There's a knob-twiddler on YouTube who's been posting FruityLoops version of New Order songs.
"Knob-twiddler" is not a technical term, but instead is a nickname for people who like to experiment making electronic music. "FruityLoops" is indeed a proper term, in fact it's music-making software that's enjoyed something of a renaissance thanks to its users including Avicii, Basshunter and Timmy Mallett.
I lied about Timmy Mallett.
The YouTube user is called Mkaymufc and they are a New Order nut. Because they are using presets and some pretty basic plug-ins, their instrumental YouTube covers of Bernard & chums are not as well produced as the originals. That's like comparing a crayon drawing of a warthog stuck to your bathroom cabinet to a real warthog furiously trying to mate with your bathroom sink's overflow pipehole. You'll never get it in, Porkles. YOU'LL NEVER GET IT IN.
However, what is delightful is what Mkaymufc does with their limitations: there are some pretty detailed covers here, full of heart. There's something so comforting about a Midi-quality bass drum in a era of over-production. And like a cat following a laser along a carpet, you can watch it play along from start to finish in FruityLoops (now called FL Studio).
Sometimes it doesn't work: Electronic's Soviet doesn't come across well. But I loved Some Distant Memory (that Oboe's so cute!). New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle is brilliant, as is their take on Orbital's Kein Trink Wasser. It was an Orbital tweet that brought these videos to my attention. Sometimes the drawing is as enchanting as the real thing.
Christmas is a lovely time of year when a reindeer does a plop on your baubles and Santa cheerily throws an elf onto an open fire.
I would like to wish all of my subjects a merry Christmas. And by "subjects", I mean you, my reader, because you subject yourself to all this grammatical hot guff every time you visit my website. Thank you for downloading my words into your brain.
This year has felt quite bumpy, according to the Queen. She should know because she has been feeling up the year when nobody's been looking. April felt squishy, and there was a distinct undulation to August. It's the kind of thing royals get up to. Disgusting, if you ask me.
I'm pretty immune to the annoyances of Christmas. I don't have parents, so there's no-one to argue with about Brexit while passively-aggressively chewing undercooked sprouts. And I don't have a television, so while you're bombarded with a gaudy torrent of Chrimbo ads, I'm just staring at the patch of carpet where my telly used to be. Bliss.
That said, it can be a lonesome time because everything's so family-oriented. Most Christmases, I delve into creative projects and spend as much time with friends as possible. January and February should have their own Christmases so we can continue to distract ourselves from the dank cold with booze and pals and shiny things.
The other day it occurred to me that "ho ho ho" is "oh oh oh" backwards, which is a lyric from Beyoncé's Single Ladies. I'm not quite sure what to do with this information, other than posit that Father Christmas is the opposite to Queen Beyoncé. The Anti-Bey, if you will. Next time you're sitting on a Santa's knee, ask him if he hates Beyoncé.
What's my advice for Christmas? Don't stand in your chimney place because if Santa comes down at the wrong angle, you're going to find yourself right up Father Christmas's butt. No-one wants to spend the festive season wedged up Santa Claus, no matter how Christmassy you're feeling. Not that anyone has chimneys anymore. Or butts. I blame Brexit Britain.
In summary, festive fiddlesticks to you and your loved ones. Maybe have a read of this 2006 Xmas Q&A in which I (a) still annoyingly call Christmas "chrimbo" and (b) seem to promise never to mention Christmas again. Oops.
Cinema trips are always difficult. I need space for my three buckets of popcorn and a mop for when I fill my supersize Pepsi with nachos. And there's never anywhere to put my portable foot spa.
Despite this, I did get to see some films this year. So here are five films, or "movies" if you are modern, that I especially enjoyed in 2019. Incidentally, the final film here was released in 2018 in the States, but 2019 here, so if you are American, please close your eyes when you get to that bit. Thanks.
Oh and this will annoy the purists. This is not a top five: I love them all equally. I wanted to rank them, but I chickened out. Does that upset you? What are you going to do about it? Report me to the list police? Huh? HUH?
So in alphabetical order...
