just watched the glasgow gig, fair enough it was loud and the last bit of my father my king wisnae neccesary but apart from that it was great, really great. at real step up from the album tracks. " moanin irish" comes to mind . if it was too loud just get out mate.
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Mogwai, shite? (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter LAINGY
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Other phrases:
Shite, overrated, desperately self-publicised, Slint and MBV- ripping, dull, arrogant, indulgent and not in a good way, sadly respected when folk should be listening to the new 'Gazi instead, popular as a result of being quotable (without stretching to lyrics), sloganeering, bandwagon-jumping.
And they just happen to be Scottish.
Not that that makes any odds.
Although the phrase "Scotch Twat" comes to mind.
Shite, overrated, desperately self-publicised, Slint and MBV- ripping, dull, arrogant, indulgent and not in a good way, sadly respected when folk should be listening to the new 'Gazi instead, popular as a result of being quotable (without stretching to lyrics), sloganeering, bandwagon-jumping.
And they just happen to be Scottish.
Not that that makes any odds.
Although the phrase "Scotch Twat" comes to mind.
BeefCurtains
New Member
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- Nov 7, 2001
- Messages
- 7
Mogwai take it in the face
mark
M&S Wine Gums FTW
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2001
- Messages
- 5,093
misserable band of kappa clad fuckwits.
Monkey
Member
BeefCurtains = Joss
Nope.
BeefCurtains was HP writing from my house.
He'd forgotten his password and was here drinking ale.
A shiny star, Mr. IP Address detective!
BeefCurtains was HP writing from my house.
He'd forgotten his password and was here drinking ale.
A shiny star, Mr. IP Address detective!
fake working class
New Member
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- 109
hats off, hp.
bout time someone was called it.
bout time someone was called it.
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- 17,098
joss... chippy brady? ace.
beef curtains.. fucking ian harte is THE WORST irish footballer of his generation. i'd rather have a 44 year old johnny sheridan at left back. he lazy and profligate, arrogant and useless. he's the mogwai of our team. if the rest of them weren't, for the most part, overachieving, him limitless limitations would be glaringly obvious. he has to rely on ancient stan to get him out of jail. he never looks like he could give a fuck about defending, he NEVER tackles and his passing is the piss of some lukewarm corpse. if it wasn't for the fact he can strike a dead ball and score the odd peno, he wouldn't be in team. and when oleary cops on and buys himself a left back, hartey will be out of a job and good fucking riddance.
scotch is a drink.
Young Team sounds like U2.
one idea does not a band make. and i did a review of Rock Action which i have lying about and no one wanted to publish it, COS I'M SPEAKING THE TRUTH, man, and they just can't handle what i'm laying down.
so, there.
beef curtains.. fucking ian harte is THE WORST irish footballer of his generation. i'd rather have a 44 year old johnny sheridan at left back. he lazy and profligate, arrogant and useless. he's the mogwai of our team. if the rest of them weren't, for the most part, overachieving, him limitless limitations would be glaringly obvious. he has to rely on ancient stan to get him out of jail. he never looks like he could give a fuck about defending, he NEVER tackles and his passing is the piss of some lukewarm corpse. if it wasn't for the fact he can strike a dead ball and score the odd peno, he wouldn't be in team. and when oleary cops on and buys himself a left back, hartey will be out of a job and good fucking riddance.
scotch is a drink.
Young Team sounds like U2.
one idea does not a band make. and i did a review of Rock Action which i have lying about and no one wanted to publish it, COS I'M SPEAKING THE TRUTH, man, and they just can't handle what i'm laying down.
so, there.
BeefCurtains
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vin, please post one of those damning posts about indiscriminate posts being turned into soccer debates thanks to hector. hang on, you like soccer. well, teach soemone else how to do it... post posts.
:'(
:'(
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and rip my eyes out with a shit-ended stick but the new fugazi rekkid is fucking amazing. that second last song with the acoustic guitar ... take me guy, please take me guy.
