Pining, Griming, Sliming, Signing

This is the corporate moving mood board for the plagiarised "Check Up On It", watered down "Halo", and tepid ''What's My Name" that is Cher (not even the best Cher) Lloyd's "With Ur Love". As befits the super sanitized career masterminded for ex-talent show contestants, this is a carefully inoffensive and sentimental visual accompaniment meant to be as generic and universally appealing as the song itself. The way this has been achieved is by revivifying Kylie's "All the Lovers" key concept, popping some hearts on it and moulding it together with some stock footage from some old Halifax adverts and the latest Homebase campaign where people decide to inconvenience the general public by painting train stations puce and filling them with overpriced, under-inspired lamps, perspex chandeliers and forests of lumpen settees.

It all goes swimmingly for a while, as Cher (keep wishing it was the other Cher, in full Bob Mackie regalia, throwing permed shade at this overlit sap siesta) gambols about with an aspiring Ellie Goulding lookalike and Marina from nearly two years back (before greige-hair-gate), leaving her Furniture Village set bedroom to prance about the city wiggling her eyebrows and looking hungry. She looks a bit like a Polly Pocket that has been enlarged in some sort of badly written, PG, summer release-fodder sci-fi film about a doll Godzilla terrorising a city with her doe-slender legs and lustrous eyelashes, accompanied with a gaggle of painstakingly selected, high-fiving younglings in double denim she's never met before. There are also some close-ups where she looks pretty, and at times seems to be concentrating so hard on sustaining her prettiness that her jaw veers into angler-fish territory and her eyebrows sink to the bottom of the ocean (just like the quality of this 'article'). She also seems to be wearing three tubes of Cover The Blemish as lipgloss. I mean that as an observation, not as some sort of snide jibe of snideness. She looks very nice in this LV insurance infomercial.

And then, swimming into focus, like some sort of garish, dodgily-sketched caricature that you didn't really want but begrudgingly paid for at an overpriced and disappointing funfair, come to life, is Mike Posner (apologies for that unnecessarily long sentence). Wearing a jacket made by The Officer's Club (when it still existed) that was inspired by a high school student from the early nineties whose hobbies included sexism, cow tipping and premature ejaculation, he mutters, sibilantly, about apparently managing to get to bases with people. Naïvely hoping he is talking about day trips to airbases to learn about the rich and compelling history of aerial warfare, because it looks like the only bases he's ever gotten to were secretly filmed on To Catch A (Douche-Frat) Predator. Apparently he's meant to be cute and endearing, but he looks like the twisted individual in horror films that likes to crochet ponchos out of the muscles and pubic hairs of his victims, and is so lacking in social prowess that he can only gurn like a poor Terry Gilliam impressionist and mutter to himself. If only he had been so preoccupied with his gurning he could have taken a few steps further back to save everyone the fits of intense squirming they suffer when he smugly mentions 'yummy' middles.

Then the whole of American Apparel joins the parade and everyone releases doves, lanterns, farts and weather balloons into the ether to symbolize the sickness of love. Mark Posner is not the only aspect of this that terrifies me; what really chills me is the total failure of language in this song. Have I been in a (Diet Coke) coma for too long? Have I been desensitised by years of sustained Sugababes abuse to not notice the woeful lack of verbal innovation, cliché avoidance or even appreciation of language in the modern pop song? Do people really fly, shine and ride with love, or is Cher Lloyd secretly Mildred Hubble from The Worst Witch trying to indoctrinate us with her witcherly agenda?

Double Rihanna with Coke; Easy on the Coke.

The 'tour video' is one of pop's necessary evils. As amazing as it would be to have flawless videos for flawless songs for the entirety of flawless albums, this being the modern age, where everyone smuggles pop songs into hard drives off of the coast of Cornwall, or strips pirates of Miley Cyrus singles, and album campaigns spring leaks in a matter of minutes like musical Titanics, tours are the main source of proper income, and bacon, for big shiny stars. So while they're out seeing the world and the inside of Wembley arena, their videos tend to suffer - either from a conspicuous absence of the artist themselves, or from being cobbled together from an unimaginative edit of 'behind the scenes' footage. Rihanna's video for "Cheers" falls into the latter category, but it does prove rather edifying. For example we learn that:

• She likes to do her make up herself.
• She can drive a car.
• She can ride a bike in stiletto heels.
• She may or may not eat chips.
• She sometimes laughs.
• She sometimes grinds on people.
• She's competent at looking after other people's children in swimming pools.
• She is not averse to karaoke.
• She is a kind person; not everyone would've given Avril the privilege of an extensive, if unnecessary, cameo.
• She has no issue with irresponsible behaviour, letting others skateboard into a swimming pool (!) and doing shots on stage.
• She is a dab hand at eating coconut innards.
• She is an amateur film maker.
• She can swim.

Ultimately we learn that Rihanna would probably be an amazing friend to have in real life, if she wasn't so busy travelling, having a career etc. etc. As videos go, it is fairly informative. She hardly divulges her personal musings of the meaning of life, but she does some stuff and makes funny faces, and really, that's all you need.

In Nicki Minaj's "Fly" she does even less. There are no coconuts, shots, cars or babies, just some sultry walking and a wig last seen off of Hilary Duff's career circa 2003 (not that that's an insult, I am a great fan of Hilary duff's solo work and hair and I pine for her return). Dystopian-carnage videos always sit uncomfortably; why are scenes of collective deaths, misfortune and pain commandeered as blunt metaphors? As someone on YouTube pondered, "does this have something to do with 9/11?". Comes across as a tad self absorbed. At least here it seems that this environment came about through some form of negligence, as evidenced by the charred dinner left on a table. Maybe a barbecue got a little rowdy at Heathrow... or something. At least they managed to avoid dodgy, and excruciatingly literal harness work, although they only substituted it with equally dodgy CGI flora.

It's at its best when things are happening: when Nicki is kicking some people in the face or emoting in close up on a set from the Berlin "Take my Breath Away| video and a Twiggy-Rave wig. Maybe they could've spent the video cleaning up the mess as part of a Rock Corps advert placement? Had a Cillit Bang product positioning? Maybe they could've poked fun at sexist product placement by mucking about with Cillit Banging some dirty planes or created insect alter egos for themselves? I'll stop typing now.

