Infinite Diversity, Finite Combinations Volume 1.1

 I done a book.

This Is How I'll Do All Music Reviews From Now On

 (With apologies to Alexei Berrow's apologies to Brian Molko)

It's been seven long years, but hey ‘Lexei Berrow
I’ve finally made my first home-ground show
When I found you in the teenies
All sick riffs and ghost beanies
You’d made meals from each time you ate crow

I turned my friends to converts, I went looking for concerts
But you’d shut shop on cruel ironies
Just those embers left strewn cooled on closed-comments Youtubes
Sharp sadness it hurt just to see

So I respect what you’ve built up with time
Learned structures still stand, planned on land you’ve not self-undermined
That you can just risk feeling fine

And that new JoFo is lit
Tongue further from cheek
Sun on the peaks, lights in the deep
More beauteous than bleak
In King’s Heath

Friday 40K: End Of The Beginning

Forgot to turn the lightbox on for these ones, but hey: grim darkness, innit. Anyway, here's what would once have been a complete Intercessor Squad, representing the long-awaited completion of Conquest Issue #1's miniatures. Totally useless these days, of course, but it's not like I've had any chance to play 10th Edition anyway.

On to the next thing, anyway. If I very hard, I might have the Plague Marines from Issue #2 finished by Christmas, at which point every 40K miniature that was on my painting desk when I moved back up North three years ago will be done. DARE TO DREAM.

 

Held Steady

So, back in 2022, The Hold Steady - one of my all-time favourite bands - announced they and their people were putting a book together, and were looking for submissions from fans. Stories about what the band means to you, the effect they've had on your life, that sort of thing.

I submitted a piece, and never heard back. Looking through the book itself, I can see why it didn't get through - there's a broadly similar but much more narratively satisfying tale there, so fair enough.

Still, now that the hypothetical event in the piece has actually come to pass, and I no longer need to worry about my then-girlfriend, now-fiancée reading it and learning of Forbidden Knowledge, I thought it might be nice to get it out into the world.

I fell for a girl and The Hold Steady at essentially the same time. I’d bought Boys And Girls in America blind, and span it up driving home after one of our first dates. Everything clicked. Sure, this boy and girl happened to live in North-East England, but that’s the thing about the whole Hold Steady deal. The details are crucial, but they’re not a barrier to entry.

The first time we danced, it was to “Sequestered in Memphis”. We still barely knew each other’s rhythms, each other’s bodies. It didn’t matter. Hell, maybe it helped. We were awkward, and we were incandescent. Stumbling but still in it, by mutual consent. Later, I told her what the song was about, but that didn’t matter either. For all that I’d at least rent out my soul to write like Craig Finn, the moment transcended anything so restrictive as the story he happened to be spinning.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? The Unified Scene operates according to very simple rules. Yes, the lyrics tend to the tragic, just as the tracks lean to the loud. But what they deliver is joy. And more than joy: connection. The actual specifics are incidental. Not because they matter; they very clearly do. It’s just that something else matters much more. The details are crucial, but not a barrier. The policy is open door.

The girl and I are still together, 622 weekends and four Weekenders later. Every year, we head for London (or the internet), and wait for the band to break into a certain song. When they do, we light up, and we dance together again.

One day soon, I’m going to make more one connection. I’m going to propose. The first question, obviously, will be “Will you marry me?”. The next will be “Can ‘Sequestered In Memphis’ be our second first dance?”.

I’m pretty sure she’ll say “yes” to both. Maybe I’m counting my chickens. But hey. I gotta stay positive.

No Apologies For The Infinite Radness 1.3.3 - "Trouble Breathing" (Alkaline Trio)

Get used to these guys.

I started with A3's third album, and worked my way backwards. The original Trio trio, as it were. I picked up their debut album from a cramped record shop off of Waverley Steps, on what I think was my first visit to Edinburgh.

Edinburgh is my favourite city, but still: this proved the best part of the trip.

We've got plenty of time to talk about what makes the Trio special, but we might as well start with a summary: they're where the self-aware morbidity of the Cure crashes against the gleeful refusal to be serious that characterises the SoCal punk scene. The result is a mission statement that's staggering in its simple accuracy: depression, addiction and mortality are, above everything else, just astonishingly fucking ridiculous.