Booksmart
This Olivia Wilde comedy indulged in some pretty basic high school jinks, hence comparisons to Superbad. But thanks to great leads and some heavily-laced strawberries, it felt truly original. The chemistry between Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever was sparkier than the band Sparks playing with sparklers: and indeed, the film was at its best when they were just being friends together.
I loved Billie Lourd's performance as Gigi, the drug-crazed non-friend who often went from nought to sixty in the blink of an eye. This goes for her script too, such as the line: "I lost my virginity in what I thought was a park but it turned out to be a graveyard, and now the ghost spirits live inside my eggs waiting to be reborn."
Knives Out
Everyone seems to think Rian Johnson is a poop-head (technical film term) for The Last Jedi. Blah blah Star Wars whatever. He knocked it out of the park with Knives Out, with Daniel Craig sounding like Foghorn Leghorn on mushrooms. An ensemble piece full of brilliant anti-chemistry, best summed up by the ice and fire interactions of Jamie Lee Curtis and Toni Collette.
Like Booksmart, this took a familiar trope and did something new. Pure Miss Marple: murder, poison, knives, motive, means, opportunity. They even went with the final "nobody leave this room" detective explanation. A delight throughout led by the perfectly-cast vomiting nurse Ana de Armas, and with one of the funniest character introductions I've seen on film. *plays a single note on the piano*
Midsommar
I realise, by the way, I am saying nothing particular new and enlightening about any of these films. All of these opinions are available elsewhere on better-read websites. And so, yes, I'm going to refer to Ari Aster's Midsommar as a horror film that takes the usual (literal) darkness and fills it with blazing daylight, and is no less horrific for it.
We're in obvious Wicker Man territory here, with its Scandi wonkiness providing a beautifully twisted core. And oh boy, it's nasty. At its heart though is a relationship statement grounded in the brilliantly human Florence Pugh (pictured, top), and a narrative arc as satisfying as the best short story. I don't know about you, but it proper put me off joining a cult.
Pain & Glory
Critics love films about people making films, but while the surname of Cinema Paradiso's protagonist Salvatore Di Vita suggests life, the name of Pain & Glory's fictional filmmaker Salvador Mallo suggests something more negative. The physicality in Antonio Banderas's performance is key, with his only true freedom from pain coming from swimming or, well, that would be a spoiler.
The film plays with time to such an extent, you begin to question what's real. It looks incredible, is carefully paced, but never loses a raised eyebrow: there's a wall-decoration moment in a waiting room which was as silly as anything in Airplane! Pure Pedro Almodóvar and then some.
The Favourite
I watched a period drama and loved it: this is a rare thing indeed. Below is a YouTube clip of the film's opening few minutes. Everything that's wonderful and strange about the film is here:
The luxurious sets masking the grubby reality of humanity. The isolation and longing, often separated by mere moments. The "macabre" rabbits representing so much about Queen Anne. The fish-eye camera angles distancing us from the drama. The awkward title cards doing much the same thing. The saturated light casting main characters into shadow and reminding us there's another world outside. The horrible, horrible men. Olivia Coleman. Olivia flipping Coleman.
The Favourite was constantly surprising and I want everything to look this odd from now on.
"Just how do you compile your annual Best Electronic Albums list?" people never ask me.
It sounds complicated, listening to a zillion albums and shuffling them into some sort of order. And certainly there's lots of admin and lots of writing to be done.
Actually, it's pretty easy if I follow some simple rules. Here's how I come up with my best-of-year list, posted on this blog at the end of every December.
One.
Firstly, I have to ask myself: what is an album. What *is* an album? No, seriously, what is one? I know they tend to be round unless they're made of internet. Are they like a frisbee? Is albums made of frisbees? What is music? Why are album? Huh?
Two.
When starting my list, I scratch around the bins at the back of Fat Roland Towers. There's usually a rat chewing on a Robson & Jerome CD, which I usually take as a sign. If someone's scrawled KASABIAN 4EVA next to the bottle recycling, it's straight into my top ten.
Three.
There is a practical experiment for choosing what goes into an end-of-year list. It involves: a copy of the British Book of Hit Singles; a blindfold; a set of darts. And if the dart should choose, for example, the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band who haven't graced the album charts for 45 years, it's tough. The dart has spoken. They're in my list.
