A second track from local anonymous songwriter Joyrobber has mysteriously appeared online, and he’s bitter about not getting his dream job…..
If this mysterious dude’s August invective track at racist talk show host Jeremy Kyle, and his patronising attitude, it feels like him telling me he’s “not one for holding a grudge,” might have a smidgen of irony too! His grungy pop-punk response to his career rejection might be biting satire, but amusing with it.
Eight and a half years ago, he claims, he was cruelly denied his dream job by what appeared to be a corrupt interview process. Perhaps it was to take over from Kyle, but Joyrobber reveals nothing, even after I badgered him for a clue to his identity.
What we do know is it was produced by Sugarpill Productions, a parody of hip hop pioneering label Sugarhill, has the vocal engineering talents of Jolyon Dixon, and is rather catchy with a highly amusing hook. I Didn’t Want Your Stupid Job Anyway is indicative of how we all might feel after a failed interview but being British, we bit our tongue. A bolshy after-contemplation with dry implications, in a Weezer skater-punk two-fingers up fashion.
I don’t believe for a second he’s pleading for sympathy, just to get the frustration off his chest by thrashing a guitar at it. If you’ve been there too, you’ll identify, making me like this more than the debut single, because I’ve an incalculable history of bodged job interviews, likely because they were all knobs as well!
It’s up on Spotify, downloadable from Bandcamp with a “name your price” option, and it’s Marmite, love it or hate it, it remains a sticky spreadable extract to get over your dysphoria, but not sing at the Job Centre.
The first full album by Wiltshire’s finest purveyors of psychedelic indie shenanigans, Clock Radio, was knocked out to an unsuspecting world last week. It’s called Turfin’ Out The Maniacs, which perhaps should be fact-checked as it sounds to me like they’re letting them all in, as they arrive on yellow submarines and check into Frank Zappa’s 200 five-rhombus rated motels…..
Self-described as “easily triggered, dishonest, cryptic yet flirty deluded jangle rockers,” Clock Radio have produced a string of catchy slacker pop wonders here, as they continuously reach inside the box, like they’re four elfish Rowan Atkinsons all cast as Paul Atreides. But one thing is for certain, Chris Genner, Oliver Daltrey, Gary Martin and Fraser Wilson will entertain you.
Turfin’ Out The Maniacs sound like the results of the Coral offering The Divine Comedy a hashpipe in a moulded teenage boy’s bedroom; that’s a compliment by the way.
The opening tune Blood on Chrome certainly reeks of that breezy retrospection of Merseyside garage bands or sixties surf-rock, with an added preliminary Quo guitar riffs. Stoned at the Dojo, which follows emphasises the mock lounge style of The Divine Comedy. It’s vaudeville throughout, all Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band’s twirling circus, and an accordion welcomes in the next song, yet the tempo is upbeat indie rock. Handsome Weeping Man might leave you questioning if it’s necessary to connote the narrative, but it will leave you amused.
Clock Radio knows precisely what buttons to press to evoke a mood, and press them with free will. To say it’s a tad bonkers, it’s only a tad, and Mountains Beyond the Sun kindles a gentle side, drifting surf-rock, sunny side of the street vibe.
There’s ten three minute heroes on this impressive debut album, recorded, mixed and mastered by Dominic Bailey-Clay at Nine Volt Leap Studios, with Fender Rhodes piano, percussion by Dominic and a triangle by Shoshi B. If we’re content with getting halfway through and assuming they’ve calmed slightly, No Death takes us back onto the weird and wonderfully expressed if questionable muses of the opening.
Turfin’ Out The Maniacs is a comfy yet nippy prank, like being stung in the bottom but launching away from it to splash into a chocolate lake. Not so unlike Noël Coward playing a Bond villain, with Bowie as Bond; something you couldn’t imagine happening, but being Marie-Georges Méliès directed it and it’s on FilmFour at 3am, you might as well grab a bag of cheesy puffs and thirty grams of Amber Leaf, stay up watch it in your pants. “Cactus is cooler, I’m no Ferris Bueller, I do as I’m told,” is just one line I’m cherry picking to illustrate my point, you’ll be amused and rocked in plentiful equal measure.