Like every hedgehog band, Trio would later struggle to figure out how to write the second line of their manifesto. That's some way ahead of us, though. "Trouble Breathing" isn't just the best song from their debut, it's the best signpost. A miserable guy meets someone much more miserable than he is, and is equal parts fascinated, concerned, and just plain amused at what weapon's-grade Goth bleakness can look like. I wrote out my version of their guiding principle above, but they give it to us themselves here, perfect right out of the gate. "It's one or another/between the rope and the bottle". Self-medication is still medication, given the definition includes the things that stop you from being dead. They then immediately follow that up with a jet-black pun, though: "I can tell you're having trouble breathing". You have to laugh, or else you'll cry, and the alcohol abuse hasn't left you all that much moisture to work with. 

(There's also the amazing couplet "Look at all those stars/look at how goddamn ugly the stars are", a lyric I adored so much I stole it for a story I was writing, only for that to be the pull quote our uni fanzine used when they published it. AWKWARD.)

The fact all this talk of strangulation and breathlessness is accompanied by Matt Skiba pulling at his guitar strings like he's fixing to employ one as a garrote is just the poisoned icing on the incinerated cake. A lot of Trio songs are quite simple in structure, but when the mood takes him Skiba can put together some pretty sweet guitar parts for his sour stories. This is one of those times; a sweeping array of shifting ideas your average just-starting-out punk band might struggle to match over half an album.

It's miserable punk-pop perfection, in other words; a triumphant take on the ways it all can fail.

Good mourning, lads. We'll see you again real soon.

B side

D CDs #470: And Could He Give Us More?

I know what you're thinking. Finally an ill-informed white boy dares to discuss a hip-hop revolution.

Wikipedia tells me LL Cool J's Radio represents the vanguard of the shift in dominance from old school hip-hop to new school, a fact I relate both to introduce what I want to talk about, and by way of warning the reader I know so little about hip-hop that I'm reduced to reading Wikipedia.

With my ignorance fully admitted, then, the thesis statement: Radio was the sound of the future. 

Even in so banal a position, I run into problems. Yes, it was astonishing, having listened to this, to learn it was released as early as 1985. But what does that actually mean? What I want to be true is that this represents how forward-thinking Radio is, that it encapsulated the sound of the early nineties almost a decade ahead of time. What I fear is true is that all I've picked up on is time-lag; the inevitable dissemination delay between block parties in Brooklyn, and the mix tapes of suburban North East England. 

When we get down to brass tacks and golden tracks, though, that's just noodling on how much Cool J (along with DJ Cut Creator and Rick Rubin) had one eye on the future, while the other focussed on the charts and communiques he used to conquer hip-hop. What matters is the victory.

There's perhaps some irony in the fact Cool J became the genre's emperor through democratising music. By showing you anyone could do it, he ensured everyone would do it, and some of them better than he did (I'll toss out here an entirely unsourced and uninformed opinion that this is why Charlie Juliet never hit so hard with an LP again). Radio is so minimalist it feels weird describing it with so long a word as "minimalist". It's just a dude with a microphone, a drum machine, and the occasional sample, clipped so short and tight they land like lightning strikes amid the storm of percussion. The pressure is fully on Cool J to be enough almost on his own, which he embraces in a statement of intent far more powerful then any number of balls-out braggadocio broadside ever could. Maybe that's why he gets the inevitable boast-track out of the way immediately, so he can move on to better things.

And those better things are genuinely great. It's absolutely the case that you just need to hand this guy a microphone and a tight beat and he can bring it. It's really hard to make something look this easy. Especially when you also make it funny. "You Can't Dance" (dips into ableist language aside) and "That's A Lie" in particular are notable for brilliantly tearing chunks out their targets, and doing so without ever reaching for a word you couldn't say in a Saturday morning cartoon. "Dear Yvette" is almost as fun, the admittedly uncomfortable sexual politics of its slut-shaming slightly sweetened by Cool J's own tales of heterosexual entanglement being oddly sweet in their hopeless romanticism.

If there's a problem here, it's in the timing. Assembling a meal with the smallest number of ingredients doesn't just force you to get everything you're adding absolutely right, it means no matter how well you prepare the food, people won't want to each all that much of it. Just about every track here starts brilliantly, and just about every track ends a verse after you want it to.  Sure, it's genuinely amazing that this formula works so repeatedly ten times in a row (we'll ignore "El Shabaz" here, for all that making a mid-disc palette cleanser the filthiest dish on offer is pretty fun). But I don't care how sick your rhymes are, sooner or later I'm going to stop caring how much you hate a guy whose dancing you dislike.

But then what am I recommending instead? Messing with an almost perfect formula? Adding more tracks for which, if they existed at all, there was presumably a good reason why they got left off originally? About the only advice I could offer, which stopped being timely forty years ago and never started being useful, was that these are two of the best EPs ever written, which maybe didn't need combining into a format where their genius is slightly blunted.

