Silver Machine vs Love Me Like a Reptile

I have decided that my job is like being in Hawkwind - smelly, pointless, going nowhere. What I need is a job that equates to forming Motorhead - admittedly also smelly, but dynamic and unstoppable, like a runaway freight train shovelling speed instead of coal.

To extend the analogy, I suppose I need to meet the subtitling Philthy Animal.

Instead, I am stuck with The Worst Week of My Life, a BBC comedy series that updates the standard scenario of hapless middle class twat creating havoc and navigating his way through pandemonium.

What annoys me most about this series is its outdated assumptions, such as "it is unacceptable to talk about breastfeeding" and "inverted nipples are something to be ashamed of" and "pregnant women do not have sex" and "people called Cordelia are more worthy of attention than people with normal names".

It is a load of posh crap, and I urge you to avoid it.

Nirvana - Live! Tonight! Sold Out!

My dad used to call me a bloody anti. He meant that I was a contrary little bleeder. Nirvana's 1994 VHS release Live! Tonight! Sold Out! is a masterclass in bloody anti behaviour, from the title on down. This 83 minute film documents their discomfort at "selling out" by which they seem to mean simply becoming successful. They are repeatedly shown claiming that the music is all that matters, yet a large percentage of the video's running time is taken up with extra-musical matters, and the music itself is edited in such a way as to preclude the normal enjoyment one might find in watching a performance by a favourite group. This is fine with me. Unlike most music videos or DVDs, I was not itching to switch off after ten minutes. I was fairly gripped in fact, and when I wasn't gripped, I was transfixed by a strange squirming embarrassment. There is no doubt in my mind that here was a brilliant, brilliant group, and this video does a great job of putting them in context, without spin or gloss. Television appearances are shown with the original incongruous presenters' claptrap (Jonathan Ross is a prize twat), and the original on-screen text, all of which helps to expose the absurdity of the whole circus without allowing the film to become a morose reflection on the perils of popularity. Some of the attempts to sidestep the mechansims of fame (singing in a funny voice, miming with no attempt to suspend disbelief) presage the coming of Robbie Williams, a performer whose refusal to take himself seriously has done nothing to slow down his global ascendance. There are hardly any glimpses of "the real Kurt" (unless on stage lost-in-music counts). The best bit by far is when a bouncer tries to beat Kurt up after he takes a lunge at him with his guitar whilst crowd-surfing. One telling interview clip trots out the old "we're not interested in the business side of things" line of evasion, before Kurt pipes up with "but you have to take an interest, otherwise people will take adavantage of you". So I suppose that is the difference. In the olden days, pop stars didn't mind being taken adavantage of, until it was too late. This enabled Joe Brown and the Bruvvers to develop unhindered, whereas now we have a fight, with pop stars dissipating their energy by becoming food critics or whatever they need to assuage their falling star, or rather their star that never quite comes into being, forever reamianing a ball of gas. The glory is gone, and here you can see it being flushed down the toilet.