My Thoughts Are a Gas; or, Guided by Voices song titles I wish to turn into enterprises

Everybody knows Guided by Voices, those titanic gods of indie rock. If not for their often wondrous, often peculiar, post-Beatles compositions, then for the prolificacy with which they wrote, recorded and released their songs: a quick scan on Wikipedia reveals that GBV released an album nearly every year since 1987; they even managed to release two albums in 1987 and 1996, both of which feature 24 tracks. It’s a common occurrence for GBV albums to feature over twenty songs – far more than the average amount of your typical record. Some of these songs are the most glorious slices of guitar pop ‘n roll that have ever graced the earth. Some of these songs are…err, less so. However, I’ve noticed that, despite the content of a few songs, the majority of them have the best titles ever. In fact, some of them would be suited as the names of TV shows, books, or maybe even charity fundraising events…Okay, mostly just TV shows.

My Valuable Hunting Knife (survival/nature series): Bear Grylls, blud, eat your heart out as I teach the viewing public how to survive in the wild with the use of one hunting knife. The knife will be represented as an anthropomorphic cartoon character that walks, talks, holds my hand and slaughters deer.

Third World Birdwatching (nature and social observation series): In which I travel to the Third World to document the mating and societal habits of the two varieties of birds found there: the animal lords of aviation and the human huneez. Oh yeah, baby, spread those wings…

Colour of My Blade (game show): This is one to keep for my senior years as a silver fox, to make money for my retirement. The aim of the game is to simply guess the colour of your opponent’s blade: if you get it right you get to stab them and win money, and if you get it wrong you get stabbed and don’t get any money. How much money? Oh, I dunno, like, 50 bucks? Most of the contestants will be crackheads. Hey kids, don’t play with knives unless you’re making big money on TV.

Everywhere With Helicopter (travel series): I was watching Cribs on MTV one day and an old Las Vegas crooner (I forget his name) said “How can you tell if a helicopter pilot is good? He’s alive”. Chew on that profound thought as you watch this show wherein I travel everywhere, in a helicopter. More anthropomorphism will be applied, this time to the helicopter, so it looks like I’m flying around in that chopper from Thomas the Tank Engine. Yes, with eyes in the windows! Like Michael Palin, in your ass, on acid.

Game of Pricks (dating game show): While it would be easy to centre this game show on something about willies, I won’t. Instead, the set up will be like Blind Date where a young woman will ask three unseen gentlemen questions to determine which of them isn’t a prick and then pick the most suitable one to go on a date with. If she chooses wisely, then she gets a lovely date. If not, she gets pumped in a restaurant bathroom and lumbered with the bill. Picture the horror of tuning in the following week to find out the details of the date rape. Life is full, full of surprises.

The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory (daytime soap opera): Life can be pretty dramatic when you work for directory enquiries to royalty and your office is positioned high atop Goldheart Mountain. I doubt there will ever be another programme in which half (read: all) the deaths consist of falling off the side of a cliff after this.

Atom Eyes (science/romance novel): Nuclear physicists need love too sometimes. It would be like a Mills & Boon version of, I dunno, Watchmen or something; there could even be a scene of a couple of scientists making out in a room then getting atomised like Dr. Manhattan, before returning with super powers…

My Son Cool (cool-through-the-ages documentary): I imagine this as a series of documentaries similar to Children of Our Time, presented by Professor Robert “Groucho” Winston. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a series which follows a group of children, all born in 2000, to the age of 20 in order to build up an “accurate picture of how the genes and the environments of growing children interact to make a fully formed adult”. The aim of the documentary is to answer “Are we born or are we made?” My Son Cool would follow a similar path, but documenting something much more important: coolness – are we born cool, or do we acquire it?

Tractor Rape Chain – Not even my sharpest wit would get that show commissioned.

I could do hundreds of these (thousands, actually), but it would get boring after a while for both of us. How about you: which GBV song title would you like to take for your television programme/romance novel/scientific discovery/etc.? You know where to drop the ideas – the best ones will get stolen!

‘Move to California’ by Times New Viking.

Of their soon-to-be-released fourth album, Born Again Revisited, Times New Viking claims it is “25% higher fidelity”. And I guess when listening to ‘Move to California’, the first single from the record, it’s kind of apparent. In fact, I can sort of make out, uh, a few of the lyrics without having to strain too hard. At this rate, by their sixteenth album TNV will be 100% hi-fi and probably produced by Timbaland. We can only live in hope, viewers.