Still, even if I'm right (and ifs don't get much bigger), that wouldn't necessarily translate into Radio scoring a bigger win. And really, how much more total did its triumph need to be?

Eight tentacles.

Wee Jock

Wee Jock was a dog that could whistle 

And track legs like a heat-seeking missile 

So a ref he became 

Until he ruined a game 

Pissing on strikers while at Partick Thistle

Friday Dreadfleet: Bonesheads

Did me a Bone Hydra.

No Apologies For The Infinite Radness 1.3.2 - "Anthem Part 2 " (Blink-182)

Things get weird after you make it big.

Blink-182's second album Dude Ranch didn't exactly fail to sell - it was nearing platinum status while the group recorded Enema Of The State. It was ...State that sent them stratospheric, though. By the time the trio were in the studio putting together their fourth album, ...State had reached quintuple platinum in the US alone. Them's crazy figures.

As is so often the case, the sudden colossal increase of attention, adoration, and account digits brought about - or perhaps here simply exacerbated - an identity crisis. Tom Delonge wanted to expand the group's sound beyond unusually polished, unusually puerile pop-punk. Mark Hoppus wanted to tap deeper into the vein.

The result was Take Off Your Pants And Jacket, a collection which felt for the first time like it was written by two distinct voices, rather than simply sung by them. You can hear the strain at the centre of the band, as DeLonge tries to escape the gravity well of the simplistic shtick that nevertheless made them famous, only to see Hoppus pull them back time and again.

Just seconds into "Anthem Part 2" the first song on Take Off... and released as a single in the summer of 2021, it becomes clear Tom had it right*. A glorious building rush of overlapping guitar parts sweeps us into a summary the American teenage nation. And OK, its really, really fucking stupid summary, but there's a universality in the banality. An awareness that people are listening, which people in particular will mistake directionless punk energy for guiding wisdom, and providing comfort in stating the bleedin' obvious: pretty much none of this is teenagers' fault. "If we're fucked up, you're to blame". A ludicrous statement when sung by a man twenty-five years old when he wrote it, but which holds real power when screamed out by a million teenagers, stagger-drunk on watery beer in the garden of the friend whose parents are out of town. This is political songwriting not as lecture, but as gift.

DeLonge directly addresses that fizzing mass of confused anger that's trapped within every teenager being forced to twist themselves to fit the bizarre, arbitrary rules society relies on to avoid having to actually fucking change anything. There are any number of smarter ways to summarise that all-consuming blaze than "Young and hostile, but not stupid", but there's not necessarily many better. This isn't a manifesto. It's an anthem. Teenagers don't need smarter slogans, because Gods know they're not losing the argument because the previous generations have more brains. What they need is power, and if anger is an energy, then music that channels anger is a power source.

For one glorious summer, before two men fell out and two towers went down, Blink were a battery for a generation. Not bad for the dudes who gave us "Dick Lips".

B-side: I couldn't find any particularly interesting versions of this song, so instead I present the second piece of evidence which conclusively proves Tom the victor in the 2001 Creative Visions war that almost tore the band apart. Because Jesus Christ, Mr Hoppus. The fuck you call this?

Friday 40K: Heating Up

Done two of 'em now innit.

I think I'm proud of these? Broadly speaking. Keep trying not to notice the bone armour is a slightly different shade on each of them. Stupid drybrushing.

Friday Talisman: My Spy

 

Did myself a Talisman spy, lads. Mine's a bit more colourful than the official art - I figured being extremely dressed up and all in black wasn't actually all that subtle. Just feels too try-hard, you know? Like, you've brought along your lorgnettes, mate. You ain't blendin' in to shit.

Distance Learning

Shall we do a little autopsy on a ghost story?

Spoilers for "73 Yards" below the fold.

Friday 40K: The Not-So-New Hotness

Hurrah! A mere seven years since they hit the shelves, and five years since I bought the magazine issue that came with three of them, I've actually painted a Space Marine Intercessor.

As with the Hammerfall Bunker I painted up - Gods - three years ago, this gentleman represents the Emperor's Revenants Chapter, known for their brooding natures, surprisingly low civilian death tolls, and their borderline heretical ideas about just how fucked the Big Man in the Golden Throne truly is.

Here he is chilling outside his house. Just a long-legged lad, resting up in-between shooting people in the face.

(That dent in his helmet, by the way? Authentic battle damage, incurred during a legendary duel with the dog.)