It has an acoustic ending called Complex 5 which will leave you incarcerated in the meandering yet meticulous peculiarly pulp portrayals of Clock Radio, as if you melted into a bubble sofa. It is available now on the streaming platforms, or buy the digital album from Bandcamp.
We’ve had a spate of comical albums coming in for review, what with Death of Guitar Pop, Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer and now this, which is by far the darkest, consequently most poignant. Songwriter and raconteur Scott Lavene returns this Friday (17th September) with Milk City Sweethearts, an album of new material…..
There’s intelligent and thought-provoking arch-beat poetry chatted here, an amphetamine-induced self-evaluation of an ordinary Essex boy, delivered passionately with a witty edge you cannot ignore. Something of an oddity at times, random prose seemingly slotted erratically fall into place with a running theme of this hopeless romantic, as the album progresses.
Behind a variation of backbeats, often being post-punk, as is Scott’s roots, yet fluctuating through new romantic electronica and eighties mod revival, are honest and blunt chronicles of love, loss, coming of age, in effect making for a memorable kind of album, border-crossing Ian Dury with Sleaford Mods; a Mike Skinner of The Streets in the Bowie or Jam era, or a psychedelic Gecko.
Humbly wry, the observations of his imprudent past come back to haunt him, as he retells heartfelt autobiography. The Ballad of Lynsey being the particularly touching example, telling of a potential everlasting love, but lasting only year due to differences, with the revealing chorus, “I choose amphetamines over you.”
If I’ve made this sound despondent and somewhat depressing, while yeah there is that, Scott’s witty charisma teeters atop at even the gloomiest synopsises with clever wordplay and metaphors. And besides, not every track is quite so melancholic. In fact, it begins very much with the aforementioned mod revival style. Upbeat opening tune, Nigel, is especially comical, expressing the strangeness of individual’s choice of “kicks.” Likewise, The First-Time reels off an amusing list of first experiences with the annotation, “one day there’ll be a last.” It’s all very Essex lad Talking Heads, Phil Daniels chatting on Blur’s Parklife, etc.
Art-pop carries over when the mod revival moves over for a new wave electronica feel as the album progresses, by the third tune, The Earth Don’t Spin, it’s very much more Stephan Tintin Duffy than Weller. For all the credentials and comparisons mentioned, there’s no cliché, everything here is uniquely composed and written originally, and Milk City Sweethearts isa listener, not the sort of long-player you can pause and pick up again, you’ll be impelled to digest it one sitting.
A master storyteller astutely aware of when and how to evoke the correct emotions, and find unusual thoughts to everyday scenarios. The farewell to deceased finale, Say Hello to Zeus, is as Bowie, simply inimitable and inducing. Whereas halfway through gives us the laugh-out-loud Walk Away is Essex humour at its very best.
Closest you’ll get to see him to here is Bath’s Komedia on the 12th December, for now this masterful album, out via Nothing Fancy Records, is interesting, to say the least, an essential item for enthusiasts of the quirky and unusual, making the world seem that much smaller, and amusing, for lonely hearts.
I’m quite happy, thank you, but loved it nonetheless, cos it ain’t always been that way. And that’s it, right there, I figure it’s not only my association Scott is from my motherland, but there’s something I think anyone with a heart will identify with here, and that’s something really rather special.
