Just making notes

I would just like to say at this point:

Naive melody (this must be the place)
You make me brave
and
Sea of love

Consider this a note pad for some ramblings I will come back to later.

I'm sorry. I forgot. It's an honest mistake.

Before visiting my old friend Grant, I took in the excellent televisual experience that was The Hits' (channel 18 on Freeview) attempt to give a comprehensive list of the 20 best Scottish acts ever. I may have missed one or two but I'm fairly certain that Rod Stewart wasn't on the list, presumably on the grounds that thinking you're Scottish and being Scottish are actually two completely different things. The list had predictability all over it. I give you Annie Lennox, Travis, Eddie Reader, the band Antoine De Caunes used to describe as Le Wet, Wet and Le Wet again, the Proclaimers, Simple Minds and KT Tungsten (yes, I know). There were the odd smatterings of the ok/naff border with the likes of Altered Images and Aztec Camera. And a hearty dose of twee nonsense: Sheena Easton, please stand up. Oh, you are. Sorry.
Grant, for lo, he is Glaswegian wanted to know whether Belle and Sebastian got a mention (not to my knowledge). I was surprised not to hear from Big Country, Orange Juice (or Edwyn Collins on his own for that matter) or Isobel Campbell. But I knew someone how I was forgetting someone. It's taken me over a week to remember the band I wanted to remember and I'm so annoyed. So, out of the way, The Hits, because not only are Teenage Fanclub the best Scottish band ever, but Sparky's Dream is, for at least the next thirty minutes, the best song ever.

Frustrated of Woolwich

Well, no actually, it's not that bad. But my music quota has dropped drastically recently. And the reason? Well, I'm not sure that reason comes into it when music is concerned. There has been very little variation in my music habits recently and due to an on-going feud with Secure Mail Services, I didn't even make Decoration's gig on Friday night (it's a lame excuse really and isn't actually much of a feud. Can one feud on one's own or must it be reciprocated? Unrequited feuding is so last year).
It's all the fault of "podcasting" although again, podcasting probably doesn't worry too much about me. Between The Now Show, Danny Baker, Martin Kelner, Smodcast, Test Match Special and the rest, I really haven't been interested in listening to much music.
When I started going to the gym I packed the ipod with lots of very long songs. I figured that if I was rowing, I would complete the programme by listening to two Talk Talk songs (say New Grass and After The Flood, both nine minutes each). Better to think "I'll row to the end of this song" than "I'll row to four more songs". Better to think neither in truth but you get the point. So, despite the self-indugent drivel that constitutes podcasting (and this coming from a "man who blogs", I refuse to call myself a blogger however Kevin Smith really should take a long hard look at himself and say, over and over again, "I'm not that interesting, I will shut up about my life especially about my sex life and bowel movements.")I'm now cycling away for forty-five minutes on the exercise bike safe in the knowledge that I'll still have ten minutes of Danny Baker to listen to whilst doing some weight.
However, if pushed (and stop pushing me you bully) to select the best song ever if only for the next fifteen minutes then I'll return to Hell's Ditch, by far the best Pogues album probably because Shane's influence is more diluted. But Ghost Of A Smile is by a long way, the best song ever.
It is my mission for the week to try to find something different, something beyond my comfort zone.

To compare is human, to forgive divine

Once again I've left it a little too long between updates and so I shall briefly mention a couple of songs that are worthy of the title of Best Song Ever (well, if only for the previously allotted fifteen minutes).
Decoration - Job in London "You've got that job in London/So when does it start?/You'll have a job in London/To mend your broken heart (cue loud guitars and much excitement/stroking of chin at the simplistic cleverness of the lyric). And suddenly there be resonance in them there words, or at least there be nodding of heads with a wry smile because you be knowing someone who got that job in London and did mend their broken heart (cue much loudness in guitars and desperate attempts to start getting back into the correct tense once more).
REM - Fall On Me. Oh to have finally got Life's (sic) Rich Pagent back. This is such a simple, beautiful song. But then the best ones normally are...
Neil Young - Fuckin' Up. Oh to have finally got Ragged Glory back. This is such a simple, angry song. But then the best ones normally are...

BUT BUT BUT BUT
for the song de jour I eschew the above although I return to Decoration. But this record, Flippant (look I'm crap at this so you'll have to copy and paste the link into your browser), http://www.decorationmusic.co.uk/shop/ is worth a look and I'll give you three reasons.