A Load Of Balls 2024

Jones 18 - 14 Wilson

I HAVE SPOKEN.

Edit: Bah. Right score line, wrong players.

The Men Thousand

A book of BETRAYAL?

More like Games Wokeshop, am I right?

It's a lazy Sunday, I just finished the draft of a new essay for the first Infinite Diversity, Finite Combinations book, and I'm in that rare situation of not having to spend my weekend working. So clearly, there's nothing for it but to wade into this month's Games Workshop controversy. After all, if the Daily Mail feels compelled to take a position on the arrival of female Custodes, surely anyone can.

Besides, as best as I can tell, literally everyone with an opinion on this is wrong, and we all know the value of correcting people on the internet.

Future History

A primer for the uninitiated. Warhammer 40,000 (40K) is both a game and a setting (which then contains other games). It was released in the 80s, but the modern iteration is a very different space-beast. It's not exactly unrecognisable from its beginnings, but so changed in form it might as well be considered a distinct entity, like a sapling in its first summer and a millennia-old oak tree.

40K is set in the forty-first millennium (hence the name), a time in which the galaxy is putatively controlled by a human civilisation known as the Imperium, a million-world empire more or less incapable of running itself effectively, under attack from all directions (including from within), and kept going only by barely-understood weapons from the distant past, and the sheer amount of fresh meat for the battlefield that seething trillions of people can allow for. Prime among the defenders of humankind are the Space Marines, troops chosen from the finest warrior cultures in the galaxy, and then genetically altered to become terrifying avatars of battle. Given the number of high-quality murder-makers that are selected to become Space Marines, only to fail the myriad trials involved in actually being handed a bolter (their signature weapon) and unleashed upon the galaxy, we can safely call Space Marines the best of the best, according to the important metric of "who will bisect the most people we dislike?".

The best of the best of the best, though, are the Adeptus Custodes. These are the Space Marines who guard the Imperial Palace on Terra, which houses the Emperor, without whom the Imperium cannot function (we'll skip over the ins and outs of that). Given this uniquely grave charge, the Adeptus get the best aspirants and the best gene-code trickery available, so as to keep Big Daddy Human (as it would be punishable by death to call him) safe from the various forms of nastiness which stalk the stars.

Space Marines have been around basically as long as 40K itself, though like the broader setting, there's very little to link their original conception to what we have today (see below). The Custodes have gone through an even greater change over the years, and it's worth noting that, unlike the Space Marines, it was quite some time before they were considered as anything beyond a footnote in the setting. Think of how Trek's Gorn change between "Arena" and Strange New Worlds, and you get a sense of how much you could just consider them two totally different concepts, which happen to have the same name.

1986

Nowish

Right. History lesson over, almost. The current furore is rooted in the fact that, for the whole of the setting's forty-odd year history, every single Custodes (as well as every single Space Marine) has been male. This is about to stop being the case.

This has made an awful lot of people unhappy, and that unhappiness has made an awful lot of other people unhappy.

As I say, pretty much all of them are wrong.

Squid Gets Cancelled

Let's kick off with the position that will most annoy the people I usually agree with. To make use of an old meme, my most right-wing opinion is that not liking changes to the canon of your favourite franchises is perfectly reasonable, even when those changes are correcting damaging missteps. People care about the fictional worlds they're invested in, and that's entirely fine, actually. Every time some franchise announces some big shake-up in the canon, there's a cadre of smug trolls that takes to the internet to yell "NONE OF IT IS REAL", as though everyone upset thought they'd been watching a documentary on time travelling face-swappers, or whatever. We can talk about what changes are worth getting het up over, and which aren't (this one is clearly the latter). We can discuss the importance of canon consistency when compared to other considerations (say, for example, choosing to actively challenge the misogynistic gate-keeping that has made Games Workshop fans a by-word for sexism for almost half a century). But the central idea that fictional coherence isn't automatically worthless is pretty much unassailable, even if you're the type of person who finds it of no value to themselves.

That's if such people even exist. I have my doubts. If they do, there's a hair's breadth between them, and those who respond to every complaint about lazy writing or inconstant characterisation in genre fiction can't matter, because "you're watching a show with aliens/dragons/vampires in it!". Which is to say, it's a ridiculous idea, based entirely on pretending subjective preferences can be subject to objective metrics, which only the people disagreeing with you are failing to use. No thanks.