Rihanna Called....

... she wants her song/pop identity/vocal signatures back (Nicole Shirts-a-Wringer, I am quothing to you).

(If only Empress Rhi did call.. *writes out phone number on S&N and checks phone obsessively for rest of entire life*)

This is hardly an 'exclusive' or an elucidating, hard hitting piece of investigative journalism, but what's going on ('Mother, mother, there's too many of you crying' etc. etc.)? The new Nicole Shrimp-Wrangler MV for "Right There" has just been released and it is a veritable game of spot-the-plagiarism. Alexis Jordan's treadmill sidewalk? Tick. A Willow Smith whippable hair braid interlaced with ribbons that's reminiscent of Queen Gwen's Frida Kahlo hair-homage in "Luxurious"? Tick tick boom. Street set up, dance routines and costumes taken from a "Crazy in Love" episode of MTV's Becoming (a.k.a. one of the best, and most greatly missed, pieces of television to ever grace our screens)? Tic (tac). A dance break that seems to copy one of the cheapest looking, and most rapidly dating 'nyitecloob' dance breaks ever, found in the enduring masterpiece that is the Pussycat Doll's "Beep"? Tik Tok. Nicole's even tried to take on The Rihanna Lipcurl™ (that takes a starring role in the "Rude Boy" MV).

It's no longer enough to offer a visual metamorphosis with each album campaign. We're at hyper speed now, so a new visual identity/reinvention has to be forged for each new music video, even each new performance or public appearance. This isn't exactly new *inserts some spurious comment about how Madonna pioneered this restless/constantly surprising approach to the music/image relationship (symbiosis?)* and can be seen in just about every current pop star's recent campaign. In offering a distinct, thematic 'look' that corresponds somehow to the song at hand, artists can appear to showcase not only a professional or artistic versatility - perhaps travelling from something dance heavy to a vocally challenging ballad and back again - but also some degree of personal depth, by linking image alterations in their work to the facets and nuances of one personality.

Although it's illusory, it can still be effective; Katy Perry might grate a little when blasting tit-cream into your face, but when she's waxing lyrical about adolescent diddlings she might seem to be offering up a more vulnerable, and relatable, part of herself. Katy Perry's also a good example of this image reliant method of illustrating a professional/personal versatility, as she used a photo slideshow of her intimate 'happy-married-couple' snaps as a backdrop for her high profile performance at the Grammys this year.

But this approach doesn't work if instead of cultivating your own seeming visual subdivisions (if that even makes sense?) you are just nicking other people's and cobbling them together as seen in Nicole Shroud-Wriggler's sexytime serenade above. She's not alone though. Although it can arguably be suggested that shameless copying and bandwagon-jumping is a commonplace feature in pop music that might seem to be purely throwaway and disposable - pop that relies heavily on whatever musical or sartorial trends happen to be floating about in the cultural ether, no matter how transient - it can be found in music that would seem to try and distance itself from that pop stereotype or assumption.


Step in Clare Maguire. Unlike dancer Nicole Shroom-Wrinkler, who has been part of a girl group that required choreography in unison and some degree of conformity, great emphasis has been placed on Clare Maguire's distinctiveness, both visually, with her pale skin and heavy, noir-glamour make up, but also vocally with both "Aint Nobody" and "The Last Dance" keeping her fairly static. She was almost pitched as a Siouxie Sioux with hair straighteners and some Pantene sleekening serum. Yet "The Shield and the Sword" has uprooted what seemed like a steady line of visual development and replaced it with a jumble of pop disguises. Seemingly dressed as, and acting as, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and Adele tribute acts, the whole MV seems like a misguided attempt to show artistic flexibility. By seeming to remove any remaining hints of personality, the whole thing would seem to have failed - how can you show personal versatility when you've eradicated the personality? What is the point in trying to emphasise the chameleon-ic talents of transformation in an artist with such an idiosyncratic voice? It could actually be some sort of ironic commentary on the combative lyrics, with Maguire perhaps taking up her sword and waging war on other artists, but that seems unspecified and unlikely.

Various suggestions for an alternative video at S&N HQ (I love writing HQ, it sounds officious and turret-y) have included:

• Something Elizabethan featuring oversized ruffs and gory, corpse strewn battlefields.
• A Tess of the D'ubervilles style homicide and escape sequence.
• Just generally something that doesn't feature Róisín Murphy's old pom pom coat and an awkward dance routine.
• Something owl oriented and possibly medieval.

All of these are viable and aesthetically pleasing alternatives that avoid any shallow pastiches. Clare Maguire will obviously read this and take it on board for her next single video in which she will be fleeing a crime scene by cutting through an intestine-spattered battleground wearing some sort of Flemish wimple and an owl on each shoulder. In that set up her personality would be blinding and totally overwhelming etc. etc.

Are you Lonely, Are You Lost?

Although I have been referred to as the/a S&N Kate Bush stan, I am a pretty rubbish fan. I would always hear the opening lines of 'Deeper Understanding', think of someone like this:

I would think of this person using a computer like this:

(Possibly while wearing something like this):

I would have a momentary cringe/snigger, since I was an arrogant middle class shit who knew everything about computers and modernity because I could use msn to snark about the latest Sugababes video and peruse Perez Hilton for hours on end looking at paparazzi snaps of glossy sticks clambering out of cars or hiding behind Birkins and Kate Bush's song was like, really, like dated and didn't even, like know what Bebo was, lol. There are lolcats now, and websites where you can rate people's turds or look at their tits. As an envisioning of the future, 'Deeper Understanding' seemed to lack any anticipation for Top 8s, Blue Waffle, Maru or Tumblrs dedicated to Voldemort memes, so it was hastily dismissed.

It's not about that, of course. Neither is it about a particular time/computer/ website dedicated to kittehs, its about delving far deeper into innate human feeling than any gif of a cat in a sombrero could. Over twenty years later, its lyrics are even more haunting; I've spent at least half of that period of time glued to my own little black box, possibly spending more time with it than with any other human being, as many others may have done as they've grown up with rapidly evolving technology.

