Sunday, January 25, 2004
Burns, Baby, Burns
The problem with January, other than the cold weather, post-Christmas blues and general pointlessness of the month, is the fact that bugger all happens in the world of pop, hence the sporadicness of updates recently (though we should really have mentioned the Scissor Sisters single that was released this week, but you all know how ace that is anyway, don't you?). Fortunately though, we're nearly into February when we're sure lots of exciting things will happen, but as today is the 25th, and as such, Burns Night, we thought we'd use that as an excuse to a) talk about Burns for a bit and b) discuss the influence of Scottish music on pop. Is that a plan or what? No, that's a rhetorical question, don't actually answer it.
Anyway, Burns Night is a chance for Scots all over the world to get pissed. Although to be be fair, this isn't exactly unique as we will use most occasions and events to have a couple of swift drinks including, but not limited to, Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, Boxing Day, the Day After Boxing Day, the Spring Equinox and Shrove Tuesday. It's also traditional on this day to practice one of the two traditional forms of Scottish cooking, dousing everything in whisky and hoping for the best. The other form being, of course, to deep fry everything until every last vitamin has been destroyed. Quite why we don't lead the world in terms of health ang longevity, we're at a loss to explain.
Burns himself was an exponent of the hard drinking lifestyle, and the womanising, and the being a bit of a bastard, if all things are told. Basically he was the Robbie Williams of his day, though Burns did have a better way with a rhyme and a melody than Mr Williams does. As does virtually everyone who has ever lived, a glass ashtray and two short planks. He's best known as a poet (Burns that is, Robbie is best known as something which is far too rude to publish here), the writer of such works as To a Mouse, To a Mountain Daisy, To a Haggis and To a Chippy for a Smoked Sausage Supper, Salt and Sauce Please, the latter not one of his best and lost to the public for a while, as many thought that the Scots used in the poem was of an obscure dialect, in fact it turned out simply to be incredibly slurred. The closing line of "I'll get youse you radges, you want some, huh, huh?" however, is said to be one of his most moving. As in bowels.
Of course, Burns was merely the first famous Scot to be involved in music, since then, we've managed to produce a torrent of crap which floods the chart in the the same way that crumbs flood your sheets when you're eating toast in bed, though slightly more irritating. Even ignoring novelty acts such as ,b>Andy Stewart, The Krankies and Texas, we still seem to supply a disproportionately high amount of rubbish compared to other nations, and when you throw in the fact that the most successful Scottish artisit ever is Lonnie Donnegan, the King of Skiffle, it makes you wonder whether we should have all our instruments taking off of us and be banned from writing any songs until Mr Tune takes up residence and starts offering lessons.
Other reasons to be embarassed by Scottish pop include the Bay City Rollers (apart from Shang-a-lang), bloody Lulu, who still believes it was her involvement that got Relight My Fire to number one, Rod Stewart, who isn't even Scottish, and Travis, a group that makes The One Continuous Note Band sound like an interesting concept. We've provided very few diamonds for the charts, other than Shirley Manson, 500 Miles by The Proclaimers and Aztec Camera's Somewhere in my Heart. Except for those it's been Deacon Blue after Simple Minds after Mero after Lemonescent, and do we try and make up for our ignomius past? No, instead we decide to give the record buying public none other than the Pop Why-dol herself, Michelle McManus, a woman who has only 3 dance moves; the left hand extension, the right hand extension and, for particularly emotional bits of the song, i.e. the key change, the dual hand extension. We despair, we really do.
Still, at least we managed to get through this piece without mentioning Mull of Kintyre. Oh...
Anyway, Burns Night is a chance for Scots all over the world to get pissed. Although to be be fair, this isn't exactly unique as we will use most occasions and events to have a couple of swift drinks including, but not limited to, Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, Boxing Day, the Day After Boxing Day, the Spring Equinox and Shrove Tuesday. It's also traditional on this day to practice one of the two traditional forms of Scottish cooking, dousing everything in whisky and hoping for the best. The other form being, of course, to deep fry everything until every last vitamin has been destroyed. Quite why we don't lead the world in terms of health ang longevity, we're at a loss to explain.
Burns himself was an exponent of the hard drinking lifestyle, and the womanising, and the being a bit of a bastard, if all things are told. Basically he was the Robbie Williams of his day, though Burns did have a better way with a rhyme and a melody than Mr Williams does. As does virtually everyone who has ever lived, a glass ashtray and two short planks. He's best known as a poet (Burns that is, Robbie is best known as something which is far too rude to publish here), the writer of such works as To a Mouse, To a Mountain Daisy, To a Haggis and To a Chippy for a Smoked Sausage Supper, Salt and Sauce Please, the latter not one of his best and lost to the public for a while, as many thought that the Scots used in the poem was of an obscure dialect, in fact it turned out simply to be incredibly slurred. The closing line of "I'll get youse you radges, you want some, huh, huh?" however, is said to be one of his most moving. As in bowels.
Of course, Burns was merely the first famous Scot to be involved in music, since then, we've managed to produce a torrent of crap which floods the chart in the the same way that crumbs flood your sheets when you're eating toast in bed, though slightly more irritating. Even ignoring novelty acts such as ,b>Andy Stewart, The Krankies and Texas, we still seem to supply a disproportionately high amount of rubbish compared to other nations, and when you throw in the fact that the most successful Scottish artisit ever is Lonnie Donnegan, the King of Skiffle, it makes you wonder whether we should have all our instruments taking off of us and be banned from writing any songs until Mr Tune takes up residence and starts offering lessons.
Other reasons to be embarassed by Scottish pop include the Bay City Rollers (apart from Shang-a-lang), bloody Lulu, who still believes it was her involvement that got Relight My Fire to number one, Rod Stewart, who isn't even Scottish, and Travis, a group that makes The One Continuous Note Band sound like an interesting concept. We've provided very few diamonds for the charts, other than Shirley Manson, 500 Miles by The Proclaimers and Aztec Camera's Somewhere in my Heart. Except for those it's been Deacon Blue after Simple Minds after Mero after Lemonescent, and do we try and make up for our ignomius past? No, instead we decide to give the record buying public none other than the Pop Why-dol herself, Michelle McManus, a woman who has only 3 dance moves; the left hand extension, the right hand extension and, for particularly emotional bits of the song, i.e. the key change, the dual hand extension. We despair, we really do.
Still, at least we managed to get through this piece without mentioning Mull of Kintyre. Oh...