And this is all by way of saying that the claim that bigotry is the only reason this latest change might bug someone is a ridiculous overstatement, of the kind that just makes actually figuring out where someone is going wrong in their thinking all the tougher to pin down. There are any number of rest stops between the end-points of "You immediately embrace this change or you're a bigot" and "Thank the God Emperor the Daily Mail is calling out this wokerati nonsense", and I'm more interested in exploring that scale than I am squatting at the end closer to my own position.

Happily, this position in itself is only a few minutes drive down the highway to the Daily Mail Island Ferry Crossing. I'll just keep going a little longer before I start calling down the bombs in the direction I'm facing. A weaker form of the "you must be a bigot" argument is that, if you're upset by this change, but perfectly fine with all the others within the setting (and there have been so, so many over the decades), that suggests you're just using concerns about consistency as camouflage for being a misogynist.

Now, it's important we note that this argument is, in fact, absolutely true. What it isn't, is all that useful, because it's damn hard to actually find anyone without a significant corpus of publicly available writing on 40K that you can level it against. Such people do exist, and some of them are absolutely fucking awful, but in general, it's impossible to tell whether you're reading a given person's complaints about all of this because they're uniquely wound up by no longer excluding women, or because this particular gripe is being deliberately amplified by those determined to keep public focus on the culture war, rather than the incoming collapse of civilisation*. 

Exterminatus, Rightward

Phew. That was uncomfortable. Back to my standard beat of beating the right. All the previous section adds up to, really, is an argument it's not super-useful to blame people for their internal feelings on canon change. What we can and should hold people responsible for how the internal is allowed out. Because yes, actually complaining about female Custodes genuinely is a shitty thing to do. The flip-side of it being unreasonable to berate someone for how they feel is that a distinction must exist between what we feel, and what we say about what we feel. No matter how much worst-faith trolls insist objecting to what they say is indistinguishable from policing what they think, there are any number of positions it's not worth caring that people might hold, so long as they keep them to themselves.

No, not liking the idea of female Custodes is not, in itself, evidence of any deep-seated prejudice against women. Choosing to express that dissatisfaction is another matter entirely, though. Doing that means making the conscious decision to lend support to an organised mob of quite astonishingly awful people, who are dedicated make this country even worse for anyone not a wealthy cis-het white man to live in, and you're doing it because you can't keep your opinions to yourself (he says, writing a couple of thousand words on a Sunday about what he thinks about what other people think about what other other people think). Regardless of why you don't like the idea of female Custodes, the decision to air that opinion is not a politically neutral act. We're in a war here, and it's solipsistic in the extreme to not recognise the fact that, if you're giving rhetorical support to someone's enemy, they can and will judge you for that.

Secondly, while I'm all for arguing that everyone gets to decide for themselves which changes bother them, it shouldn't be ignored that female Custodes aren't some great betrayal of previously encoded lore; it's just an expansion into negative space. Yes, we haven't heard of a female Custodes before. So what? Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. You might have assumed the fact we never saw a female Custodes means such a thing is impossible, but again, that's your problem, and people are right to call you out over it.

Some objectors, presumably having figured out how tenuous their textual case is, have tried to get around this by decrying the concept of female Custodes being ridiculous in itself. "Space Marines are the strongest humans, and men are stronger than women!" First of all, fuck all TERFs and their biological essentialism bullshit. The idea that no group of aspiring Space Marines could ever contain a woman capable of holding her own strength-wise is, if not obviously false, certainly not obviously true,  not to the point where insisting it must be so doesn't mark you out as an arsehole. There are around a million Marines in the galaxy at any one time, and it's been that way for ten millennia. You want me to believe zero women ever had the biceps to qualify for service? Please.

Second, the people who get tapped on the shoulder to get themselves on the space-roids aren't the strongest warriors; they're the best ones.  It should be inescapably clear that the two are not equivalent. Speed, endurance, strategy, instinct, temperament all have to figure into the equation for finding your superior stabbers, too. For God's sake, even the Orks** recognise that you can't just win through being brutal; you got to have yourself some cunnin' too, which makes the argument that Space Marine=strongest less nuanced than the philosophy of a species invented to parody drunken 80s football hooligans. Kudos.

(There's also the fact that most aspirants are chosen while still teenagers, or even slightly younger. This raises all sorts of questions I don't think we should start poking at, but it certainly means physical strength cannot possibly be the only, or even dominant, consideration in play.)

Thirdly, and most importantly, there's the Primaris issue. Again, as a primer for newcomers to all this, seven years ago the fictional 40K world saw the arrival of a brand new and significantly better process for genegineering Space Marines. The new marines were called "Primaris", the old retrospectively named "Firstborn". Out in the real, this was pretty clearly done to bring the Space Marine line into, well, line with all the others. The move from metal to plastic as the most common miniature material had allowed every other army in the range to supersize their models, which rather muted the visual impact of the still-dinky Space Marines; not what you want for your army of towering supermen. 