Firstly: Only A Plague Can Stop Us Now is such a fine combination of the power (indie) pop and wry lyrics that constantly surprise. Candidate is one of the best songs you'll hear anywhere (and this isn't even the best version of it) with one of my all time fave lyrics "Don't let me down/I can do it for myself thank you" and above all else at the moment and for the convceivable future (fourteen minutes, fifty nine seconds and counting) I Just Froze is the perfect combination of dry English wit and melodic invention. Imagine Fairytale of New York written by a sober man and set in small town England without attempting to go for (what, lets face it, is as we know in our heart of hearts) blandness. And whatever you say about the Pogues, Fairytale is more fondly remembered because it's not a cheesy Christmas song and because of the sadness at Kirsty's untimely death (is there ever a timely death?).
But buy this album. Listen to I Just Froze and try to tell me this doesn't paint a more vivid Christmas picture of love, regret and seasonal sadness. It's just so god damn English and that is why it is the best song ever. For now.

He's a liar and I'm not sure about you

One of the wonderful things about meeting new people is being reminded of thing you'd forgotten. Make sense? probably not. Ok, how about seeing things through new eyes. Oh, come on, you find a cliche that fits properly.
Anyway, I was reminded of the genius of Kirsty Macoll before Christmas and not because of the link to the Pogues (lets face it, when even your retired mother starts to profess a fondness for A Fairytale of New York then perhaps, like David Beckham at Madrid it's time to move on.
And meeting a self-professed Kirsty Macoll fan I did what I usually do in these circumstances and plough through the back catelogue on itunes. Now I don't think I own a Kirsty Macoll record although I my brother had the 7 inch version of A New England. But I must have a dozen records with her on backing vocals and I guess that's true of more people than is strictly healthy. So having got through the itunes samples I was reminded why. Firstly I'm not sure anyone ever refined her songwriting. Whilst in the complete understanding that I can do no better and a whole lot worse, I can appreciate that not enough was done to iron out the kinks that appear in her songs (tempo is often my main stumbling point along with sudden shifts in melody that seem to leap around without reason) but there is one song that has been repeated so much on my ipod that it's starting to develop a life of its own. And sadly it's a song that I first heard through that wonderous example of variety, Ms Tracey Ulman. I seem to think that she played is as a slightly comic song but in truth it's the most feisty pop song I can recall. It's a real, "fuck you, I'm happy" song that contains one of the great moments in pop history.
The song is "They Don't Know"
The moment comes later than you think it should. After two trips round the verse-chorus structure we arrive at the middle eight. And you expect the moment because middle eights lead into this sort of thing. But no, it leads to the guitar break and finally, buried in the mix but still clear, Kirsty wails, lungs aplenty and out comes the most plaintive "Baby" you've ever heard. Seriously, listen. She's worth it. And so's Kirsty.

Christmas is, apparently not like London buses.

"I'm having too many ideas" I thought on the way back from Sainsburys. I should have stopped to strip each one back but I was worried about the fish in my bag. Well, not that worried or else I wouldn't have bought the thing in the first place. I am assured that humane methods were used in the farming and killing of this fish but as the most popular human methods of death are starvation, malaria and the bullet, I really ought to rethink the whole buying strategy.
So, if I've forgotten any of the greatest songs of as and when they occurred to me over the last six months then you (and by you I really mean me, after all which other sad git is reading this tosh) will have to forgive me. But how would you know? Why would you care?
Anyway here we go. Each one of these songs were, as far as I am concerned the greatest song ever for around fifteen minutes each over the last six months (Did that make sense? Too late).
Erasure - A Little Respect. Although really, did they have to make the most literal video ever.
Teenage Fanclub - Cells. I love the Fanclub but I avoided buying the last album for months but I'm pleased I waited because I wasn't ready for it then. I needed to suffer a bit first. Cells highlights the dangers of overlistening. What is a beautiful, simple, eloquent song has started to sound perilously close to an old time folk songs. If they played stump, kettle and par-boiled potato instead of guitar, bass and drums it would only be half a "hey-nonny-nay" away from a Morris Dancer's delight.
Edwyn Collins - The Campaign For Real Rock. A great song but as it's six minutes long that means it only gets two and a half plays before it ceases to be the best ever and that's just not value for money.
Arctic Monkeys - A Certain Romance. Obvious really. Man that boy can bang the drums.
Oasis - Go Let It Out. Only for the "Click on the bass" moment.
Decoration - Candidate. "Don't let me down/I can do it for myself thank you/ Let me do it for myself thank you" "In the eighties they had electric dreams/I just dreamt of you" "Don't build you hopes up/I will only knock them down she said/I guess it's something to do" Evidence? Case closed.
Billy Bragg - The Saturday Boy. Ahh Billy, you were the king of sad geeky broken hearted teenage boys.
Beta Band - Dry The Rain. Got bored of this one ages ago. Great song though. That's the danger of the ipod shuffle.
U2 - Stuck in a song title you can't get out of (or something like that). I finally started listening to the boys again. They're not boys anymore. Shame really, they were more fun when they were pretentious rockers. Now they're uber-pretentious rockers I just wish Brian Eno would get them in a headlock and rub their heads (or beanies) until they go bald. Balder.
Talking Heads - Naive Melody (This Must Be The Place) What a fucking brilliant song and a superb title to rank alongside the likes of Country Feedback (it's a country song with feedback of course).
Blur - He Thought of Cars/Entertain Me/Yuko and Hiro. The Great Escape is turning in their lost album, loved on release, discarded for being cold fairly soon after. Have a listen (selectively), it's more fun than peeing in a wet suit. Just
But for now it's back to Teenage Fanclub and from ManMade, the current best song ever. Born Under A Good Sign. The one note guitar riff is a killer and in terms of structure the song has got to be everything their fans have wanted since Bandwagonesque.
Phew, thank god that's over...