When you can sit in your bedroom in your own stale pyjamas and still access a universe of culture and people, it is easy to think 'well I've never felt such pleasure. Nothing else seem[s] to matter', neglect your bodily needs and gradually remove yourself from the world. I'm doing exactly that while writing this up, browsing youtiube in search of Kate Bush's back catalogue.

I have gone back to the original to compare and I'm still unsure of what alterations have been made or what they even mean. It's always tempting to pit them against one another, rank them and describe them in superlative terms, but where's the merit or enjoyment in that? It is interesting to see what she's done: the song has been extended by roughly two minutes, of which nearly all of which consists of a subdued, meandering instrumental embellished with only a scattering of vocals.

At first I was slightly disappointed, hoping rather for more of an elaboration, more lyrical development, perhaps more personal focus, more novelty. But maybe that's the point. Perhaps it's meant to demand patience of listeners used to soundbites, desultory reading habits and Wikipedia skimmings. Suggesting that sounds like I'm reducing the song to some sort of perverse, ill conceived and poorly executed experiment supported by a flimsy/obnoxious concept, which I'm not. It is still quintessential Kate Bush (that sounds so smug/patronising/pompous critic), emotive, haunting but still intrepid and daring. I can't pinpoint it particularly eloquently or extensively, but the most notable alteration is in the vocal effects, ones that create a technological voice that is slightly unnerving, slightly angelic. To say that it marks a progression in sound would be hasty and a tad inaccurate considering the song's subject, but it is striking nonetheless, as Bush has never extensively manipulated the sound of her voice. She may have done so in her delivery, in choice of accents and ornamentation, and experimented with effects on parts of The Dreaming and Hounds of Love (this is all a tad tenuous), but it has never been totally obscured to a point of total disintegration.

This is an unsuccessful post that hasn't achieved a great deal. The greatest pearl of insight I could dredge up from the barren, murky waters of my mind was that it bears a resemblance to Imogen Heap, Radiohead (most notably this) etc. (duh, since it's an update of a song released in 2011, double duh) but then again just about anything nowadays, be it music, cheese, writing or tone can bear a resemblance to the work of Radiohead, and drawing a comparison between Bush and her contemporaries is narrow minded to totally ignorant considering how long Bush has been making, and experimenting with, music. All I can do is express gratitude (how naff) for its existence, incredulity at the fact that some vocals have been provided by Mica Paris (!!!!) and return to trawling through tumblr at pictures of pretty hipsters.

The Pendulum of Joyce Summers.

Anything I write here has probably either been invented by, birthed by or copyrighted by Lady GaGa by now. Monstrous? Hers. Honey, no? Hers. Um? Hers. Concrete nouns? Concrete monsters! Adjectives? Ad-monster-ives! Hand job? Paw job! (That sounds wrong on so many thousands of levels, pretend it never happened.) Language? Monsteruage! Millions of years of biological evolution upon which centuries of human development and progress delicately rest? GaGa-lution of monster-ress!!

I have been invented by Lady GaGa. My soul has been lovingly crafted in Lady GaGa's celestial paws. Sorry, 'Mother Monster's' celestial paws. She created me in her shoddily conceived ego-wank of a monster-mythology (sorry, monsterology), written when 'the myxomatosis of the Twilight (TM) of the infernal, infamous Tempura began, as the Pendulum of Joyce Summers danced a flance so hard it flew up a flammable backside never to be seen again.' She created this very same thought that I am trying to organise (unsuccessfully) into words. Sorry, monstords. Pawrds. She has already anticipated my commentary on this seven minute fart, she already knows that I am going to say that, dressed as a Gay Pope, reclining on a billboard platform last seen in the 'Lucky' video with a googly eye stuck to her chin, she is going to usher us all up into the shimmering, unicorn delights of Utopia. Sorry, Monstertopia. That there, in Monstertopia, we shall find the acceptance and love yet to exist on the grimy surface of Earth for LGBT people and everyone ever. Sorry, Monster-ay, Monster-bian, Bi-monsterual, Trans-monsterian and everymonster evermonster. Although that's a bit of a cop out really, considering Madame Monster de Monster Mon invented the Earth. Sorry, Monstearth. Actually, her power, sorry, monster-wer is so great, she invented God (sorry, Monster-od) who invented the Monstearth. But hey, at least there are unicorns. Sorry, monstericorns.

The Pink Prophet, sorry, Monsterink Monsterphet, has converted me. Sorry, monster-verted me. Doing a dance routine in a bra and knicker set and flailing around in an acrylic Hanky-Panky ponytail and a pair of shower shoes (the symbolism here is far too profound and arcane for me to ever uncover their true meaning) has convinced me that I was born once, that people are born and that there are bad things and that bad things shouldn't happen, wheelchair, rollerskates, chola, Orientalism, homo, homo, 'but some of my best friends are Lebanese!'. Sorry, Monstering a monster-nce monstertine monsterin monstera monsterbra MONSTERMONSTERMONSTERMONSTERMONSTER.

Mythologies are crafted over hundreds of years, passed down orally (ooh-er) through generations, venerated, written and rewritten, created to justify or celebrate the random and chaotic occurences in our natural environment. Gradually, painstakingly, they are disseminated, reinterpreted, retold, refined and reinforced by the innate human hunger for narrative, order and explanation.

They do not just appear in a gay bar dressed up for a Hipster Prom in morbid facepaints and a candyfloss pony mane, proclaiming that culture, suffering and all evil (all of which were, incidentally, invented by Monsterdy Monster-Ga Monster-Ga) has now, conclusively come to an end. They are not "Born This Way".

(Ba-doom Tish!)

Finalement!

Just when you finally get to watch four minutes of visual perfection and technicolour, kinky Rihanna related glory, Perez Hilton has to (literally - see 1:07) urinate over it (and not in a good way *lecherous-old-man-laugh-fnor-fnor-fnor*).