Perhaps my thoughts were informed by the title and laid-back instrumental chug, but upon my first listen to this song I pictured myself cruising along one of those Californian boulevards lined by palm trees, decked out in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, and numbed by some kind of substance – such as a few Mexican beers, or maybe something a little darker…

On my subsequent listens, attempting to penetrate the fuzz to get the meaning, I realised it isn’t as sunny as the title would lead you to believe. I’m not driving around in the sun anymore: it’s night, it’s winter and I’m wandering aimlessly under the influence of a druggy bender. There’s a hint of defeatism in the vocals that seem to be resigning to the crapness of life: ‘Move to California / I hear you’ll have a better time / we’ll start it up again’. A theme of ripping up and starting over or new beginnings, or even being born again? It’s all very fitting. Fitting and beautifully executed; in my opinion, it’s the best song Times New Viking have come up with, overtaking the similarly melancholic and bruised ‘Dance Walhalla’. Who ever said there’s no pain in pop?

In other TNV news, the guys and gal recently appeared in Yo La Tengo’s new music (home) video for ‘Nothing to Hide’. It’s pretty cool:

Told you.

Born Again Revisited is out Sept. 22 on Matador.

Fantasy films are dead.

What better way to spend a day off work than reclining in bed at 11am, eating your Frostie’s out of your Kellogg’s football bowl, and watching a crap kids’ film on telly? Exactly, there isn’t a better way. Especially when the film is 1980-whenever’s fantasy romp Ladyhawke, starring a young Matthew Broderick, Michelle Pfeiffer and Rutger Hauer. It has everything you need for a pish fantasy film: terrible English accents, filmed in an authentic castle (recreated on a Hollywood soundstage), shaky plot, dodgy effects, and plenty of fightin’. It’s just a shame that these films are now extinct.

You see, I spent the majority of my youth watching these kinds of films – cult films, nerd films. I had the lot on tape: Willow, Excalibur… that other one with the kid in it, and even Ladyhawke, which I had completely forgotten about until it popped up that morning. These films informed my playtimes at primary school, where my friends and I would discuss the pictures at great length, then run around, re-enacting our favourite bits, stabbing one another with branches we had imagined into swords. They were the greater times.

So anyway, I was in bed, as I said, eating my cereal and watching OB and Max from Hollyoaks do a run-through of Take That’s history, with particular emphasis on Robbie, using their music videos as milestones, or something. I hit the wee button marked ‘i’ to see what was on the other channels and saw the name, “Ladyhawke”. I thought it’d be about the rising Kiwi pop star Ladyhawke – who, incidentally, named herself after this very film. Let’s talk about her for a second. I’m a bit torn on her just now, although I’ve only ever heard ‘Paris Is Burning’.* It’s a bit trite, lyrically, by using couplets like “My heart is yearning / And Paris is burning”, which is about as unique as Duffy’s rhyming in ‘Warwick Avenue’ when she sings “You think you’re loving / But you don’t love me / I want to be free / Baby, you hurt me”. I’m sorry, ladies, but if you’re going to be part of a big new wave of Credible Female Pop Stars then you’re going to have to raise your game a bit. You all look like you’re getting on in years, so you should be over the high school poetry lyrics. You’re just embarrassing yourselves. If you’re struggling, at least let a man give you some help, and then cut him out completely. It’ll be good training for your future divorces. Dodgy lyrics aside, I think ‘Paris Is Burning’ is pretty good musically, especially the chorus, which sounds bloody epic.

To get a point to this total mess, I soon found out that it wasn’t about the singer and watched the ensuing film with a pleasantly surprised expression. For those of you who don’t know what the film is about: look it up on Wikipedia. I just hope there’s a Wikiquote page for it, because some of the lines are unforgettable. For instance, at the start of the film, there’s a scene where Matthew Broderick is escaping from a prison through a tiny vent, commenting on the awkward size of it by comparing it to squeezing out of his mother’s womb, a memory he’d rather repress. I’ll sum up my opinion on that with the use of two emoticons, separated by a virgule: : D / D :

Then I hit a wave of sadness and nostalgia. I can only think of one film from the 21st Century that could match it for bad lines, bad acting, awesome costumes and wrist limping campness while taking itself too seriously, and that’s The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. And I blame two things for this severe lack: Harry Potter and updated CGI technology.