I just wasn't made for these times

And neither was Mark Hollis. I get the feeling that he would have been happier writing chamber music alongside the likes of Ravel. His music is so deeply layered and bitty, classical music in a pop context. Hey, that sounds like a soundbite. Well wrap me up and make me a speechwriter.
Talk Talk were one of the few bands to get consistently better as they went on. First album. Crap. Second album. The first side was pretty good. Side two? Crap. Third Album? The Colour of Spring. The title is the most accurate description of the record. You could sit and imagine flowers opening while you listen to it. Then Spirit of Eden. Beautiful. And finally, Laughing Stock which, from time to time I just listen to non-stop. It's six stark songs remind me of so many 'nearly' moments, especially from my long lost university days.
It's strange that I should pick it up and pick it out now. At this point when music is testosterone fuelled along with the rest of our culture. When we watch the beautiful game accompanied by bluntly obvious comments, preferably aided by bottled beer and then bellow our opinions to each other either to the person next to us or down a phone line to a radio station. When phrases like "a genuine one in two man" are meant to make us think of goalscoring credentials rather than the usual national pre-occupation. When I want to adore New Order, Keith Allen and John Barnes (of course I do). When I ought to be more socialble than I am being and sharing this great event and my opinions with others (although I am still trying hard not to have to many, opinions tend to make all our lives more bitter)
Instead I find myself watching the Netherlands versus Argentina match with the sound down, listening to Laughing Stock and the riff that leaves me speechless every time, that stands to me as a work of art comparable with anything modern music has created. And it adds to the football, it soothes me although removing the irritation of the worst of ITV commentators (Drury and Pleat!!!!!!) helps no end. Watching World Cup games on my own, listening to Laughing Stock is the modern eqivalent of being Jacob Barnes.
But, and quite possible for the remainder of the World Cup, Talk Talk's Laughing Stock is the best album ever but the best song either is, without doubt, New Grass.

It's been a long time baby

Yeah, sorry about that. I've had other things on my mind. For example, I've been wondering why it is that ABC are (still) slightly lauded for their first album only. Especially since the second is every bit as good but every bit as different. And I am aware that that sentence makes no sense whatsoever. I'm not entirely happy with the last one either. Or that.
Anyway, The Lexicon of Love was the first album I ever bought (jointly with my brother, on cassette, we saved for ages and bought it in secret and hid it from our parents because we were worried they'd tell us off for spending so much money on something other than sweets and fizzy drinks. Probably). And I love the strings that give it such richness (Anne Dudley, the most underrated person in British music) which of course were missing on the stark follow-up, Beauty Stab.
But it is good. And as long as you can get past the pretentious lyrics (so overblown at times as to border on the ridiculously sublime - what the hell does that mean?) there is a hard boiled album that is bursting with ideas. And amongst them is the single that really killed off the impression that ABC were gold lamee, funk bass and violin mad. I give you, That Was Then But This Is Now, for the next fifteen minutes, the best song ever.

Pancakes, yes. Pop, no.