I'm too over-stimulated (ohh-er) to write an erudite, frame by frame commentary to accompany this, and, Tuh Buh Huh, I don't think it's really that necessary. If I was to go all Feminist Critic on it, and analyse the dynamics of domination and submission within sex and how well they can be transferred into a wider comment made on the issue of repressive, condemnatory social judgement, censure and subsequent oppression in relation to women (I don't think this is even English any more), I would probably go on to state that in this particular video there is a paucity of spank paddles and that Perez needs, not a gentle ticking off, but total eradication. (Mainly because he is one of the most ubiquitous, albeit inarticulate, sources of that conservative judgement around today - 'which is the whole point of the video, durbrain!!!' - and also one of the most influential, despite actively adopting the surname 'Hilton', *collective sad face*.)

Having him in this video is not a positive portrayal of Rihanna's ability to control or possess power, it is a concession made to an undermining, capricious and untalented media louse who will simply thrive on the attention without heeding the subtext. (Although there's not much subtext lying beneath being gagged and towed about on a leash like the fetid beast you really are - calm down, love.)

(Also, that Rihanna is too glorious to have to (provoca-fiercely111!! you go gurrll!!!) get rid of him with a saucy FLAMETHROWER COVERED IN KNIVES AND GRENADES (ooh, naughty!!), and is already far too busy anyway, as can be seen above, throwing shade to sanctimonious sorts and throwing debauched parlour-parties for the more salaciously minded.)

I now need to change my trousers. Good day.

You Better Have Some Cake.

'BOOM!' The follow up to Alexis Jordan's first (utterly glorious) single has arrived and it is quite to very good on the Goodness Barometer, of Goodometer, if you will. Accompanied by a video that has all the subtlety and sophistication of a GCSE Drama Devised piece, screamingly obvious symbolism that keeps making my head translate the chorus of 'good, good girl' into 'virgin, virgin whore' - which is slightly worrying- it is not a deflatory, disappointing development (need to book self into Alliteration Rehab.) It is also not a ballad, which is a relief.

Reasons why this is good:

• Aforementioned (apocryphal) Marie Antoinette/Mini Viva style euphemism concerning cake, that also sounds like a vague threat.
• The decision to use either a very closely replicated but slightly altered version of the bass/ background chorus synth found on BEP's "Tonight's Gonna Be a Good Night" or the original, continuing the Jordan campaign's deft use of sampling and reappropriation (!!)
• The verses that seem to draw on the rather cocksure, arrogant sentiments found in Keri Hilson's "Pretty Girl Rock" and the musical throb of Jamelia's (masterpiece) "Something About You".
• The line 'Even though there's blood on the floor" that just sounds like some sort of tampon and clubbing related calamity, and like someone needs to grab a mop.
• Incorporation of geeky glasses, making her look like some adorable extra in Saved By The Bell.
• Her general stunningness, ginger hair, smile etc. etc. *gushes (verbally) until trousers fall off*
• The energetic Hopscotch/"Jig of Life" dance routine.

Things that get in the way of its goodness:

• Male dancer in ridiculous hat. Pointless and silly. Although the hat made me think of Jamelia (AGAIN) and her debut single in which the video budget only stretched to a Yankees baseball cap, but, even in its early Noughties skint-throwaway-pop-minimalism was amazing because the song was a much more pleasant, musical form of the Bubonic Plague (in that it was infectious, not that you only got it through rat contact or that it resulted in armpit boils, decay and widespread death). This then prompted the question (why should I be allowed to write ever jk jk lolorollol) as to whether Alexis Jordan is an American Jamelia, mainly due to her inclusion of hats, lack of video budget, amazing songs and Burger King Whopper voice.
• Lack of gays. Most things in life suffer from this deficiency. Also this. This would also improve the lesbianosity of her featured Harley.
• Some of the naff dresses which look like they're from the 'Pixie Lott for Lipsy' collection.
• The slightly awkward looking female dancer on the far right- our far right, not hers.

Very good.

A Comfortable Distance.

So I may have accidentally watched Glee. I may have also been in an emotionally fragile state, jittery after three consecutive cups of tarry, super strong coffee and in crumpled pyjamas, but that's probably a poor excuse. I may have seen something on Glee that may have elicited an emotional reaction that wasn't simply derision or disdain. I may have shed a tear; a tear that didn't spring from my eye thanks to the mind splintering flat tones of auto-tune last seen on Cher in the nineties, but from a genuine, instinctive (is emotion instinctive or is it affected?) responsive feeling.

And it was caused by Lea Michele. Michele is undoubtedly an accomplished performer with a rich, powerful voice, but her character and sheer ubiquity within the Glee franchise (?) does tend to grate, as does the lack of variety that has been introduced into her Glee repertoire (although that's to be expected, I suppose, on a show intent on gaining such a wide mainstream audience). My weepy wallowing was provoked by one particular moment; getting up, yet again, in another Glee meeting, to perform what I thought would be yet another preprepared, predictable and saccharinely 'Musical Theatre Earnest' piece plucked from 'The Fame', much to the chagrin of other more neglected characters, I was, as a smug cynic tends to be, pleasantly surprised. Going all Sinéad O'Connor and losing a single, crystalline tear- potentially over the lack of Brittana action and general lesbian representation present within the series, frustrating alternatively orientated women around the world longing to hear scissoring mentioned seriously on major network television and not solely from the mouth of Sue Sylvester - over the tentative euphoria she feels over sensing the first thrill of love course through her, standing on the precipice of the greatest happiness or disaster to come her way in life, I was, as a bitter, heartless harpy, swept away.

Despite the sentimental montage of her walking down the locker-lined hallway, sheltered in the baseball-blazer clad arms of her tall, gentle jock in a blaze of electric, slo-mo sunset, it the song picked to convey this burgeoning, terrifying ecstasy, and accompany the syrupy montage, that caught me. The first few chords chimed so sweetly that I thought it was the work of Chris Martin, some Coldplay ballad about how you need Parachutes if you're a Scientist Viva-ng La Vida (of triteness), but it was not. It was Paramore. It was beautiful. Hearing the original for the first time only reinforced that opinion. Subdued, doubting but hopeful, understated but euphoric, a melody lilting but refusing to swoon (?). I'm not going to try and write something inaccurate, snobbish or generalising about the band or their music, or how this particular song fits into a wider context of their other material. I just wanted to put it on Shiny and New because it is such a gentle, well crafted, loving song and we've never really written about Hayley Williams on here, despite her prominence in music at the moment, her talent and her vocal singularity.