Let’s start with Potter. I love the Harry Potter books – very fine reading, substantial enough to sink into every summer they were released and admirably huge in scope. To sit down in a café with only a wet wipe to write on and decide that over the next fifteen-odd years you’re going to write a series of seven novels about a wee boy who has to stop the Hitler of wizards and save the world… Well, it’s a bit crazy, isn’t it? And then, even crazier, it became such a massive hit that it pretty much changed the basis for fantasy that was published after it. Every book, every Twilight, that has come post-Potter I’ve heard described as “the next Harry Potter” or it’s been criticised as ripping of Harry Potter. A while ago, a film was released called The Seeker: The Dark is Rising, an adaptation of a novel by some bird that was released way back in the ‘80s. As soon as the trailer popped up on TV, all I heard about it was “That’s just ripping off Harry Potter”. Yeah, the author saw how successful HP was, then got into her time machine, went back to the ‘80s, and wrote and published a book that was ignored for twenty years, so it could be turned into a movie in 2007 and make her a bit of money. Granted the majority of the “rip off” claims were made by my mum, who’s a bit clueless about most things, but my point is: Harry Potter has completely cornered the market in terms of fantasy films. You can’t make one without anyone needlessly wanting to compare it. The makers of The Seeker knew fine well that they would be riding on the coattails of Potter’s success, so it’s sad that these films are just being spun out to win some money – especially when the pre-Potter films are so floppy. They shouldn’t be making any money at all; they should be flopping after a week and going to DVD not long after.

I wrote both “Harry Potter” and “fantasy films” too often in that last paragraph. This article is getting beyond my control, so I’ll make my point about CGI quickly. CGI is too good these days. I mean, it’s great and everything, but sometimes it’s just too good. And it’s ridiculous how much time is spent on making it so good. Ten months trying to perfect the wrinkles on a fake elephant’s knee: use a real fucking elephant.

So my message to Hollywood: regress. Regress and save the dying art of the bad fantasy film, make them like you used to. And my message to you: I’m sorry. Good day.

*This statement is a bit out of date, because I’ve now heard her song ‘Back of the Van’. Oh man, is it good! She should’ve just given it to Stevie Nicks, it’s that amazing. Well done, ‘Hawke Eye.

Dananananaykroyd – ‘Some Dresses’, the video.

Those dear, observant readers of Tony With A Hook will notice that the page has undergone another wee change in aesthetic terms. I think this layout is far better: it retains the previous one’s cleanliness, but is far more user friendly.

Anyway, enough of the digression, and let’s get back onto keen eyes, for you will need one to spot me in this, quite frankly, marvellous Dananananaykroyd video. Yes, I am a bit of a star in this epic of cinema. I play the crucial role of ‘Tiger’ who some (not me) would describe as the Mercutio of ‘Some Dresses’. I provide some initial humour before a powerfully emotional turning point. It was a draining role, both mentally and physically. I trained for six months after getting the part, living in the tiger enclosure of Edinburgh Zoo to study the movements, behavioral traits and daily habits of the tigers there.

Okay, perhaps I merely answered a Facebook Event thing the band members sent out and decided to go along with my friend. It was filmed in the lovely Botanic Gardens in Glasgow (that’s only a cover story though – we really trekked to the Rocky Mountains and surrounding areas) and is so far my one and only experience with filming anything of any kind. I tell you, when I’m a major league popstar, selling millions of records around the globe and getting number ones left, right and centre, my pop videos will be done in a single take and free of mean old directors shouting things like “Show us some fucking passion!”

I’m hoping they want to do another video quite soon – I’ve been playing around with a wee tap routine for ‘Hey James!’ I could totally do. Y’know, if they want.

If you want to see me in action, you can find the video on Dananananaykroyd’s blog (via Bebo!? WTF, dudes?) I can spot me jumping around a couple of times, but you can see my face (obscured by a tiger mask, natch) twice, at the same time, over Calum’s shoulder. Who wants my autograph/to touch me?

Come Dine with Me, 1 June – 5 June 2009

I wish I had written about last week’s Come Dine with Me: it was the best week in the show’s history. It was probably the best I’ve seen in years since Nickelodeon did a seven day marathon of the first three seasons of Sabrina the Teenage Witch (they must’ve done something like that at some point).