:'(
:'(
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left back is a problem. if their were anyother candidates, they'd be playing there. we need to invent a left back before the wc.
paul butler? hooook tchooo. wanker. as far as i am aware, mick played him in a competitive game... cannay remeber which one, just to cup tie for all other countries he was thinking of marrying into. prick. that showed him.
oh and, " yes hag. you are right"
paul butler? hooook tchooo. wanker. as far as i am aware, mick played him in a competitive game... cannay remeber which one, just to cup tie for all other countries he was thinking of marrying into. prick. that showed him.
oh and, " yes hag. you are right"
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duh hector! your thinking is so 1984. so very duh!
Joss's picture looks like Darragh Purcell when he used to be all baggy.
BeefCurtains
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Paul Butler played in a friendly against the Czech Rep. and has talked about playing for Wales, good riddance
I really don`t agree with you on the Harte issue, only Dennis Irwin, if he hadn`t retired, might have a chance of taking his place
Believe me if Harte was English he would be getting a game, if you`re talking about shit defenders look no further than Ashley Cole and Chris Powell
Lets just hope Cabra`s Steven Carr makes it back for the wc should we make it as he could defend both wings as he is a truelly great player
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Rock action, Mogwai
You're a band, you’re from Scotland, you’re miserable and unemployed, and more importantly you’re pretentious. Be you Simple minds or Big Country or Heavy Petting or Marrilion, you’re a pack of pretentious, student wankers. That’s the way it is. You’re Scottish and you have something to prove, to the world , to the English, to the hun, whatever. We are cleverer than you, you croak, we may be uglier and our skin may be look like yogurt and the weather may be as appealing as a yaks rectum. But you’re deep, aint chya? Oh yes.
Then you reach a point where you realize, nay cunt is listening. So what do you do? You dumb down. Observe Jim Kerr croaking the oblique word collage of Sons and Fascination to his bombastic crotch talk of Don’t You Forget about Me. You realize that being clever hasn’t got a patch on being rich. And people don’t understand you anyway, people don’t care, and NOBODY ever reads Robert Burns but you. So you dumb it down, for the Hun, The English, the yanks. You write two songs, repeat them ad nauseum, (in big country’s case it was the one song, either sped up, or slowed down.)
So why would Mogwai mess with the script. After two full length (and I mean FULL chuffing Length) albums and a host of ep’s they trotted out their pretentious manifesto to much beard stroking and attempted foot tapping. Students loved them, students who loved Arab Strap and had Britney posters for added irony on their walls. Students loved the way all Mogwai songs started slow and built up till you had lots of guitar noise. Everytime. Students were afraid to be the first dissenting voice in the luvvy camp, the first to point out, hold the fuck on…aren’t they just playing the same song? Sometimes sped up, sometimes slowed down, in classic Big country stylee? No one wanted to be the first voice, to be vilified, ostracized, decloaked of mystique and pique.
But now you can, for Mogwai have dumbed it all down. Rock Action is their Breakfast Club soundtrack. Given that their last offering, the eponymous four track ep was nearly thirty minutes long, it will come as a surprise to find that this album clocks in at a mere, America friendly, 38 minutes. It’s like something you could put on the stereo while fixing your student bouffant in the mirror., the soundtrack to your midafteroon wank, on your headphones as you trudge down to the dole office.
It starts off with a smattering of pretension, good old Yankee stylee pretension. In fact Sine Wave, the albums opener, could just be A Warm Place by prolific whinger Trent Reznor and his NIN from ’93s moan-a-thon The Downward Spiral. As soon as that drifts out of your consciousness for ever, you meet with Take me To Somewhere Nice. It sounds like Mogwai, alright, then Stuart pipes up with his singing. You think, well, it had to happen, and it’s nice to get it over with now, at the beginning of the album. His off kilter, fat throated whine. The words are inconsequential, they usually are, his voice is, as ever, like a wet fart in the sleeping bag. Grand so.
But what’s this? The next two songs also contain, gasp, vocals? Some in this horrible makey up fascist language (Welsh), ala Magma, sung by the Mogwai choir featuring Gruff Rhys from Super Bleeding Furry Fuckin Animals. And what’s more, there’s this acoustic guitar going on at the beginning Dial: Revenge that sounds like it should be on side two of Led Zep III. Which makes sense, seeing as the only British Rawk band to make an impression on America in the last forty years was the Zep. It’s formula mate. It’s all neatly tailored to fit in to the miniscule attention –bubble of the ivy league college radio gang. It’s Mogwai doing Jim Kerr, mid Atlantic drawls, bad hair days (in this case, it’s all dem shining pates), Kaleigh, ohhh, I never thought I’d lose ye…. It’s Big Country doing the fast one. Ye’d never have expected it, but, it’s more yank than wank. Makes ye miss the wank.