(And her amazing hair.)

All The Good Love That I Have Wasted.

This post is apropos of nothing. At a stretch I suppose it could be tied to New Year's resolutions; I did hear this in the Accessorize at Euston Station on Christmas Eve, tired, hungover, phoneless and whisky-damaged. It was one of those days when you're sporting your finest unibrow, boil breakout and eye tyres and you still feel the night before sitting stubbornly on your skin. Mental oaths sworn to never drink again may have passed sluggishly through my fogged head. Dignified it was not, especially when the flashbacks started up. But Jamelia, in all her magnificence, is abounding in the stuff - dignity, not flashbacks to drunken misbehaviour. I have to admit that I needed to google the sample, not for the title of the song, but for its meaning - "Golden Brown" - could refer to any number of things: demerara (sp?) sugar, a wholemeal loaf, frying onions, Caramacs, fake tan blurbs, the feathers of a tawny owl, the interior of any given Greggs. I was being absurdly naive, as per; no tawny owls for The Stranglers, rather heroin. No love for frying onions perceived in a lyric, no matter how big it may seem, could make sense in 'Never a frown with golden brown.' Silly innocent, food/owl obsessed brain.

The ingenuity of the sample could be twofold: the melodic jaunt of the harpsichord adds rich contrast to sedate vocal swayings, but there are lyrical connotations too. Though this sounds like many a generic ballad/ break up lover's farewell laced up in convention and tied up in cliché, could it be a comment on someone's drug addiction, given the coded meanings encrypted in the sample? Perhaps that's bestowing too much gravitas onto a straightforward pop song, but the potential for ambiguity is, is thrilling? Clever? Overemphasised?

Perhaps. "Golden Brown" seems to have been applied in its most literal sense in the video: sepia tones, fireworks, ochre tinted wallpapers, aged fabrics, varnished woods, the topaz haze of a lit city under the night sky (albeit a terribly green-screened one). Perhaps Jamelia hasn't wasted all her love on a hapless junkie (haven't we all), perhaps she just got stung by the strapping hunk featured feeling her up under the sheets; quelle tragedie. Whatever the context, it is still emphatic, anthemic in its repetition.It's what she excelled in after all: see "Thank You", "See it in a Boy's Eyes" - she was always convincing in strength, elegant even in frayed jeans and a baseball cap (the budgetless "Superstar" debut.) No more, no more indeed; no more to a lot of things. If you keep to your resolutions, that is.

Sorry Sorry Sorry, I'm Coming Down to Fix This.

So I think this is marvellous. As the S&N contributor with the least musical expertise and most questionable taste, I always feel hesitant about voicing opinions, feelings, potentially embarrassing emotive gushings etc. relating to music. But, as I said before, I think this has the knees of the bees. The bees that have knees? Do bees even have knees? If they did, or do, or could one day have some, they would be this song. It probably wouldn't function well as a connective joint facilitating movement between two clusters of ligament and bone in an animalian appendage, but it could try.

As a pop song it fares far more auspiciously. It has a hummy bit that suggests some sort of restoration-era fan-fluttering intrigue, a climbing, expansive chorus that transitions from gentle, floating introspection to massive, euphoric belting and a lead up to it that is all choppy, harmonised and major key. It sounds like it could have come from the very beginning of the millennium, but still manages to sound current with the sampled Deadmau5 beats (? synths? beating synths? two hearts beating together?) thrumming underneath it. Perhaps its the sampling of that particular chord structure that gives it such variety, and allows it to move so freely, or perhaps its down to the songs production, handled by Stargate - who have also worked with Rihanna and were behind Katy Perry's "Firework" - another corker.

But what I love, almost more than the song itself (which is a catchy shrimp (????! shrimp?! of a thing), is the video. The slightly if not significantly dodgy CGI, the slightly surreal futuristic look of it, reminiscent of someone fusing The Cell and Bedtime Story together and adapting the result for a Theatre In Education performance at a children's nursery, the prevalence of super shiny tin cans not just by themselves but as assembled works of art. So cryptic, so bizarre. It looks like it could sit quite comfortably next to JLo's 'Play' from 2001 with its DLR car prototypes, moving benches, conveyor-belt cityscapes and curiously shifting buildings. AND WHAT IS THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE COMPUTERISED SILK SCARF? IS IT A SYMBOL? A VISUAL METAPHOR? A LINK BETWEEN TWO SELVES BELONGING TO DIFFERENT CHRONOLOGIES? WHAT/HOW/WHY/ CHICKEN POT PIE?

Considering that this is a single from a semi finalist from 2006's America's Got Talent, its a very strong first release. The clever sampling has ensured that "Happiness" has climbed to no. 3 in the UK singles chart, which is pretty decent for someone nearly totally unheard of. It'll be quite interesting to see how her campaign unfolds: will they stick with the euphoric club sound or eschew cohesive production to emphasise the considerable vocal talents of 18 year old (!!!!) Alexis? Will they give her a strong visual and genre specific identity (is that a priority in an artist so young?), or will she be a one hit wonder? Will she go on to create more knees for bees?

Good God.

So this may be another Rihanna performance video, posted shortly after another Rihanna performance video post, but I think it is highly necessary (maybe because I'm totally and utterly infatuated.) This is the opening seven minute medley of Loud taken from the AMA (sounds like that pension scheme company with the adverts that feature Parkinson and Edie's mum) awards that took place last night. It featured performances from the bland (Taylor Swift), the brazen (Miley), the blokey (Enrique) and the Bieber, with two noteworthily polished ones by both P!nk and Xtina. But this is just blissful. What's her secret? Maybelline? The Loud campaign so far, although intense and vocally demanding, has been pretty much flawless; each incarnation of the single(s?) has been joyful, captivating, and in some way, innovative. Seeing the transfer from the smaller TV show studios to a MASSIVE LED STADIUM ARENA platform here (slight exaggeration there) only serves to improve it: the command of the stage, the fluid movement, the impeccable vocals, the charm and exuberance is irrefutably infectious. It's tempting to speculate as to why this works so well (in my opinion): is it extensive record label coaching? Probably. A fantastic choreographer? Most certainly. Rigorous dance and voice training further developed in stringent rehearsals? Evidently. The seeming effortlessness of it all must have been hard to attain, but you wouldn't have guessed from this. The surfeit of confidence and what seems to be pure ebullience look to be all her own, not something taught or memorised. Cue clichés like 'she's hit her stride', 'you wouldn't believe she was twenty two', a 'wisdom that belies her years' etc. etc.

