NOT playing around. She IS a ONE MAN woman. Written by rentasong. This is it. This is where it’s at. Sheena. Modern girl. You GO Gal. We’re struggling to stay awake.

Prisoner

Clearly a song about seminal 60s TV show, The Prisoner. I AM NOT A NUMBER, I AM A FREE MAN! This must have been a stomper live – in the mosh pit. We all held our lighters aloft. Where are those bubble things?

Interlude: This is the worst Drunken Vinyl selection thus far, to use a sporting cliché. We’re having a wee wee break. It does, however, beg the question as to why we actually own this recording. Sadly.

9 To 5

And here’s the answer…a piece of historic banality, turning back the clock of women’s emancipation at least a decade – well done Sheena, we love you here at D.V.

It’s that voice though; give her half a decent song and she pays you back in spades.

So Much In Love

Back to the shite, how many L.P.s have been sold on the back of one single track? I bet the buyers of this have set up a support group on facebook which is, even as we speak, being dwarfed (see above) by rampant  coolies.

Voice On The Radio

I hope it’s not DLT – the hairy wanker! Hang on, wait a minute, could it…no it’s still shite. Poor girl is trying everything to ring out/inject some life from every one of these ‘numbers’ – looks like her numbers up! Ffs!

Calm Before The Storm

Form echoing function – starting off calm – expecting a storm any moment…wait for it…we’ve run out if Bacardi Breezer..shit!

Onto the lager…just as well. No storm on the horizon. Sheena you can do so much better than this -

Modern Girl

Spirits in need of a good lift at present – could this be it…YES!

Music by numbers has never sounded so good. Give it to me Sheena, na, na, na, na, na, na, na na, na (ad nauseum). Rhyme of the week – magazine / tangerine – who’d have thunk it?

No One Ever Knows

Oh f*r f*cks s*ke – can’t wait for this to be over now – such a great voice carrying such drivel.  Sheena, you could have been a contender, you could have been so much more! Well done anyway.

All in all, when all’s said and done – Side 2 knocks the shit out of Side 1 but this is probably the last and final time we will ever listen to this L,P. in its entirety – Goodbye Sheena and thanks for the mammories……..mwah! Goodnight Horse.