Kevin Smith, of Clerks fame, tells us that Disintegration by The Cure is the best album ever. He cites no less an authority than Kyle Broflovski. These gentlemen are right – I’ve owned the album since its release in 1989, and it is one of a small handful that are always worth another listen.

I just watched a documentary about a box of 45’s* that John Peel kept separate from the rest of his collection. This was the box that he would grab, along with his wife and kids, if the house was burning down. The range of music covered summed up Peel; while any one person might have fond memories of his promotion of punk, reggae or whatever, his treasures covered a dozen or more different genres.

Out of perhaps 150-200 records, twenty were of The White Stripes, a band that sum up much of the rawness in music that Peel celebrated throughout his career. The Fall, his favourite band, were in contrast totally absent, perhaps because it was everything they did that he admired, rather than any one thing. Most poignant, though, was what he called the best record in the whole history of the world ever – Teenage Kicks, by The Undertones. The box contained 3 copies, just in case.

(*For our younger readers, 45’s were like engraved CDs)

Hmm, maybe I could be a musician too. There is sound, so turn it up or down depending on location. Oh, and stick with it to see the duet part.

(HT: Christian Montoya)

Not from me, but from some woman on the telly (possibly from Coronation Street, judging by the Mancs accent) regarding the music of Björk:

“I’ve no idea what she’s on about. But I love that. That’s alright innit. I mean, if all cars are red…”

Agreed.

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Bonus music quote, I think from UK DJ Nicky Campbell: “UB40 have released their single, and this time it’s called…”

Shocking, no? The source of my lameness today is my love of a Weird Al Yankovic tune called ‘Trapped in the Drive Thru’. Based on R Kelly’s charming work on infidelity, ‘Trapped in the Closet’*, it describes a man’s noble yet continually frustrated efforts to get a bit of something to eat. Kelly’s version (which I listened to only to see what was being parodied, though the parody stands on its own for me) treats an unusual (for most people) situation as mundane, picking out tiny details and tangents along its sprawling length. Al’s version, by contrast, treats the mundane as glorious, the music swelling (huh, I just said swelling) and ebbing along with the narrator’s fortunes.

Here endeth the pretentious music journalism. Oh wait, I didn’t say that it creates a sonic cathedral of sound. There, done.

*(insert your own Ken Mehlman joke here)