The simplicity of it, of someone singing and dancing to a song, makes it so enjoyable. It is professional yet laidback, sexual yet spirited (a bit of a dodgy synonym - vibrant, vital, vivacious?) and lacks any empty, compensatory pretension or pyrotechnics. Beautiful. *runs off to write a fervent panegyric to the wonders of Rihanna, puts in envelope, posts with ring, passionate declaration of love and a marriage proposal*

The Battle of Alloyed Gulls (or, A Review of the New Nadine Video)

After the rushed release of Kheryl Kerl's 'Frere Jacques' Belvedere-flavoured L'Oréal Lip Slurry video, you may have been forgiven in believing that she had emerged smugly triumphant from the Girls Aloud solo career battle (which probably isn't a battle at all and any insinuation of one is probs v misogynist and anti-woman and snidey snark tabloid-filler of the lowest Perezian calibre, but whatever, it's a controversial journalistic 'angle' and I'm a woman so it's fine and not at all suspect etc etc etc). But wait! Nadine wouldn't let it lie, and the video for "Insatiable" has emerged from the ether (that being T4 a couple of days ago).

A later release could have worked as a unique tactical move: it would give you more time to hone/develop/refine your over-all concept or visual riposte - if it was one, which I'm sure it isn't and in saying so reduces both artists to wrestling topless in a paddling pool full of jelly in Nuts/Bollocks/Baps Digest/Mammaries Monthly and reduces them of any integrity as both artists and women - or not. For such a boozy-woozy-floozy sort of song (you have failed the imaginative adjective test) the video could be described by PR sorts as 'understatedly glamorous' or by others as "I'm sorry, I wasn't watching as I fell into a boredom coma and drowned in my own dribble" and/or "dull". As 'The Singing One' (and awkward dancer), of GA a full on ballet wouldn't have sat well, also because Cheryl was 'The Dancing One' and staged an am dram version of Swan Lake in 'To Be or Not to Be... A Horse! A Horse! A Kingdom for a Horse!' (We think she means "Promise This" - Ed). More reductionist Zoo journalism there for you.

So Nadine spends the video doing just that - singing. Singing in front of a hyperactive wind machine, singing sultryly into her microphone whilst writhing through some suggestive mic-handling choreography (with extra arabesques) and Glee-reminiscent hairography or whatever that episode was called where everyone tried to remove eyeballs with flicking hair follicles at high speeds -it had Eve in as the manager of the plagiarising headbanging rivals-, singing in nothing more than a black napkin, and with some crazy eyes as seen on Beyoncé.

But is it not a bit ironic that in competing with a fellow bandmate who now adjudicates a reality TV show, Nadine's video looks like one of the videos that gets made by a Cheryl-mentored X Factor winner, not by a fellow GA member (you have failed to grasp the basic concept of irony).

All the cliché's are there: rain machine, cringey band (espesh guy brandishing Essex White guitar), swooping shots, overlit closeups with blank background and a deliberately inoffensive, corporate (and cheap, rushed Christmas Release) feel. There's also that bit in the middle where she's wearing an awful teal coloured leather-bolero-aviator jacket over a half-arsed-GCSE-silk-painting-experiment-gone-awry swimsuit that makes her look a bit like that one in Hollyoaks that always wears hoop earrings and has a high ponytail. And she's also nicked that massive LED screen last seen in the ill fated Girls Can't Catch/Throw/Leave the Kitchen "Echo" video.

So, has Cheryl been trumped? The jury got bored and went to Boots to get a Meal Deal lunch and eat it by the ominously pungent water feature in the shopping centre. Despite the overriding sense that the record label were a bit hungover/generally shit/inexplicably transformed into Simon Cowell zombie hybrids at the time of The Nadine First Single Video Ideas Meeting at 8:30 on a dreary Monday morning plagued by tube strikes and freak snow storms, too much bronzer and a questionable Pat Butcher shade of lipstick, it's still all right. Nadine can, and most probably will, get by on that whole MiMi Carey 'Diva' evocation - that being that you're like, so megatalented that you can court bats with your vocal sonar and all you need to do to carry off a music video is stand about in a teeny little dress and a fantastic blow dry.

Which she does. Although it would have been at least 2000% better if she'd been a female James Bond in the Prohibition era who had accidentally stumbled across the Alesha Dixon "He Never Does the Washing" video held in an arms factory in Minsk coincidentally filled with dancers in matching suspenders, severe bobs and audacious prune coloured lipstain all directed by Ellen Von Unwerth.

Jozobolla writes about the new Cheryl Cole video.

Last night, in a Tia-Maria-induced stupour, Jozobolla sent us via medium of SMS a beautifully eloquent yet pleasingly concise review of the new Cheryl Kerl video, "Promise This", because we don't yet have internet connectation at our new swish pad in Manchester's glittering Platt Fields. You may ask "How on earth can you post this then!?" WE'RE AT THE LIBRARY DUH BRAIN. Take it from the top, Joz...

Just premiered on ITV2. All v 'sophisticated' 'luxe' 'muted'. Looks like a Belvedere/Lancôme ad. Highlight is her wearing 'wacky' tights and doing up-tempo jumpy Irish dance, but is otherwise bad impro/choreographed pas des deux. Editing is awful, inverted monochrome hyper-flashes and overlays bleurgh. Nice elemental theme, lots of L'Oréal lipgloss, A BIG FAT GRAZIA-ON-TREND-PAULA-REED-SPECIAL-MAXI, one bit where she's dressed as modern Gisele with haddocky pointe shoed feet doing awkward arms, lots of expansive Ray of Light fast forward sky shots and some rather good, creepy, wiry tree silhouettes. A sort of weak corporate 2010 hybrid of Tim Burton and the Spice Girls' "Holler" but with a 'mature grown up' caramel/beige palette. Nice wafty bit at end but bridge visuals dire.