What's important from our perspective, though, is that any lore-based justifications for a lack of female Space Marines (and the article I link to above suggest they did exist) could now be swept away. Female Space Marines were now fully possible in a way no-one could claim "broke the rules" (they could say the new rules were rubbish, of course, but people say that literally every time GW does anything, and so far they've weathered each tsunami of dissatisfaction).

And GW whiffed. The new Marines were just as much an all-boys club as those that went before, for what seems to have been no other reason beyond cowardice. This move toward female Custodes, then, is properly viewed as an attempt to rectify that mistake, using an army that's less popular than the Space Marines, and therefore will cost the company less if the existence of women really does drive away a host of punters***.

Cowards, as I say. But what this means is that the actual battlefield this controversy is being fought on isn't canon versus diversity. It's the fact GW had the option to serve both those considerations at the same time, and didn't, because it was too chickenshit to risk its golden goose.

That's the actual question at the heart of all this. Not "does the lore allow for female Custodes"?  While watching GW take a hyper-prudent and milquetoast approach to diversity by violating an extremely minor point of canon, rather than doing better for both diversity and canon by actually giving us women Primaris marines, which part of that bothers you more?

Because yes, I'm not going to call you names if both bits bum you out. If disrespecting lore annoys you more than disrespecting ladies, though? Maybe bigotry really was your problem all along.

* The similarity between shitrags like the Mail and 40Ks own brand of fact-impervious McCarthyist propagandists, dealing with the slow death of their ever-shrinking realm by insisting people just need to hate those different from them a bit harder, should not go unnoticed here.

**A 40K alien race that cares only about getting into the largest fights possible as often as possible, and which actually get stronger and bigger the more fights they win.

*** Actually, there are women in the Custodes army already. They're just not allowed to be super-strong, instead being mutants of a kind described in the lore as "soulless", and who each take a vow of silence. It's not hard to see why this hasn't been considered sensitive or sufficient female representation.

No Apologies For The Infinite Radness 1.3.1 - "A Jackknife To A Swan " (The Mighty Mighty Bosstones)

When Franz Nicolay quit The Hold Steady after three-and-a-bit albums, he explained his choice by saying he felt like "a fox in a hedgehog band". For those unfamiliar with the analogy, foxes are pretty good at doing a bunch of different things. Hedgehogs absolutely excel at their one trick. Clearly this has worked for them, evolutionarily speaking - we can't really blame Mother Nature for not predicting cars. What keeps small mammals alive and what keeps New Hampshire jazz-accordions invested aren't likely to intersect, though.

Personally, I've never seen a problem hedgehog bands. My obsession with the Hold Steady themselves is proof enough of that. Then there's the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. You get two flavours with these loud lads: ska with rock, and rock with ska. The song will be about Boston.

It helps, of course, that both mixtures are great tastes that taste great together. Brass and bass, together at last since the 1970s. It also helps that Dickey Barrett has one of the most distinctive voices in music. Dude sounds like a chain-smoking badger who just found out his badger wife is cheating on him. And while I'm not really qualified to talk about Boston in general, the inciting incident that this song is based around is a perfect fit for one of the least ska-tinged rock-with-ska songs the band has ever done. The horns here are more seasoning than they are component, not even sounding until the track is almost a minute in. The song is predominantly carried by a propulsive, headlong guitar attack, Barrett's exhausted rage, and drums like a horrified heartbeat. Images flash by, each one more desperate than the last, like the view from a commuter train bound for hell.

On the 2nd October, 1973, 24 year-old Evelyn Wagner ran out of petrol in the Dorchester neighbourhood in Boston. She walked to the nearest gas station and bought herself a cannister of fuel. On the way back to her car, she was accosted by six teenagers, who forced her into an alley. There she was made to pour the petrol over herself, after which the teens set her on fire. She died in hospital four hours later.

"A Jackknife To A Swan" can be meant in two ways. There's the reference to moves made in diving, and the idea of violently killing something beautiful. It's clearly the latter which is meant here, but both meanings share the concepts of a rapid descent toward finality, w. Whether it be the diver entering the water, or a human being existing the world, the direction is always down. It still matters when the velocity changes.

