Write because you want to, not because you have to.
Write because the music you hear is so fucking wonderful, so life-affirming, so steeped in and suffused with melancholia that you have no choice but to spread the message. Write, with the sole objective of making people dance at the front of shows. Write, and write because the very act of writing increases your enjoyment of the music and fills your heart with giddy abandon. Write, because this is your drug, your prop, your life. Just write.
I have f-f-four songs I wish to share with you this unforgiving greyish morning. Forgive me if I fall into a holding pattern while I key the songs up. ALL I WANT TO DO IS GET PEOPLE TO CLICK ON THE LINK AND LISTEN TO THE GODDAMN MUSIC. Can you not see my spangly tights, my furry pompoms as I leap up and down, ever more desperate? Can you not hear me bellowing at the clouds?
This is the first. Empowered bedroom sulk music I called it back in 2015. Totally Mild from Melbourne. My life is enriched and splattered with ennui and melancholy in equal amounts. My life is sadness. Totally Mild make the sadness feel beautiful. (The version I am sharing here is different from the album recording. You guessed this already, correct?)
The second is Etana. I know nothing about Etana, and indeed may well forget her name within the next few seconds. I found her by chance, scrolling idly through YouTube searching for female grime. This song – its clear passion – grabbed me. I am a sucker for the heavy bass dub that I first heard pulsating out from beneath the archways in the punk clubs of Ladbroke Grove, 1978. Cannot resist it ever. Much like this lady, it seems. You can call it throwaway but I believe this does not matter. Brings a smile to my feet, a lilt to my lips, hope to my eyes.
The third is from Lady Leshurr. No explanation required, right? She still reminds me vaguely of Gravediggaz.
The last is the new song from The Regrettes. Rock and fucking roll. So glad to see the total capitulation of male rock bands to female. Brimful of attitude; shot through with the sort of cultural capital that can only really be accumulated by financial capital too. But not just, obv.
That’s it. I’m outta here. Trains to catch, people to avoid. That sort of thing.