So, time merrily spent playing Name that influence, it becomes clear what the boys have been listening to. Too much moody grumblings ala Low. One thing, girls, Low have the odd voice in there, to carry a song. It was quaint in the olden days when Stuart would have croon like a slack-jawed, tuneless Scott Walker. It served to prove they were right to be mainly instrumental, and that, yes indeed, most bands have nothing to say worth a fuck. So why have they decided to make the instrumentals the distinguishing, stand out moments. Maybe it’s a bit of reverse psychology: to all those idiot American children who feel that they must sing along, no matter how flimsy the subject matter. It’s like saying: see, you wanted us to be Rawk and roll and have the words and the voice and all. Happy now? See and hear the fucking state of it? That’ll teach you all.
On 2 rights make one wrong, where it sounds like a Mogwai cover band attempting a difficult Tangerine Dream number, they offer more cryptic clues to the depraved dept of their musical malfeasance. A vocoder chirps irritatingly in. Perhaps they borrowed it from Puffy Coombes or someone. Heavy, Albini-esque drums kicking through, little keyboard squiggles here and there and the piece de la bleeding résistance, the suddenly ubiquitous Banjo bit. A fucking Banjo? Laden with strings and banjo’s and this choir like nurdlings in the background, you could be forgiven for checking the label to make sure it isn’t actually Manfred Mann or something on the player.
So, you’re from Scotland, and ye stick in the acoustic guitars, the post ironic banjo, the mature and artistic string sections. The songs have stupid names, but nowhere near as stupid as before. Is it a progression? Is it more pretentious or utterly bourgeois? The answer lies in the state of the cover, rusty red, big, black letters spelling out MOGWAI, in case you didn’t notice. The teasingly self aware moniker: Rock Action is the key. There’s no action, no rock. But in America the like that kinda thing. I mean, Marilyn Manson isn’t actually a woman. Eh? How dya like that?
So, in finishing I’ll add a quote, Judd Nelson in the Breakfast club: "Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?", and ruminate on “Does the Incredible String Band know that Mogwai are listening to them, again?”
Hector Grey
You're a band, you’re from Scotland, you’re miserable and unemployed, and more importantly you’re pretentious. Be you Simple minds or Big Country or Heavy Petting or Marrilion, you’re a pack of pretentious, student wankers. That’s the way it is. You’re Scottish and you have something to prove, to the world , to the English, to the hun, whatever. We are cleverer than you, you croak, we may be uglier and our skin may be look like yogurt and the weather may be as appealing as a yaks rectum. But you’re deep, aint chya? Oh yes.
Then you reach a point where you realize, nay cunt is listening. So what do you do? You dumb down. Observe Jim Kerr croaking the oblique word collage of Sons and Fascination to his bombastic crotch talk of Don’t You Forget about Me. You realize that being clever hasn’t got a patch on being rich. And people don’t understand you anyway, people don’t care, and NOBODY ever reads Robert Burns but you. So you dumb it down, for the Hun, The English, the yanks. You write two songs, repeat them ad nauseum, (in big country’s case it was the one song, either sped up, or slowed down.)
So why would Mogwai mess with the script. After two full length (and I mean FULL chuffing Length) albums and a host of ep’s they trotted out their pretentious manifesto to much beard stroking and attempted foot tapping. Students loved them, students who loved Arab Strap and had Britney posters for added irony on their walls. Students loved the way all Mogwai songs started slow and built up till you had lots of guitar noise. Everytime. Students were afraid to be the first dissenting voice in the luvvy camp, the first to point out, hold the fuck on…aren’t they just playing the same song? Sometimes sped up, sometimes slowed down, in classic Big country stylee? No one wanted to be the first voice, to be vilified, ostracized, decloaked of mystique and pique.