The CDWM crew was in Dundee and St. Andrew’s to dine with two of the greatest characters the show has produced: English posh poof Adam and rough ‘n ready Dundee native…um…Oh, cock. I think his name was Donald, or Jim? Jim MacDonald? Nah, that’s not it…Clive? Chuffing hell, this’ll do my head in. Ah, sod it, we’ll call him ‘Bruce’, due to his hilarious claim that he is often told he looks like Bruce Willis. Anyway, yes, English posh poof Adam and rough ‘n ready Dundee native ‘Bruce’.

The friendship that sparked between them was utterly adorable. During the first evening, I surprised myself when I remembered that they didn’t actually know each other beforehand (Jimmy! His name is Jimmy! I just remembered that LOL!), because they clicked instantly. Their back and forth was fantastic, like when Jimmy/’Bruce’, in his thick Dundee brogue, asked Adam “Wur ye fae, ken?” Adam’s bewildered face was a picture as he spluttered on his wine and asked “What!? What are you talking about?” The banter between them was so natural that it warmed my heart. I was worried that Adam would turn out to be a snooty idiot and look down upon Oor Jimmy, so the fact that he befriended him so quickly was delightful.

The best night was Jimmy’s meal. His back garden was full of all sorts of junk, kids’ toys mixing comfortably with dumbbells and other weight lifting equipment, the entire thing either paved or covered in pebbles – I think he stayed in a not-so-tame area as well. Also, his daughter was bangin’. Then Adam showed up in white shorts and a Barbour jacket, shouting “Coo-ee!” at the front door, all inconspicuous, like Prince Edward at Mardi Gras. It was brilliant! He gave Jimmy a present as well: a big pair of silky boxer shorts. Jimmy reciprocated by giving Adam a present at his meal, but I can’t remember what it was; however, he did attend the party dressed in a kilt, so it may have been that. I felt a wee bit sorry for the other contestants, looking on with fake smiles as Adam and Jimmy passed presents between each other, and they got nothing. Laura and Francis even had to share the buggering prize money at the end when it was announced they drew.

As bizarre as it is to say, I was quite sad when the week was drawing to a close. The only thing preventing me from shedding a tear was my natural, stoic manliness. I didn’t want them to have to go, I wanted it to continue for another week, or at least a month, of just Jimmy and Adam hanging out and continuing to strengthen their friendship. One day, it could be Adam giving Jim Jiminy an etiquette lesson, and then the next, Jimmy could take Lord Toff down to his weekly five-a-sides. Adam shrieking his way out of the path of a football: Channel 4 missed a trick there. I watched the first episode of this week on Monday and was so crushed when I saw that none of the characters are half as great as Adam and Jimmy were. Four nondescript ladies who looked like increasingly bloated facsimiles of each other and a loud, camp air steward who seemed to keep trying to violate the women; I turned the TV off in disgust.

But I really feel like I know the pair of them so well now. Would it be too odd to do a pilgrimage up to Dundee and St. Andrew’s to see them both in their natural habitat? More of this please, Channel 4.

Coach Trip

I’ve been really please with the return of Coach Trip to Channel 4’s early evening line-up this summer. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about it until I saw the first episode of this third series. A warm wave of nostalgia done came all over me, filling my belly with that snug familiarity of things you’d previously forgotten and then suddenly remembered.

And Brendan’s still there, mincing among the group with his tour guide’s umbrella and dropping lines that would be worthy of Norris from Corrie – brilliant! You can’t write a character like him. I would bet that he doesn’t get paid anything from Channel 4 for appearing on this; he probably does it all out of his love for the job. Bless his bald bespectacled head.

Unfortunately, I don’t share as much enthusiasm for his passengers. Like Tracy, the fucking bitch. I hate more than I’ve hated any person who has appeared on a reality TV programme. She’s an absolute, joyless cow and I think I’ve only ever seen her force a smile once. She’s on a massive holiday around Europe for free, so why the chuffing cock does she spend her entire time with her face tripping her? Torn faced, I’ll give her a torn fucking face. It’s not like she was one of the Original 7: she only came in on Day 3, for fuck’s sake! And now she swans around like she owns the bus, rigging the voting system and throwing orders around. I’m compelled to violence every time her mug flashes up on the screen. I felt quite sorry for her man, being lumbered with her. I thought he was a decent, hard-working bloke and would be a bit of a laugh down the boozer. However, he’s clearly a weak-willed sod and under her thumb. There are some things I don’t have time for: fools, frigid bitches, and weak men. Keep your pimp hand strong, brother. Crush the regime of Tracy the Tyrant and free yourself. Although, I suspect he’s a sweetie wife without an original thought in his head.