The final moments of Walter, the song's protagonist, are drenched in the fear (ultimately realised) that he's about to die. He's watched the slow descent of his hometown for three decades, and suddenly he's terrified the final fall will come all at once. A lighter, flashing into a puff of smoke. This is a desperately bleak song about the moments of existential terror that punctuate the slow collapse of our lives. About a man whose only hope is that he's home from his night shift in time to see his family wake up in the morning, forced into a situation where he might not even get that. The fact he's ultimately killed by the same trains he's been riding to and from work his whole life twists the long-buried knife still deeper. A jackknife to a swan, and he was gone.

Various places on the internet site Evelyn's murder as indicative of the rising racial tensions of '70s Boston. The band deliberately ignores this angle (perhaps fortuitously, given their paeans to racial harmony tend to be well-meaning but clunky), focusing instead on the way anyone's life can be upended and ended in the time it takes to unfold a pocket knife.

I remember the first time I heard this song. It was early/mid 2002. I'd just said goodbye to a friend I no longer remember, and gotten off the bus to walk home. I stuck my newly-bought copy of "...To A Swan" into the portable CD player that would be stolen at my first real job two years later. It was the middle of the day, and home was barely five minutes walk away. My hometown sees fewer murders in a year than Boston does in a week.

This track still connected. Implausibly, even ridiculously, it drilled straight into whichever part of the human brain worries that something is going to get you as you make your way home. That there only needs to be one bad split-second, and that that bad split-second's coming around, waiting for you to walk into it.

A jackknife to a swan, and you'll be gone.

B side

D CDs #471: Nowt So Queer As Folk

This one was a bastard to write. I just don't get folk. 

Wait, no; that's not it.

I don't get my reactions to folk.

Part of this is the variance. The best folk is transcendent - a perfect alloy of history, politics and raw emotion so strong, you can fully believe what Woody Guthrie's guitar kept telling people. Bad folk is revanchist, ramshackle nonsense, endless self-indulgent variations of saying absolutely nothing. White people's jazz.

That the gap between best and worst can be measured in (bright) light years is true of every musical genre, naturally. What make folk unusual is how completely I can't get a handle on what makes the difference.

It's tempting to say a lot of it is just sticking "rock" on the end. In practice, though, that just seems to mean "a plug is involved". Which does help, yes, and it's vaguely amusing to me that it turns out I'd discounted the Newport Folk Festival hecklers as demonstrable fucking idiots years before knowing the details of who they were. That doesn't really get us anywhere, though; not when artists as diverse* as Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Leonard Cohen, and (as a protean form) the Beach Boys all got to claim the term.

I want to take I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight as a case study. See if it can get us to a unified theory of good folk. It seems pretty clearly in the upper tiers of the genre, after all. Perhaps we can establish a yardstick here, and use it to beat the fash-loving banjo botherers unaccountably allowed to get famous on folk’s farthing.

So: reasons …Lights Tonight folk rocks.

• It knows the past was awful.

Nostalgia is a disease, and not one that only hurts those infected. Fuck folk that focuses its gaze at our great-grandfathers’ navels. …Bright Lights seems to make this mistake, on a surface reading, with the protagonist of  “End Of The Rainbow” lamenting the state of today’s world, compared to his childhood. The point though is that the narrator is obviously pathetic, unable to distinguish his own problems from that of a newborn baby. Bad news for you between breast sessions, mate; your sister’s a whore. Try not to find that too hideous a revelation.

No. This album’s soul resides not with an imagined dead rainbow, but with the poor little beggar girl, forced to make her money briefly distracting the rich dickheads she holds in contempt. 

If there's a romance to the past here, it's only in the sense we all know it; we didn't always know just how difficult it is to get through the years.

Speaking of which...

• It knows the present is awful.

Tossing coins to disabled beggars dancing in the street isn't something we see much of any more, but it's not like abasement to the rich as a survival mechanism has gone away.  Capitalism still kills us all by inches, until it chooses to kill us outright. Fascism escaped its just garrotting by Guthrie's guitar strings. "Withered And Died" tackles this head on; we emerge butterfly-like from our teenage years, and like butterflies, we're all too easily crushed.

But there's hope here, too. It's a canny move to follow "Withered And Died" with "I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight". We switch gears from the misery of what life has taught us, to how we might be able to set it aside. Yes, a night on the town is just a temporary solution, but they're all just temporary solutions.

This tug-of-war between existential melancholy and finding hope in revelry is critical to the first half of the album. It's right there in the opening track; "When I Get To The Border" suggests that if you can't go down fighting, the next best thing is to go down drinking while on the run. If the album seems balanced between its twin concerns, well, just remember which song got to be the title track.

