The results of my survey look a little bit like this!
I compared male and female spending habits to see who spent more on music per week.
Hmmm, looks like it's the men. On average, women said they spent £5 a week on music, where as men spent £15.50!
So yesterday was the anniversary of George Harrison's death and on the 8th of December it will be 21 years since John Lennon passed away. After all these years the appeal of The Beatles is no less than it was in 1963 among music lovers. I've made a time line chronicling their album releases and included links to some great videos. If you haven't known where to start, this should be a good guide.
10 years ago today. Here are some photographs, some words and a beautiful song. All of/by the great man himself. The quiet Beatle, the spiritual one and my Mum's first crush. Few people add so much to the world of popular music and culture as George did, and the world is a lonelier place without him. RIP George Harrison.
Caitlin Rose’s debut album, Own Side Now, sees the Nashville girl reigning in the restless humour of her 2008 EP, Dead Flowers, in favour of more introspective lyrics. The songs here are mellowed and earnest, but by no means inferior. Whereas Dead Flowers sounded like Patsy Cline singing Kimya Dawson songs at a honky-tonk karaoke, Own Side Now is Rose finding her own voice.
It seems a cliché to call Rose’s debut precocious, but the songs here reveal an intimate knowledge of heartbreak that seems at odds with her age; most songs were written when Rose was only 16. The Nashville twang in her pitch-perfect vocals exudes a smoky maturity and the do – wop inspired For the Rabbits nods a Stetson hat to the bleary, make-up smudged eyes of the unfulfilled country starlets of the fifties. The track evokes the ghost of Loretta Lynne against a backdrop of Bible belt gospel organs and sweeping string arrangements that edge towards the Wall of Sound but are ultimately too beautifully understated to be truly Spector-esque.
Rose has a keen ear for polished production (she co-produced alongside Skylar Wilson and Bonnie Prince Billy’s producer Mark Nevers) but elsewhere, the arrangements are kept country simple, usually backed by sprawling Stratocasters, acoustic guitar, pedal steel, the occasional harmonica and a honky-tonk piano that sounds accustomed to the odd spill of bourbon. If this seems largely traditional, don’t be fooled. Rose’s wry observations, turn her native musical heritage into something all her own. New York’s extended metaphor of the doe-eyed country girl, lost in the big city is told with raw emotion (Bleached my hair, stained my face/Made me drink just for the taste/And to burn out the monster this town has brought out in me) and a verve and brashness typically teenage (So I got lost on the lower east side/Cause i pissed off my tour guide) Scrupulously describing a young girl’s burgeoning womanhood and proclamation of independence. It’s far removed from any of traditional country and western’s syrupy platitudes or the perfunctoriness of Taylor Swift’s radio friendly pop-country banalities. Rose is, clearly, a songwriter of a different calibre.
The listener accompanies Rose at her most confessional. Own Side and Sinful Wishing Well are heart-ripped-out-of-ribcage, break-up songs imbued with so many tears and woven with so much anxiety that they seem to be constructed from pain. And yet, they manage to be both delicate and defiant. Shanghai Cigarettes, the catchy, strat-twangin’ standout track sees Rose smoking a lover’s last cigarettes as a final farewell, putting more faith in the future of her relationship with the cigs, than any other (Tryin’ to quit makes you wish you didn’t start/When the box is as empty as the hole in your heart)
Leather jackets, black jeans and a face free from any hint of make-up, the big fringed, chain smoking Rose’s mix of anguish and independence and indie-pop country, make her seem like Dolly Parton for the indie-kid generation - a hillbilly hipster. But with an album as solid and mature as Own Side Now, comparisons seem reductive. Perfectly crafted, bright and endearing, Rose has found not just her own voice, but potentially the voice of a nascent genre. If Nashville hasn’t seeped into the indie mainstream this time next year, I’ll eat my (ten gallon) hat.
A useless attempt at editing and reading news. The next Moira Stewart, I am not. But I'm sure I'll get sacked by the time I'm fifty so we'll have something in common eventually.