And that is all.

Notes on the BRITs...

So, the 30th annual Brits Awards ceremony occured last night. Thirty year anniversary. A commemoration of a decade multiplied by three. If you were one half of a married couple you would possibly celebrate your Pearl anniversary with champagne, divorce, mutual stabbings, getting raucously, bitterly drunk and, if you're lucky, engaging in some boring, unsatisfying sex with someone you've come to detest over so many years of legally binding, mentally stultifying coexistence. Surely if it's a popular music awards show, such an anniversary would be a jubilant, self congratulatory + referential affair, abundant with cultural gems taken from the golden archives of mainstream music, filled with cheer, innovation and optimism. Surely?

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Perezcious

The four riders are on their way, a reopened Hellmouth is spouting demons far and wide, the Grim Reaper is out skewering babies on his rusting scythe, the obese are exploding and the planet's resurrected dead are harvesting the brains of the living innocent: Perez Hilton is starting a record label. Having scant information on this horrific, world/collective human taste/decency-endangering development and an even smaller amount of motivation to find more, that's all I can really state in cold, hard and terrifyingly factual terms presently. But if that's not blood chilling enough, I can venture into some wild and totally unrealistic speculation as to what this crime against civilisation's vast archives of sophisticated and innovative musical composition,composers and musicians, could hold:

• He signs terrible people; or worse, he signs good people.
• He engineers any visual representation of artists to accommodate self-congratulatory cameos of himself and his various products ad nauseum (sp?).
• His blog improves.
• His blog worsens (if that's possible) and bloats/expires from even more shameless self promotion.
• He ropes in various celeb mates to feature on tracks, and subsequently tarnishes/ terminates their careers.
• Or he could just use the above to jump start his own career in music and to ravage the collective ear of humanity. (His offering of "The Clap" for Another Gay Sequel: Gays Gone Wild is proof of how potently bad, and cranially destructive, a music + Perez combo can be.)
• And, most terrifying of all, it could be the beginning of an illustrious, lengthy and wildly successful pop career, enriched with musical variety and complexity, and ardently supported by all his famous contacts.

But you never know. Perhaps he will make some wise or tasteful choices and afford himself some much needed time out of the public eye. Considering his championing of various talented, and previously obscure, artists he could discover and foster some potentially exciting new musicians. However, it seems that increasingly in Hollywood, just like the T-shirts, denim lines, perfumes and handbags, record labels are becoming the new opinions/colonically irrigated, fastidiously bleached arseholes: everyone's got one. Will he have the quality to overcome the vast quantities of other upstart (possibly mediocre) labels?

(And there was a article in The Guardian that handled this a lot more coherently and comprehensively than I have. Link.)

MiMi's "Obsessed" Video

There is always a small part of me that genuinely looks forward to a new Mariah Carey video. Not out of a genuine curiosity concerning her latest musical direction, nor a sincere love of her idiosyncratic voice or even an interest in her unique take on new R'n'B trends; it's more of a grim and twisted fascination. Whilst most popular music artists expertly manipulate music videos to publicise their latest "reinvention" or their radical, new musical dabblings, and in the process attempt to dispell any public feelings of indifference or boredom, Mariah's visual history has been a more sedate affair. There have been no odd, unflattering hairstyles, no dalliances with sitars or tubas, no videos directed by obscure European artists featuring gilded tigers vomiting crows... or something similar.

Instead, she has primarily focused on placing as much distance between her past and her present selves as possible - that nineties Mariah who had a mane of curls, slightly frumpy clothes, cheap shoes and wore lipstick made out of treacle and cocoa powder. They involve a never-ending pursuit of "glamour", each subsequent video attempting to feature more butterflies, more make-up, diamonds, dazzle, flamboyance and short skirts than its predecessor. She's a bit like Joceyln Wildenstein: in a constant state of alteration and transition, endlessly striving for the smoothest vinyl face available. Pretty soon she'll be the colour of mahogany, clad in a cling film mini-dress swishing polyester hair extensions that reach her ankles.

So, here she is, MiMi, the colour of a scotch egg, reclining on a couch showcasing the most aggressive cleavage in pop music today in a New York wind machine factory. Also note her ingenious and subtle impersonation of an obsessed male fan, a role which she tackles with typical aplomb and with a hippy's minge plastered to her face.

(You can watch it here - Ed)

New things.

As S&N contributors go, I'm not the best. I haven't listened to the Little Boots album, I am ambivalent towards Madonna, generally inept at keeping track of any pop music developments/releases/ leaks and generally have pretty questionable taste in everything. So, to make up for these small failings, I have brought you a bursting goodie bag of new, shiny things (ie. bits and bobs knocking about in the hinterlands of Myspace or that I've lifted from a feature in The Guardian dating back to 2006) for your delectation.

So, first off, we have Fritz Helder and The Phantoms, with "Making a Scene". Just when Vogueing looked like it had finally fallen into decrepitude, gone senile and died gibbering quietly in the corner, this Toronto foursome have rescued it, rejuvenated it with some discoballs and poppers and unleashed it on the "noughties". The resulting music sounds like its being spoken by a gaggle of scathing, flamboyantly dressed rap-robots, all of whom do not approve of your outfit: "That Prada clutch, girl, is so last season" and who can read you as easily as a copy of Bella. Their sharp lyrics, preening bitchery and Eighties-Spaceship synth backings make them a pretty addictive, and infinitely quotable, listen.

At the other end of the pop music spectrum, and a far cry from the glittery, camp decadence of Fritz and gang, we have Anni Rossi; a Minnesotan singer/songwriter producing delicately handcrafted music. In a field inundated with hopefuls strumming guitars, tampering with pianos and writing tender love songs, the term "delicately handcrafted" perhaps loses its potency, but Rossi's songs are more than deserving. Although many of them consist of the modest combination of voice and instrument, she still manages to create complex, intricate and powerful songs fuelled and supported by her incredible technical ability. The insistent roughness of the strings also provide a contrast to Rossi's pure singing;her voice is a clear and unornamented one, restless and searching. Gorgeous.