I was going to write some boring, cliched drivel about how god awful Scottish pop music has been and place an apology here stating that I knew it had been done before but I'm going to do it anyway. This would all finish with 'Teenage Fanclub are brilliant' and a recommendation to boot.
Actually I've decided I can't be bothered and that music does not represent a nation in exactly the same way that music cannot betray an emotion. Unless you choose to let it. If you want to think of Scotland as a land that music forgot (I mean Texas, really, why? They weren't any good the first time and the second time they were merely poor but for some reason all of you were buying anything homegrown and recommended by Chris Evans - see also Ocean Colour Scene although at least they aren't Scottish) then feel free.
If, however, like me you choose to belief that your nationality is initially an accident of birth (before sadly becoming an accident of politics or war for some) then you can avoid all helpless, hapless, hopeless national stereotypes. Dundee has little in common with Dunfirmline, Glasgow with Galashiels. Nationality is a human construct designed to lift and separate like a well fitted bra.
So, my favourite band who coincidentally happen to all come from one particular area through a fortuitous accident of birth and economic necessity is Teenage Fanclub. And amongst their rich back catalogue is, what I currently believe to be, the best song ever written, if only for the next fifteen minutes. I give you: I Need Direction by Teenage Fanclub.

A moment on the lips, a lifetime whirling around in my brain

This is where the concept gets even more tortured, when instead of the best song ever all my mind can conjure up are moments within songs, memorable, magic moments (ho ho) that render the rest of the song obsolete.
Let me give you two examples.
1) Dusty Springfield and the Pet Shop Boys - What Have I Done To Deserve This. Now, Dusty is fantastic but the production on this leaves her double tracked all over the place, as though the "Boys" were suspicious of the longevity of her talent. Which is fine. Now, I'm a huge admirer of Dusty's voice but it's hard to admit that in a world that judges you for such an opinion. For many a long year it has been an accepted fact that in order to like Dusty you must be gay. Or, more accurately, in order to be gay you must like Dusty. I'm reclaiming her for the straight of the species, a bit like Billy Bragg trying to reclaim the George Cross from the facists.
And there is one moment of spine tingling brilliance on this song. All she does is go slightly deeper and spread the word "Yeah" out across a couple of bars with a little sexy quiver. I hear it now and it still works wonders. A great moment in an average song.
2) John Lennon - God
This is a pickle of a song. It starts with a piano and bass line that are warm and tender before descending in the pitiful repitition of "Here's a list of all the things I'm going to whine about now that I'm now well off and you're going to have to listen and oh yes I'm going to slag off the one thing that made me famous." So once he climaxes at his hatred of the Beatles, it is as though every venomous instinct is flushed from his body. And suddenly the warmth returns, the bass line returns, the tenderness returns. And there's a greater depth to his voices as well, before reedy and tight, suddenly it flows and right at the point where he says "that's reality" you can forgive him anything. Well, almost. Imagine remains a crime against humanity.

The counter is dead, long live the counter (when I can be bothered to sort a new one that is)

So, lets play "Guess the current best song ever".
It goes like this:
Guitar riff, old fire engine bell, nonsense lyrics.
Guitar fill.
Guitar riff, nonsense lyrics.
Guitar fill.
Guitar riff, old fire engine bell, nonsense lyrics.

Anyone? Anyone? Anyone?

Well, if you haven't guessed then I present you with what will be, for the next fifteen minutes, the best song ever"
Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For Me and My Monkey by the Beatles.

When the title wont go to the mountain...

