The union shack & the glam that goes with it

Aleta Fimbres 13/06/2013

London's underground music scene

Of course, London is the New Atlantis, indeed it is. Should you be so privileged to actually live in the Old Metropolis of The Royal Empire, your breast must surely leap like flying fish with joy to see The Poky London sun, leftover ‘babs’ in the gutter*, yet another unlicensed mini cab driver gesticulating at you – bike-bound – intimating aggression inbetween "wankaaah" and "you faakin cont".

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And as for the whereabouts of the self-appointed style gurus/beautiful people, just head to High St. Ken and flop your impotent tongue in the gentle smog in the wake of sweeping Sloan stereotypes, waggling their arises and Daddy’s credit cards in unison, every deliciously clean-cut Barbour toting man hoping to follow Imran Khan up the Hebrew cabalistic.

Elsewhere? In Camden a.k.a London’s Seattle: legions of tight young things preening in obeisance to the ubiquitous Manc Duffers, all slouching like cheap menswear icons to the straight four/four beat of Musical Tedium. Pursuing the grail of Kool through the pages of the NME and championing the most feeble of TRAD rockers through fame/adultery/twilite to the early grave they happily share with the deadened Muse.

You want examples? Jesus, we’re only just starting out here. Don’t get so impatient, Maaaan. The victims of slavish musical trends are sufficiently known to turn all red-cheeked without prompts from your Man From The UnderGround.

Better to promote the bedraggled few who appear to care sufficiently to pursue their own undoubted inspiration through the hedgerows of anonymity until The Curse of BritPop has passed and died a death at the hands of the Mental Enema Contractors…

There’s no confusing some people, as Delicatessen titled their third LP, follows the bewildering disappearance of Hustle Into Bed which, as their guitarist Craig pointed out, truly suffered at the hands of the aforementioned ShitPop and despite being a revelation of sleaze, sex and arcane but Spot-On cultural references, sank beneath retailers’ shelves under the godawful ‘weight’ of the Menswear album. Which even I bought and discarded as jizz tissue.

Anyhows, it looks like the press are finally tired of cocking their ears to the Deli Boyz and a spew of NEXT BIG THING features have already hit newsprint, to be followed by a bundle more if they actually ever manage to release a well-promoted single (the tip-off is PSYCHO on the newie….). And their singer Neil Carlill – so I have it on the blood written testimony of female frenz – IS SEX…

Otherwise the Hip Kids on the streets of Hackney, Soho and selected areas of Islington are getting down in unison and doing the Harlem Shuffle in apelike pantomime, rocking so hard that the roof of the nearby Camden Eiffel Palace literally exploded into love-making shards.

And well too might the Kids, should the Apes reemerge with a new tasty record deal sticking out of their back pockets. Led by Miller, a Scally gospel singer, the Apes plough a juicy furrow between the kickin’ monstrous metal groove of DIAMONDS thru the Sunday a.m. on a hilltop jaunt of COUNTRY SUNDAY to the Hard and Blistering Funk of C’MON EVERYBODY DO THE BETHLEHEM SLOUCH, which will have parents worldwide facing a barrage of enquiries from their emulant teens. Their time shall come, brothas/sistas, you better get yer shelter sorted now…..

As for THE UNSOPHISTICATES, little is known; I was told i’d love them EVEN MORE THAN PENTHOUSE (UK band famed for their hard & sleazy sound) but as the Prophets say, Give Me A Brick and I’ll Create a CornerStone for Londoners who Know Not What Such A Stone Is. Ignorant bleeders. Their album GUIDO steers irresistibly through eclectic Gallon Drunk fuck’d-with rhythms to torch laments of lovelorn loss, in much the same vein as their equally unlikely contemporaries DAWN OF THE REPLICANTS. Killer, Boss, Killah.

As for the rest, in our rare spare moments, me and the Brothas/Sistas kick back and toast ‘London’s Only Alternative’ radio station Xfm’s recent advent – after 5 years of test tranmissions – with as many Big Fat Ones As Possible. then we curse their reliance on the fuckin verve, fuckin oasis, fuckin LL Cool J, ferchrissakes…..

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