Four.
Twenty phone calls, tonnes of texts, sometimes scented letters. Roland Rat never answers, but one day he will give me a tip for my year-end list. In that furry brain of his, there is a bottomless well of music knowledge. For now, I just stroke his framed photo, and hope.
Five.
I listen to music. Simple, I just listen to music. Unfortunately this never works because I have replaced my ears with eggs, and eggs are notoriously bad as audio receptors. I once replaced my knees with a small mining village in the Balkans, but the neighbours complained due to the noise.
Seven.
When writing your list, skip a number. No-one ever notices, and it's less work for you.
Eight.
Chant this incantation: huthatha baloobie flam flam yaargle butt. Then whittle a candle into a stake and bury it in a south-westerly position. When the moon is full, run about with your clothes off. None of this helps the year-end list, but it sure does pass the time.
Nine.
Go to the internet. Press control-A, or command-A if you're fancy. This will highlight the entire world wide web. Paste this into your list, making sure you choose "text only". Bang. A billion words. Somewhere in there will be the best albums of the year, a sonic record needle in a towering information haystack. You will experience a glowing satisfaction that you technically - TECHNICALLY - finished the job of end-of-year listing.
Ten.
Don't bother. Wait until I write the Best Electronic Albums of 2019, due to hit this blog before the end of the year. I'm not sure of the date yet: it depends on how much chocolate I eat at Christmas and whether I get into a fight with a reindeer again.
It has been an unusual few days. A week ago, everything was green fields and frolicking bunnies. But on Thursday, the general public voted for a blue-tentacled behemoth of pain and destruction, and now all the bunnies are dead.
I am, of course, talking about the 2019 general election in which a floppy-haired buffoon got a billion people to vote for him. I'm not sure what happens next, but I think all the poor people get deported to Brussels while we spend £350 million turning hospitals into whiff-whaff clubs.
The election was a conversation which essentially went like this:
"How about this?" [holds up dead cat]
"Nah."
"This?" [holds up turd on a stick]
"Nah."
"What about this?" [holds up Daft Punk's Get Lucky]
"Come on now."
"All I've got left is this." [holds up actually racist Bullingdon thug]
"Mmmm, yes!" [rubs over body for next 5 years]
I started election day keyholding for a polling station in a safe Labour constituency, and ended the day in A&E with a sprained foot. I'd done my foot in a few days ago, as mentioned here. I'd stumbled on a broken sloping pavement covered in ice, unseen because of a broken street light – it was a live-action health and safety video demonstration. My foot probably flared up again on Thursday because it was a Corbynista nervous about the election result.
The emergency room was packed to the rafters, and someone in the queue ahead of me collapsed, I suspect at the cost of the wifi. The doctor showed me a fuzzy x-ray of my foot, which had as much clarity as a Lib Dem bar chart. He said my foot won't heal until we get Brexit done.
Thankfully, this is the season of Christmas ghosts, and I fully expect Greta Thunberg to descend on a heavenly cloud to cure my painful foot. She's good, isn't she. I found Thursday's election result hard to understand, but folks like Greta give me a huge amount of hope that one day the bunnies will frolic again.
We might as well fill 10 Downing Street with spiders for all the good this new government will do. But as we limp through the next five years – literally for some of us – there's an opportunity. Let's respond to the election result by being active, being practical, and being creative.
Make your new year resolutions now. Do something special. We're going to need it.
Anybody want to come and live in Fatro Land instead?
Dance Monkey by Tones And I has just clocked up its tenth week at the top of the UK singles chart. It's the longest running number one single since Ed Sheeran's all-dominating Shape Of You in 2017.
In 2016, Drake enjoyed a massive stint at number one when One Dance spent over three months in the top spot. Which makes Dance Monkey the most successful "Dance" single since One Dance.
Which raises a hugely important question. What is the most successful "Dance" single of all time? You are a lucky blog reader because I'm about to give you the answer.
1. One Dance
Drake does indeed have the most successful "Dance" single of all time. It locked out the top spot for 15 weeks, keeping the likes of Rihanna, Calvin Harris and Justin flipping Timberlake at number two. Drake is also the most successful duck-named pop star since Howard Donald from Take That.