Bands should have to approach a committee before releasing a song that includes the band name. A few can get away with it. No, actually none can get away with it. The otherwise sublime Talk Talk released the single Talk Talk with the catchy chorus:
All you gotta do is talk talk,
talk talk talk talk,
all you gotta do is talk talk,
etc.
And I have no doubt that it dragged Mark Hollis towards madness which improved his music no end.
And who can forget the wonderful:
I'm a living in a box (living),
living in a cardboard box,
I'm a living in a box (living)...
Guess who that was by. Gone on, give it a go...
Other contenders springing readily to mind are Boxer Beat by Jo Boxers (god almighty, where did I dig that one up from?), Etienne Gonna Die by St Etienne, Bluetonic by the Bluetones, Madness by... (Madness, madness, they call it madness) and ABC got a bit near the mark with things like Alphabet Soup and A to Z. I'm sure you have your own examples.
It's a shame that Fine Young Canibals and the Pet Shop Boys didn't seek to release eponymous singles, they could have been revealing to save the least but on the whole, when it comes to songs it's a bad idea.
And the worst contender of all is the great imposter himself who had so many names he started to refer to himself in the twelth person, yes it's not only the Thin White Duke but also Ziggy Stardust and Spanners from Marks. Oh how we laughed Dave. Oh yes, I'm chortling still.
And yet for albums it's fine. Dave can name an album after the Zigster and it's ok. But a song? You pretentious merde. And then REM first IRS compilation was called Eponymous. I quite liked that. But then I was a teenager.
So, in the words of Nick Heywood, "Where do we go from here?" Well we go into the territory of the band with some of the coolest album names ever with More Songs About Buildings And Food and (this is where is starts to make sense) The Name of This Band Is Talking Heads. But the best song ever is not from that album but from their worst (in title and content), ladies et monsieurs, I give you an entry into the world of ballards. For the next fifteen minutes the best song ever is Dream Operator by Talking Heads.
After which it shall be uncerimoniously removed from my ipod and we'll never speak of it again.

My name is Kevin Rowland I’m the leader of this band…

"So, Kevin, two hit albums for Dexy's Midnight Runners out of the way, what do you think you’ll do this time?"
"Well, I was thinking about ditching most of the band, including the main songwriter, totally changing the look again and alienating a lot of fans by including a joke on the first song that a) isn’t a joke and b) will tell a lot of middle class people that they’re wankers when a) pop start isn’t really a working class profession and b) I’ve made a decent sum from the first two albums thanks to some song writing credits that I’ll subsequently admitted I didn’t deserve."
"Yeah but Kev, even if you don't take out the joke that isn't actually a joke and ignore the obsessively trite political posturing Kevin Rowland's 13th Time is still likely to be the greatest song ever, if only for 15 minutes starting on 20:00 BST on 13th May 2006."
"Excellent. In that case I'll record a bland theme tune to a bland BBC sit-com, disappear for a few years and come back wearing a dress with a covers album and get bottled at Glastonbury."
"I shall look forward to it. It'll give me something to think about whilst watching the end of X Men on ITV."

Good god man, are you sure?

As it turns out, I believe I am. And it's all because for the couple of hours the brain has been taunting me once more. Life finally appears to be settling down after a two or three week period of stunning intensisty and what sound is pulsing away inside? The theme tune to the Liver Birds.
No, really. I'm not joking. And so, on this Bank Holiday Monday spent doing very little so that I can go to work tomorrow without falling apart, I can (chokes) honestly say that (and I've researched this so I know I think I'm right) On the Mountain Stands a Lady is the greatest song ever.

For reasons that are unlikely to become clear

The best song ever is Keep Right On Till The End Of The Road. And it has been the best song ever since 4:45 this afternoon.
Will resume normal posting pattern on Monday.

Right, now that nonsense is out of the way (may contain nuts)

No, it's not Please Sir. Or To Sir With Love. Or Don't Stand So Close To Me. Er, running out of teacher related music (thankfully). No, this one is strictly sentimental I'm afraid.
Look, I like the Beatles. And yes, I am aware that each Beatles has a solo output this is, at best, patchy. Expect Maybe I'm Amazed to be the best song ever at song point. and Tug of War. I really liked All Things Must Pass and have kept my vinal copy in quite decent condition. kept the poster, hope to get some money for it one day. And of course I'm sure Ringo did one or two ok things as well.
And then there's John. And, of course, Yoko. And Imagine which is the biggest pile of non-Simon Cowell related shit ever released.
Fact.
And yes, I know he was pretty good at times too.
But the Rock 'n' Roll album? Yeah man, roots, get back to where you once belong (or was that Paul's song) but for fuck's sake admit that you forgot how to right songs and you thought you'd do some covers to keep yourself in Rolls Royces and mansion (no possessions my arse).
But Double Fantasy is important to me because it is a record I associate with my nan. And in old tradition, as one enters the family so another one seeks to leave it. As we have got Ben and consider ourselves blessed, so too are we coming to terms that nan may be about to depart. Well, twenty six years ago she bought a copy of Double Fantasy and I remember listening to some of it as a youngster. The song that is the current best song ever is the one that still sometimes does it for, especially as it reminds me of I'm Only Sleeping, which is a good thing.
So, sleep well tonight. I'll see you in the morning to continue this very strange week for our family. But for now, the best song ever for the next fifteen minutes is:
Watching the Wheels by John Lennon.


