The Auteurs frontman’s book is essential reading for anyone who loves pop music, or enjoys shaking their head at the demented stupidity of Britpop, or just anyone who loves luxuriously written, bilious memoirs.
Anyway, just buy it. There is no way any human being with a pulse and a set of pop-lovin’ ears could possibly regret it.
And the bonus is that, by the sheer persuasiveness of the author, you’ll believe that he really was a genius, and you’ll re-investigate The Auteurs’ LPs – and you’ll probably agree with him, too. Funny how an album as terrifically outré as New Wave or After Murder Park slips from one’s mind.
But I digress. Actually, no, I don’t – talking of outré pop music, here’s Baywaves, and their slow-motion smoke-machine pop:
The grumbling synth that chirrups up about a third of the way in made me feel weirdly happy. Figures is a song of creeping confusion. It’s a sweetened four-square guitar pop song, and yet I can’t recognise much of what it happening within it. I was left tremulous and jittery by the end of it. Great stuff.