As for all that Voting Alliance gubbins, it’s a load of primary school tosh. Honestly, what’s the purpose of it? Tracy may be a boot, but she’s a very fucking self-aware, sleekit boot. She must have known that without a safety net, she’d be slung off the coach at the first stop. Instead, she’s ruining other people’s trip experience so she can continue being an eternally tiresome wench. She’s wanting shot, she really is.

I also don’t have any time for William and Deanne, the couple of geekish, loser miserablists. Remember when the rest of the tour group was going on the flumes? And William was giving it “It doesn’t look safe… Have Health & Safety done a risk assessment on it?” What a fucking tosser. No, actually, Health & Safety haven’t done a risk assessment. In fact, the whole thing was knocked together in half an hour by an old fellow in a shed, forty years ago. I wish he had gone on it and it was broken and he had died, because they both bore the living shite out of me.

That old bugger who is on the trip with his mum, Daz: he can do one as well. I’m sick of his crying every time he has to select a couple to be nominated. “Boo-fucking-hoo, I hate doing this bit, it’s so hard!” The only difficulty you should have with voting folk off is trying to decide which pair of cunts you’re getting rid of that day. That would be my only problem – too many to pick from. So grow the fuck up, Daz! Your mother is 73, as you keep saying, and she’s got a bigger set of testicles than you.

Then there’s the Foursome of Fannies: those two American broads and the pair of idiots who try to feel them up all the time; and the middle-class mother/daughter duo who are always either trying to be everyone’s best friends or bawling their eyes out; and that new couple of Northern lesbian sisters who spent all of their first day in Venice moaning about wanting steak and chips and said that they felt like “leopards” when they were being left out… Alright, so I don’t like any of the passengers.

The last episode came to a head. Charlie and Caroline (that’s the emotionally unstable mum/daughter duo) were voted off in a dramatic bitch off with everyone’s true colours being displayed and lines drawn. It was brilliant. Old Betty started crying when it was announced and Daz brandished a finger at Tracy: “This is all her fault!” Fantastic. I predict Betty and Daz will be told to jog on next, followed by the Northern Munster sisters. Hopefully, Brendan will swoop in to rectify the unjust workings before any more holidays can be destroyed. I look on, eager and armed with popcorn.

God Help the Girl.

When I heard that Stuart Murdoch (of Belle & Sebastian fame) was writing a musical film, I found the idea so sickeningly twee that I just about gave myself a hernia trying to stop wave after wave of vomit. Not to mention that I absolutely, totally, utterly hate, hate, hate musicals (the musical episode of Buffy… being the only exception).

Matador (B&S’ record label) has put up one song, entitled ‘Come Monday Night’, for download on their site and, you know, it’s not all bad, I suppose. In terms of songs from musicals, it’s quite listenable, instead of boring bombast and exposition about feelings and overcoming adversity or cats, or whatever the hell Lloyd Webber writes about when he’s not doing terrible Eurovision entries. Also, the girl has a lovely voice. Also, I love the promotional image of her in Nike shorts and a football jersey, boots slung over her shoulder; ‘girls, who don’t look like lesbians, in football gear’ are on par with ‘girls in boys’ clothes’ in ‘things that are unexpectedly, but quite obviously when you think about it, attractive’. It gives me hope that the film (the plot of which I haven’t any idea about) will be a modern Gregory’s Girl but with songs. Good songs. And better hair.

The film is going to be shot in 2010, in and around Glasgow (probably). Since it takes a huge amount of time to make films, I guess it won’t be out ’til 2011. You can hear ‘Come Monday Night’ right here. You can also keep up with all of the projects’ news at it’s site.

Chunk of Change by Passion Pit.

So it turns out Passion Pit are really good. If only the blogs and internet forums had picked up on this, then I would’ve found out sooner. I’m kidding, of course: you can’t wipe your arse with a leaf from your blogroll without these guys showing up on it. (ITT: Criticise this godawful allegory.)

It’s my own fault, anyway; I listened to the intro of one song, expecting them to be straight-up, Sebadoh-y indie rock, and didn’t bother hearing any more when my expectations weren’t met. What a fool I was. I could’ve been so on the button with that as well, telling everyone how awesome they are. That’ll teach me not to jump on trends as soon as possible.