Chippenham folk singer-songwriter, M3G (because she likes a backward “E”) has a new single out tomorrow, Friday 19th December. Put your jingly bell cheesy tunes…
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Okay, I’ll get my coat. Leave it to the professionals, one of whom announced this morning, Devizes is on his hitlist. Husband of comedy supremo Sarah Millican, and king of the one-liners, Gary Delaney delivers his hilarious tour, “Gary in Punderland,” to our honoured little town on Thursday 5th May 2022, appearing at the Corn Exchange……
The double Sony Award Winner and Chortle Award nominee is a regular on Mock The Week. Gary is the only comic ever to have got two gags in the same top 10 for Dave’s TV Funniest Jokes from the Edinburgh Fringe, and his current tour took in over 200 venues; we’re so glad to hear he’s heading our way. After selling out his Andover show, and in the absence of a Swindon show, it was decided that Devizes offered the best central location, and easiest access in Wiltshire to attract his fans. Devizions love a bit of joking about, look at the councillors we elected….ba boom!!
If you’re hunting for snark, Gary’s got it covered! Not one to get too bogged down in serious stuff, like political and social observations, he leaves that to other comedians. Gary Delaney is known for his machinegun rapid, quick fire one liners, which take you away from your daily lives for the evening, something I’d imagine we all could do with. He loves each and every gag, and you can’t help but be carried away by his infectious charm. He’s like a cheeky schoolboy who can barely hide his glee with each and every punchline.
Courtesy of Sheer Music, we’ve been holding onto this news for a while, aching to tell you, honest! So, if you’re ready to dive into a rabbit hole of the best jokes in the world, star of Live at the Apollo and sell-out sensation Gary Delaney is your man.
WIN A COUPLE OF TICKETS!!
But to help you prepare, and you know, to celebrate this fantastic news, I want you to think up your best one liner, the very crème de la crème of your wit, and either send it to us using the box below, or commenting on the Facebook share of this article. Facebook users, ensure you’ve liked our page, invited your friends to like it too, and shared the post; I will be checking!
Also, ensure you have commented on the official Devizine Facebook page’s post, and not those shared to other groups and pages, I cannot trace them all, hunting for your joke, no matter how bad it might be; for that’s a joke in itself!
Closing Date for this competition: 4th October 2021. You must be over 18 to enter the competition.
Meanwhile I’m going to arrange for a score of top comedy judges to decide on the best one, (which will more than likely be my daughter and I, or if we can, Gary Delaney might help!) and they will WIN TWO FREE TICKETS! Note, this event is strictly 16+, and wheelchair access and seats are available.
Otherwise, tickets are set at £20, and available from SeeTickets and TicketSource online.
Having to unfortunately miss Devizes’ blues extravaganza on Friday, I crossed the borderline on Saturday to get my prescribed dosage of Talk in Code…with a…
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Must have been about fifteen or so years ago, random folk in a pub told me they were off to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was surprised to hear it was still going, and had it in my head its writer, Richard O’Brien had passed away. I pointed this out, and they refuted the fact. Someone pulled a mobile phone out their pocket and, in a flash, proved me wrong. With a virtual reference library at one’s fingertips the lively debate which would’ve, in previous times, circulated around the boozer, was kaput, the potential conversation starter settled, and the pub fell silent.
In the interest of truth, provided it’s a trustworthy source, fact checking is no bad thing. Obviously, I wished no malice on Mr O’Brien, just an incorrect piece of trivia I’d picked up. But it was the first time it occurred to me, sadly, as well as the art of spreading urban myths, we live in an era where any mystery is immediately solved. I mean, loads of money was wasted hoping to find the Loch Ness Monster, but if an Android app actually proves it either way, the myth is ruined. Bristol-based Nigel G Lowndes nails this unfortunate reality in the title track of new album, Hello Mystery.
But whoa, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Mystery is the eighth track of this varied ten track show, released tomorrow (26th March 21.) To commence at the beginning, the direct boomer, Boring screams Talking Heads at me, and I’m left thinking this is going to be an easy ride, one comparison to art-pop and I’m done. But, oh no, far from it. And it’s all because Nigel is a one-man variety show. To conclude there’s elements of tongue-in-cheek loungeroom and easy listening, akin to Richard Cheese or The Mike Flowers Pops, although there largely is, is not to have listened till end, where the finale Always Leaving London, is an acute folk-rock acoustic masterwork.