• It’s clear-eyed about getting blurry-eyed.

Alcohol is a recurring concern of ...Lights Tonight, operating at various times as both an accompaniment to misery, and a way of warding it away. The narrator of the title track can't wait to enjoy "drunken nights rolling on the floor", while that of "...Border" tells the friends he's leaving behind that, when he eventually dies, they can basically assume it was drink that did it. 

Folk feels intimately connected with alcohol. Hang around any pub that prides itself on its collection of real ales (fake ales continuing to be one of the greatest crises Britain must face), and you run the constant risk someone will pull out a concealed mandolin, to fire crotchets at you without consent. I'm not sure what the link is between self-indulgent jam sessions, songs about hills, and people who get ludicrously snooty about their dipsomania, but it's definitely there.

...Lights Tonight touches on this as it closes out its first half. Once again, this is impeccable sequencing. "Down Where The Drunkards Roll" doesn't just round off the loose but undeniable thematic cohesion on Side A**. It follows directly from "...Lights Tonight" itself, showing us that song's narrator, and those like her, through the eyes of others. Kids looking grand until they get themselves fucked up. Lonely people who find comfort in the bottle because it eluded them everywhere else. People who crave the delusions drink delivers. There's no condemnation here, though. No simple desultory philippic, this. All we find is sympathy. An awareness of shared sadness; of wine that runs thicker than blood. They're all just temporary solutions. The lies come so easily because the truth is so terrible.

• It doesn't outstay its welcome.

This is a zippy platter (certainly, it's far less self-indulgent than this essay). Ten songs in barely thirty-five minutes. There's a tightness here that counts for a lot; the sprawling cycles of irrelevant variation that mars so much self-indulgent folk is nowhere to be found. It doesn't hurt of course that, the one time the album feels like it's sliding into jamland, it's with the sublime melee of solos that carries the opening track into the distance. 

The slimness of it all also helps with the one real criticism worth making here: it's a pretty front-loaded disc. None of the offerings in its back half are actually bad - "The Little Beggar Girl" in particular cuts plenty deep enough. Still, there's a noticeable slackening of momentum past the halfway mark, as a determined march through hope and horror slows and stumbles. You can feel the album bleeding its last energy out as it topples to the dirt just beside the finish post.

Still, I could never get endings right either. And another way to say ...Lights Tonight collapses in the final seconds is to say it left everything out on England's green fields.

Surely that's the capstone of the structure holding all this together. Surely that's folk as fuck.

Seven and a half tentacles.

*Within the already established narrow ethnic corridor, that is.

** Only "Calvary Cross" feels somewhat out of place here, though this could well be at least partially related to the extremely strong association I have with that song.

Friday 40K: A Banner Year

 Got round to finishing my Dark Angels Ancient. Behold: Old Steven.

Standard uber-simple paint job, this one, to fit in with the rest of the now 44-year old army. I did a bit of shading on the robes and seals, just because there's so much cloth and parchment that the miniature would look too flat otherwise.

Here's the bannerlad with my Captain and Company Champion. How he'll be slotted into the army structure is currently undetermined. Frankly, I'm struggling to be bothered, given how obnoxious the 10th Edition has been so far in terms of Firstborn marines. I was bang on in December when I predicted the incoming round of codexes would further buggerify my greenest boys. Deep-sixing some of the Firstborn datasheets was probably inevitable, and it's only my four servitors which are now completely unusable, with no "counts as" equivalent. It's the ludicrous restrictions on unit sizes and war gear that's pissed me off. Enforcing ten-men Tactical Squads already meant my Razorback could only carry a Devastator or Command Squad; now Command Squads have gone too, replaced by "Company Heroes" which aren't allowed in Razorbacks.

Even more bafflingly, Company Hero squads must include an Ancient and Company Champion (the latter of which cannot be fielded in any other way) plus exactly two veterans, one of which must have a heavy bolter.

I'm actually quite lucky, given all these ridiculous constraints. I can move the lascannon marine I used to have in my Command Squad to my nine-man squad, and swap my melta-gun veteran for a heavy bolter marine from a different squad. A quick paining session to add/remove the orange trim I use to denote veterans, and I'll have an army that's entirely useable aside from the servitors (and presuming no-one refuses to accept my Bikers as Outriders or Land Speeders as Storm Speeders). Honestly, though, I'm just struggling to justify even such minimal effort. It just feels like I'm going to be wasting more and more of my hobby time trying to rearrange my armies so they just about remain playable, rather than actually painting cool things that make me happy.

Bah.