The funny thing is, Passion Pit make the kind of music I’ve wanted to hear for ages. It’s pop music with a kind of Technicolor, super-positive quality to it: I can imagine a cartoon bluebird chirping the weird high-pitched sample going through ‘Sleepyhead’. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it plucked out of a Technicolor classic of… whatever year Technicolor classics were made.(NB: I was looking at the liner notes and that sample is actually from a song called ‘Oro Mo Bhaidin’ by Mary O’Hara. It’s all maudlin, Gaelic, performed on a harp, and featuring a wailing woman. I personally prefer it with the bangin’ ‘Sleepyhead’ beat.)

The standout track is probably ‘Smile Upon Me’, which I really, really can’t get enough of. I’m listening to it right now, shimmying in my seat like a fantastic poof and annoying everyone by singing in falsetto. I like the sincerity of the lyrics as well: “You’re the best damn friend that I’ve ever had /You’ll always smile upon me when the seasons bad”. How lovely is that? So good. I play it on repeat daily.

It’s really insulting that they’re referred to as an ‘indie’ or ‘electro’ group. I hate when people say this needlessly, but Passion Pit are almighty pop music in its purest form. I like hearing something joyful in these times when everyone is wanting to get ‘darker’.

I hope they get huge. This is on Spotify, fyi, if you were like me and haven’t heard them yet. (I can’t figure out how to link it; what a fucking shambles of a blog.) I urge you to listen to it and then buy it. Thanks.

Twin Crystals

I’ve literally just become aware of this lot, thanks to a tip from file-sharing blog No Name Leeds (http://nonameleeds.blogspot.com/), and have been listening to them since about 11pm. At the time of writing, it’s 1:14am. Not bad at all.

I was actually on the lookout for a link to get that Clues album, since I lost the other link I was so helpfully provided with earlier, but for some reason I was more drawn to listen to this instead. I wish I knew why.

According to Teh Inturnetz, they “sound like suicide that you can dance to”. I think that might’ve had some appeal: I either listen to offensively polished big business pop, or dirge-y, downer nihilistic punk. Twin Crystals fall into the latter category, I suppose, coming off all nothing: no-fi, no-wave, no-future. One beat, one riff, one drone. Splendid. It’s all hipster bollocks!

To display their creepy dance-ability, I was listening to them in my darkened room when my mum came in to whinge at me for being up late. I’m not one to be spooked easily, but when she tapped me on the shoulder, I could’ve sworn it was the Grim Reaper himself coming to take me away. I love that shit.

Their name is probably the best from the current wave of ‘Hip Bands Called “Crystal”‘. Thank Christ they aren’t called Crystal Twins, because that’s a shite name. Twin Crystals = massively better. Don’t forget the thumbs up. While we’re on that, I met a girl named Crystal once. Didn’t like her.

Have a listen for yourself. I particularly like the songs ‘Careful’ and ‘Trinity’ – they sound like the same song, but I like that one song so it works well: http://www.myspace.com/twincrystals

If you like movement, here’s their video for ‘Two Girls’:

Right, I’m off to buy everything they’ve released.

‘Who Can Say’ by The Horrors.

Not only am I confident that this (The Horrors’ first single proper from their soon to be released second album Primary Colours) is due to be considered among the Best Songs of 2009, but I’m also sure that it will soon be proclaimed as one of my Favourite Songs of All Time.

The thunderous introduction nails me each time I hear it, not so much beating on this brat, but burying him under luxuriant layers of psychocandy. The Shangri-Las are here too: the stab-yourself-in-the-heart-for love melodrama and the middle-eight references their 1966 single ‘He Cried’; the plaintive synthesiser line could easily be one of the girls’ gorgeous vocal harmonies.

My favourite part, the biggest hit of the whole song, is the post-bridge finale. It’s their last chance to make this song the unforgettable blaze it already is and they pull it off in style. The guitars erupt in a stupendous symphony of feedback, achieving the astonishing, heart-stopping crescendo one would expect a full orchestra to recreate. It’s the greatest aural equivalent of looking on the bright side, the sun bursting joyously from behind black clouds, with Faris crooning “I know you’re better off this way” like a goth Sinatra, or the heir of Nick Cave. And as it subsides, I feel as if I’ve been waiting to hear this my whole life.