Track-by-track then is the best method to sum up this highly entertaining album. As I’ve mentioned you’ll start by contemplating he’s a 21st century Talking Heads without the punk edge of the era. But the second song, Tell me Tomorrow would confirm this if it wasn’t so much more vaudeville than the risky titled Boring, (as all of it is far from boring) but it’s becoming clear not to take Nigel too seriously.
When a relationship breakdown, caused by the partner’s affection for some critter-like pets he buys for her is the subject matter for the third, bluegrass parodied song, Furry Little Vampires, it’s become laugh-out-loud funny. Country and doo-wop merge afterwards, but the fifth track, Bubble, has a Casio keyboard samba rhythm with a floating romance theme. What are you doing to me, Nigel?!
As randomly foodie based as Streetband’s Toast, we’re back to uplifting art-pop with the very British notion a cup of tea will sort all your problems out, even psychosis. But random as this is, White Roses, which follows, is a more sombre nod to Nigel’s appreciation of country. Stand alone, it’s a gorgeous ballad; Nigel recognises the need to know the rules in order to break them. As he does by the very next song; Shoes follows country-rock again, but with a sillier, nonsensical subject.
The album plays out on the country tip, its influence seems to build throughout. The aforementioned obituary to mystery is as wonderful in thoughtful narrative as a country classic, and then we’re treated to Always Leaving London. Despite its skipping variety, nothing on Hello Mystery will, as the beguiling opening track shouts, bore you, that much I can guarantee.
If you’re looking for dopily swaying while holding your elongated black and sapphire dyed fringe under your hoody, as a melancholic indie-rock icon miserably recites his teenage anguish with a whining semitone through his nose, then avoid this. For everyone else, Nigel G Lowndes is very worthy of your attention; a sparkly beacon of showbiz, more surprising than a contemporary David Byrne with a Stetson, and when it comes to diversity, it puts The Mike Flowers Pops back on the shelf in the garden centre. Hello Mystery is as it says on the tin, and for this I give it full marks. Johnny Cash pastiche meets Tonight at the London Palladium; love it!
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Following the release of Chilly’s new album ‘A Very Chilly Christmas’, platinum selling UK producer Toddla T has put his very own spin on the record, The Coldest Crimboout today (16th Dec.) Featuring help from friends Nadia Rose, Serocee, Coco and Deli OneFourz, and even Jarvis Cocker features, Toddla T and Chilly Gonzales delight with this tongue-in-cheek hip hop “very festive mixtape.”
It’s an amusing quarter-of-an-hour of naughtiness seasonal rap, like a nativity gone bad. Chilly Gonzales may revisit old carols and the new pop standards on his album, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without friends and family, so Gonzo has assembled his gang to celebrate the holidays in his playful and intimate style.
A Very Chilly Christmas Special gives old-school TV Christmas variety shows a 2020 makeover. “Santa Claus, like all of us, has had a challenging year,” Chilly says, “and has decided to go to therapy.”
A very chilly christmas special, with guests Feist, Jarvis Cocker and more, streams December 23. Details and tickets here.
If growing up in Witham meant Braintree appeared to be Shelbyville to our Springfield, I should go no further. The Prodigy are undoubtedly Essex’s finest musical export in the last three decades, next to Colchester’s Blur, and what did Witham give us? Olly Murs, that’s who.
Though if Jay McAllister’s hometown evokes my own childhood memories, his forthcoming album, Knee Deep in Nostalgia will for all. It’s released, as all his annual studios albums are, on his birthday, the 1st December. Yet whereas Braintree’s Prodigy were sovereigns of progression, there’s nothing particularly ground-breaking about Jay, from the same Essex community, who’s tongue-in-cheek stage name, Beans on Toast suggests. But it makes up for it in highly entertaining folk songs which doesn’t take themselves too seriously.