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Tread carefully

Er, this wont make any sense. This is both the best and the worst sound. Went back into work to organise my return having been off sick since Oct 3rd. You can probably sense how awkward I felt, nervous perhaps. but it turned out that everyone was lovely and welcoming and wanting to know how I was.
And although it's not a song, it is only a sound, it is a sound that will once more rule my working day. I now feel better about hearing it although the first time today it made me jump. So, yes, earlier today the best and the worst sound ever, I give you the school bell.

Faster than a speeding bullet

At 5604 beats per minute I give you Saint Etienne.
When I was a kid pop music did two things. It gave you something to talk about with friends and it stimulated those first flushes of sexual desire. For a lot of boys in their teenage years the sex thing is replaced by this pathethic attempt to appear culturally valid and so the guitars and moody singers dressed in black become all important. But even that is about a shared identity, about fitting in, they just don't realise it at the time.
Eventually we all hit the adult music and the second flushes of musical sexual desire.
For pretty much every boy of my age is was Debbie Harry first of all. Some then branched of into Madonna others into the Smiths. Many branched off into the Smiths whilst secretly hoping that no one would twig their Madonna fixation (see what I did there? Branch, twig? Oh, come on)
And yes, eventually everyone seemed to get the Kylie thing for their second flush although there seem to be a lot more nubile, scantily clad young female singers around these days. Remember the time when the height of sexual excitement in music was Buck's Fizz at the Eurovision song contest and two strikingly plain woman revealing something called legs? Excuse me while I wipe the cold sweat away.
But for me, one stood out above the others. And I think you can tell where I'm going with this. Sarah Cracknell.

I loved her when music started going a bit haywire in the early nineties, when the split between grungey pop (face it Nirvana were pop) and dancey pop opened up forever. She sat somewhere in between. You could tell that if she really wanted to then rocking out was a possibility, though she never did. You could tell from her voice that she possessed all the charm anyone ever needed to fall in love with her and the band.
And here I am fifteen years on, still listening, still thinking "if only", still wondering why it took so long to find a decent picture of her and amused to think that the best ones I found all had her alongside Wiggs and Stanley (who are the brains behind the band after all).
Which proves that like all of these fixations, I'm only human. And it's only pop.
And for the next fifteen minutes the best song ever is the forlon fun fuelled frenzy of He's On The Phone by Saint Etienne.


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Camp Freddy, everybody in the world is bent

Well, really. Anyway, welcome to today's instalment of musical waffle, piffle and inaccuracy which aims to prove that the best music in the world ever is somehow slightly bent in the Italian Job sense.
I love Teenage Fanclub. No really, I do. But they have to be one of the most maligned bands around. Too many people remember the hair and noise and heavy production of the early days and not enough know about the light, deft poppy touch of everything after the first two and a half albums. If I were to start another blog if would be called Things That Should Be Massive But Are Generally Ignored By The Public. First up would be Teenage Fanclub.
That said, for the next fifteen minutes, the best song ever is Mount Everest which unusually for them has a lead guitar line that wanders behind the harmonies and a tempo that drives the song rather than supports its beauty. Ooooh look at me, trying to get all post with my writing. Bugger that, it's a beauty.
More odd British pop to follow.

What do ya wanna make those eyes at me for?

Ah, pop music, a pedant's paradise. Well, Shaky, where shall we begin. Oh hang on a minute, that sounds like a really bad link into the best song ever. Shaking Stevens to Neil Young. Any eagle eyed sad geeks out there with that kind of knowledge need to be, oh hang, that's me too.
Any way, as I own seven hundred and forty-two of Neil Young's two thousand and twenty-six albums (or is just that the similar sounding acoustic make it feel that way, well done Neil, Harvest VI - Revenge of the Tractors - coming soon) it was inevitable that Neil would find his way on here. Chuck in last night's character assassination (see below) and even an idiot (hello)could see that his back catalogue would be on my mind.
So here it is, whiny Canadian singing about what it's like to be a Native American and how beastly the settlers were by killing us all before randomly wanting to talk to Marlon Brando (have you got any Native American in you? Do you want some?).
Disclaimer - any jokes relating to sex with obese dead American men are purely the result of over-wrought emotion and a lack of sleep.
The thing is that even Neil Young's inability to sing without his voice giving up the ghost and packing its bags can't spoil the beauty of the best song ever (for at least the next fifteen minutes):
Pocahontas from Rust Never Sleeps.
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