2. Dance Monkey
There she is. Tones (pictured top) has the second most successful "Dance" single ever. We're living in classic times for singles having the word "dance" in the title. Apparently the former busker has been at number one in Australia since the dawn of time.
3. Rhythm Is A Dancer
I'm as serious as cancer when I say Snap! have the third most successful "Dance" track of all time, topping the charts for six weeks in 1992 and knocking Jimmy Nail off number one. After his phenomenal success with Snap!, square-headed rapper Turbo B went on to open a specialist cheese shop in Hull.
4. Dancing Queen
That wasn't true about the cheese shop. I went off the rails for a second there. I've got loads of tabs open, but not a single one about Turbo B's post-Snap! career. I should have made more of an effort to look him up, rather than make random punts about cheese, and I do apologise.
Disqualified – I Don't Feel Like Dancin'
The whole thing's gone flat because of my cheese shop stupidity. I can't even make the final joke about the Scissor Sisters being "anti-dance" because they don't feel like dancing. If I made that joke now, it wouldn't work because you'd be thinking about my Turbo B lie too much. I didn't even explain anything about Abba being number four. Things have really gone off the rails.
So there we go. Now you know what the most successful "Dance" single is. You'd buy speciality cheese from him, wouldn't you? He's got that kind of face. Turbo Brie, I call him.
Yesterday started off normal. A couple of hours on work emails, paid off a boiler repair, noshed on an overcooked pub fry-up, tootled around erranding a few errands, and finally a bus ride home during which I decided to have a nice night in.
After all, I'm getting on a bit, and I sprained my foot slipping on ice at the weekend, and I was feeling a lot better but definitely needed an evening at home in front of a warm radiator and a nice cold Netflix.
And then I saw this tweet.
Back home in Manchester for Warehouse Project tonight - We got lasers!
What? Underworld in Manchester? Why did my butler not tell me about this? I got off the bus. I bought a ticket on my phone. Three hours later, this happened.
I didn't even know they were playing in Manchester tonight. A nice last-minute surprise.
Underworld were phenomenal, with such an infectious energy. How can you not dance when Karl Hyde is gyrating and prancing and flapping and gurning? He's Tyres from Spaced. We all love Tyres from Spaced.
A few days ago, I was laid up with a swollen foot the size of a small Bavarian hamlet. And here I was at the front of an Underworld gig, dancing like an electrocuted narwhal, exchanging hugs and high-fives with absolute strangers.
And what strangers! Hello in particular to the soft-faced woman who was heavily into the Drift series, the pensioner asking for drugs who turned out to be in his 30s, and the Biffy Clyro wannabe who punched his way to the front rail only to have the tallest man in the universe tell him to fudge off loudly until he actually fudged off.
And to think I had planned to spend the evening spilling over the sides of my sofa shoving blocks of lard into my dribbling mouth while skipping through Adam Sandler films looking for the jokes. Fast-forward all you want, Fats, you'll never find them.
It is my duty to inform you that Selected Ambient Works is an anagram of "Welcome Break dentists".
Less impressively, Squarepusher's 1998 album Music Is Rotted One Note is an anagram of "emits erotic note sound" while his debut from a couple of years earlier Feed Me Weird Things can be rearranged to say "eight friends mewed".
Boards Of Canada's seminal album Music Has The Right To Children is an anagram of "hi, third nuclear ghost chemist", while their later work The Campfire Headphase works out with an Iranian twist: "imperfect shah had a pee".
Venetian Snares is more of a challenge. The best I could get out of Rossz Csillag Alatt Született was "let tzars lust at laziest clogs", which they should be allowed to do. Winnipeg Is a Frozen Shithole becomes the horsey scandal "fool whinnies at neigh prizes". I'm not even going to attempt Cavalcade of Glee and Dadaist Happy Hardcore Pom Poms.
μ-Ziq's archive release Challenge Me Foolish can be rearranged to make "nice flesh homage, lol" which is all very creepy but none of this as good as the Aphex TwinSelected Ambient Works anagram. Welcome Break dentists. Yeesh. Service stations are usually quite uncomfortable experiences, and this just opens up a whole new world of roadside pain.