As with Frank Turner, who incidentally guested on and produced previous Beans on Toast albums, I jumped on the chance to review this on the endorsement from Sheer Music’s Kieran Moore, and just as before, perhaps more so, he didn’t let me down. For as a folk singer-songwriter I’d evaluate Beans on Toast isn’t Tammy Wynette, or Willie Nelson, of whom he takes a nod to in a song on this album, but he is the best thing at least since the sliced bread in his namesake. He is Beans on Toast, indefinitely, and I love beans on toast. you can add cheese, you can add little sausages, but as it remains, none matter, simplicity is key; just beans, on two slices of toast, it works.
Aptly, just as the dish, his style is simple but effective and immediately likable. He drafts songs from the heart, served with a side-order of cheeky Essex humour, the reason why he’s played every Glasto since his first, and Boomtown, recorded with and shared the stage with many legends, recorded in Kansas with Truckstop Honeymoon, opened for Kate Nash and Flogging Molly, and aforementioned Turner on his sell-out Wembley show. Why haven’t I cottoned on about his brilliance before? It’s an age thing; old dog, new tricks. But that, in a nutshell, is the theme for this album, as the name suggests, but not without both sentimental and humorous prose.
For this whippersnapper contemplates his looming fortieth, which, if I get the honour of you reading this, Jay, I’ll confirm it gets no better. And with it reminisces his past. One concerning the thrills and pitfalls of gigging in Camden, but most poignant are those which go back to childhood; being frightened on Halloween, inspirational teachers, family discos at a village hall, and one which ingeniously sums up the whole shebang of daydreaming about the past.
Knee Deep in Nostalgia isn’t going to wow you with technological advances in sound, it isn’t going to whisk you to a fantasy world. I’d even say there’s sometimes cliché with the subject matter, but when done it’s done uniquely, insightfully reflective. There’s ingeniously uncensored meagre material here, offering a range aside the general theme of nostalgia, particularly the upbeat and carefree Coincidence, which rings almost on a level of Madness for fairground joy.
The gem is precisely in its simplicity, Beans on Toast reflects and rebounds onto the listener, acknowledging their own life in his words. You may have known a crazy Australian dude, as depicted here, you may giggle at your own fondness for Finder’s Crispy Pancakes, or when the streetlights coming on was a signal to go home, and the other everyday juvenile cultural references. And for this, and more, I bloody love this album.
There is a particular nugget which knocked me head-over-heels, and it’s when Beans on Toast get sentimental. Reminiscing often spawns from watching your own children, and interacting with their joy and innocence at discovering the world again. Tricky to pinpoint why having kids is overwhelmingly fantastic, being they poo on your hand, launch their dinner in your face, cost you a king’s ransom, belittle you and grow to ignore your every word, but with a simple leitmotif Beans on Toast nails it. Again, even when semimetal, nothing is psychologically challenging, it’s just the premise of The Album of the Day, which touches the heartstrings; sharing a moment with his daughter, as with alongside other memorable doings, he temps her musical taste with choices from his record collection. It sounds sickly, but I promise you, as I did earlier, this guy can pull it off with bells on.
That said, kids grow, and the fragile years, when they’d take heed and listen to Bob Marley, Dire Straits, Paul Simon, or whoever inspired you, are too short. They’ll find their own way, and you have to allow them to, as your house turns into a bass funnel and you metamorphize into your own misunderstanding parents; it’s unavoidable no matter how you might think when they were inspired by your likes, and in this, is the brilliance of the song.
I mean my offspring, they don’t even like beans on toast, right, which I think is abnormal; all kids like beans, it should be enforced! Such should this album. And it comes with an accompanying album, The Unforeseeable Future, which I could only speculate about, as the title suggests, as they didn’t send that. On the basis of this one though, I’m musically smitten.
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