But now you can, for Mogwai have dumbed it all down. Rock Action is their Breakfast Club soundtrack. Given that their last offering, the eponymous four track ep was nearly thirty minutes long, it will come as a surprise to find that this album clocks in at a mere, America friendly, 38 minutes. It’s like something you could put on the stereo while fixing your student bouffant in the mirror., the soundtrack to your midafteroon wank, on your headphones as you trudge down to the dole office.
It starts off with a smattering of pretension, good old Yankee stylee pretension. In fact Sine Wave, the albums opener, could just be A Warm Place by prolific whinger Trent Reznor and his NIN from ’93s moan-a-thon The Downward Spiral. As soon as that drifts out of your consciousness for ever, you meet with Take me To Somewhere Nice. It sounds like Mogwai, alright, then Stuart pipes up with his singing. You think, well, it had to happen, and it’s nice to get it over with now, at the beginning of the album. His off kilter, fat throated whine. The words are inconsequential, they usually are, his voice is, as ever, like a wet fart in the sleeping bag. Grand so.
But what’s this? The next two songs also contain, gasp, vocals? Some in this horrible makey up fascist language (Welsh), ala Magma, sung by the Mogwai choir featuring Gruff Rhys from Super Bleeding Furry Fuckin Animals. And what’s more, there’s this acoustic guitar going on at the beginning Dial: Revenge that sounds like it should be on side two of Led Zep III. Which makes sense, seeing as the only British Rawk band to make an impression on America in the last forty years was the Zep. It’s formula mate. It’s all neatly tailored to fit in to the miniscule attention –bubble of the ivy league college radio gang. It’s Mogwai doing Jim Kerr, mid Atlantic drawls, bad hair days (in this case, it’s all dem shining pates), Kaleigh, ohhh, I never thought I’d lose ye…. It’s Big Country doing the fast one. Ye’d never have expected it, but, it’s more yank than wank. Makes ye miss the wank.
So, time merrily spent playing Name that influence, it becomes clear what the boys have been listening to. Too much moody grumblings ala Low. One thing, girls, Low have the odd voice in there, to carry a song. It was quaint in the olden days when Stuart would have croon like a slack-jawed, tuneless Scott Walker. It served to prove they were right to be mainly instrumental, and that, yes indeed, most bands have nothing to say worth a fuck. So why have they decided to make the instrumentals the distinguishing, stand out moments. Maybe it’s a bit of reverse psychology: to all those idiot American children who feel that they must sing along, no matter how flimsy the subject matter. It’s like saying: see, you wanted us to be Rawk and roll and have the words and the voice and all. Happy now? See and hear the fucking state of it? That’ll teach you all.
On 2 rights make one wrong, where it sounds like a Mogwai cover band attempting a difficult Tangerine Dream number, they offer more cryptic clues to the depraved dept of their musical malfeasance. A vocoder chirps irritatingly in. Perhaps they borrowed it from Puffy Coombes or someone. Heavy, Albini-esque drums kicking through, little keyboard squiggles here and there and the piece de la bleeding résistance, the suddenly ubiquitous Banjo bit. A fucking Banjo? Laden with strings and banjo’s and this choir like nurdlings in the background, you could be forgiven for checking the label to make sure it isn’t actually Manfred Mann or something on the player.
So, you’re from Scotland, and ye stick in the acoustic guitars, the post ironic banjo, the mature and artistic string sections. The songs have stupid names, but nowhere near as stupid as before. Is it a progression? Is it more pretentious or utterly bourgeois? The answer lies in the state of the cover, rusty red, big, black letters spelling out MOGWAI, in case you didn’t notice. The teasingly self aware moniker: Rock Action is the key. There’s no action, no rock. But in America the like that kinda thing. I mean, Marilyn Manson isn’t actually a woman. Eh? How dya like that?
So, in finishing I’ll add a quote, Judd Nelson in the Breakfast club: "Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?", and ruminate on “Does the Incredible String Band know that Mogwai are listening to them, again?”
Hector Grey
BeefCurtains
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- Joined
- Nov 7, 2001
- Messages
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Should read:
vin, please post one of those damning posts about indiscriminate posts being turned into Mogwai debates
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2000
- Messages
- 11,319
right on, brother!
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