Finally, there is Fan Death- a Disco-Noir duo who have rendered the sounds and light up dancefloors of the Seventies fashionable once more. The flurries of strings, throbbing bass lines, blippy synths and sultry vocals, when combined, sound akin to Bat For Lashes reworking the Greatest Hits of Boney M-but the white flares have been replaced with an American Apparell sleekness and lashings of slinky glamour ( which is even evident in their photos: they're wearing thick, inky-black false eyelashes last seen on Liza Minelli.).

GaGandalf.

I'm not really deserving of the first GaGa Live post. I almost definitely will forget the order of the set list and all the juicy details, but I spent three hours in a seething, sweaty pit of gay gyrating men with negligible amounts of personal space whilst wearing ridiculous platform pole dancer fetish shoes, so if pain and endurance can qualify writerly authority, I am almost justified.

Considering the fine varnish of perspiration encasing body, clothes and face, the incessant strobe lighting, the blaring pump of countless tinny poppers o'clock remixes and the undulating ocean of flailing, careless limbs surrounding and slapping us, the wait was worth it.

Ushered on stage after a slightly unsettling Warholian short (f)art house short involving pink paint and a Minnie Mouse voice, this petite barbie figurine of pop perfection erupted into "Just Dance." Considering her aggressive touring recently and constant live performances of the single, it was shocking to see such utter conviction and freshness in her performance. Despite the intricacy of a silver lame dress covered in origami style ornamental folds with a cinched waist, there was still a glut of hair flicking, impeccable dancing, forceful melisma-ing and confident crowd interaction. What in real life seems slightly ridiculous with slightly Essex style extensions and love of bronzing products made utter sense under harsh club lights and waves of camera flashes (real/fake papparazi were positioned at sides of stage) transforming her into a vicious, charlestoning warrior of amazingness.

At some point her space age froth skirt is removed by her sculpted, lithe dancers and her infamous black control briefs exposed. More dancing and singing ensues. There is a Messiah-like lift where she is carried round the stage on the shoulders of her toned whippet minions which I suspect was nicked from The Passion of The Christ, and we then descend into another pulsating anthem. Possibly "Poker Face"? Much weave tossing and crotch grabbing, both by herself and dancers.

Short intermission follows, another film shown, this time dedicated to The Brain (the first to The Heart..still unclear on these) featuring the same Helium voice, a Hello Kitty brush, platinum tangle clumps and Johnsons Baby Powder (?) GaGa reappears, this time clad in a Xena style breastplate complimenting her black Spanx. Rinse and repeat. Delves into "LoveGame", producing a literal Disco Stick which ACTUALLY GLOWS. Vaguely reminiscent of Saruman from LOTR especially with the additional swathes of poker straight pony mane. There is writhing and riding along with neat stick tricks. Another song I don't know, equally fierce. Then treated to "Papparazi"? Very good. Think "PokerFace" was actually finale...At some point there is the third in the trilogy of Willy Wonka film inserts (the bit with the TV transporter in a cavernous, whitewashed atrium.) GaGandalf is now wearing a stocking over her face in The Head. Lost as to the meaning of this. Slightly disturbed.

When this blur of lights, crotches, tuneful bellowing and writhing comes to an end,her breastplate is removed and a cake is produced. She thanks faceless cake minion, asks audience whether they would like some, proceeds to chuck some at us (after her previous dictatorial commands for hand waving and singalong-ing and various questionings throughout set: "are you feeling G-A-Y?!" "Probably.") Then mumbles she's not feeling so good in her innocent chipmunk voice and disappears in a bubble of ripped young men. Confusion ensues. More tinny music pumped at us from the DJ and the audience is unsure of how they should respond. Some hasten to exits, other start a rallying chant of "GA GA!" etc. Before we now it, the shapely flaxen headed goblin is back with an encore of "The Fame". The dance routine features a move that only be likened to throat scratching. Much of the same occurs, she prances, pumps, belts and bumps her way through the song with the same perplexing mix of stamina, cheekiness and enthusiasm, and then in a cloud of flashes and disco ball seizures, is gone.

Any critic who would dare suggest she is a derivative successor to Gwen and Christina had better start eating their words now, because that short performance was so breathtakingly flawless, invigorating and downright fresh that those girls have been blown out of the water x10000.

Darcy Porter.

Jane Austen has alot to answer for. Yes, she might be Britain's most famous and best loved female novelist who wrote books which captured and ridiculed a woman's passage through 19th (?) Century society just so, but by giving us Mr Darcy, she has given too many straight, impressionable women a reason to hope (or just downright delude themselves). Dawn Porter, alas, is no exception. I am now severely mentally traumatized after having watched one of her many "documentaries", this one being misleadingly titled "Dawn gets her man."

Dawn, in her own eyes, is the Bridget Jones of the noughties. A woman who is entrenched in her singledom, has a decent job, but is craving a long term love/ slap and tickle arrangement. But Dawn doesn't just want any Kebab shop/Mini cab lothario, she's upping the stakes just a little. Perfection. That's what she wants. As a greasy, flat chested cynic, I have long believed that human perfection is impossible to obtain unless you have the genes of several supermodels running through your veins or enough money to set up your own cosmetic surgery island lair (fitted with a Thunderbirds-esque plane launcher under the mountains to boot) somewhere in the Maldives. And the trouble with going to look for some form of perfect being with which to share your life, means that you will probably have to evaluate and scrutinise yourself for possible flaws and how to conceal them.

The whole documentary smacks of a presumptuous attitude; that Dawn deserves to go out with Mr England because.....because.....God knows why. She's pretty and what some people might call ditzy (mildly air-brained; she managed to mispell "rugged" within the first ten minutes) but she is by no means beyond minor corrections. But that's the same with just about everyone. Mr Darcy was a work of fiction, a solution to a problem that in reality, would have remained unsolved and the Bennett's family doomed to destitution. Fiction is fiction, that much is inescapable, even if you devise a series of compatability tests, bottle your own sweat or just relentlessly stalk unsuspecting males, it will never become fact.