Almost Weekly #2

January 10, 2007

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Dig Your Own Hole – The Chemical Brothers

Sunday Morning I wake up, my head’s almost burst with the pressure of grotty man-cold and I’ve not had quite enough sleep once again. I face a second day of moping or a spotaneous ‘getting over’ of my cramped up brain and at this stage the day could go either way really. I look at my bedside table, the CDs poised to cascade in an avalanche of broken cases and scratched discs. Fuck that. Rooting in that disater-in-waiting for something vaguely cheery is unfathomable, and at this stage it’s all complex songwriters and elaborate New Folk, interspersed with Hangover-period Britpop, all about as cheery as you’d expect in this grotty state. That just won’t do.

And so to the vinyl. 7inch discs are ranked along some of my favourite LPs, but the the idea of changing track after track doesn’t appeal; I am not in a singles club kind of place this morning. And then I remember the Fopp bag kicking around by the bed-side. Shiny, shrink-wrapped and stark, the Black and White profile of a girl’s face has always fascinated me. It’s one of the most striking album covers of the 1990s, and certainly the best among Tom and Eddy’s beautiful collection of graphics. Piercing the shrik-wrap is a pleasure, and the double-gatefold reveals sparse liner-notes and crisp photographs. Side A is placed on the mat, the arm clicks on and the turn-table spins. After a few seconds delay the tiny pop of the needle cliking into the groove can be heard and the 33 revolutions per minute begin.

Dig Your Own Hole is one of my all-time favourtie albums. It’s the most refined and fully-realised of The Chemical Brothers albums and rich in texture. ‘Block Rockin’ Beats’ sets the template for mid-90s pouplar dance music, all of the bleeps and whistles of rave but tempered with a radio-friendly hook that never sweetens or softens. The only pause for breath comes in the beautifully positioned silences that end with a bass-punch to the spine. And so it goes: ‘Setting Sun’ spits fire and makes my spine hot, burning little messages of depravity into my pupils. ‘Electrobank’ launches in so many directions that the mind doesn’t know which instrument to latch on to, while the body opts for all. ‘It Doesn’t Matter’ sounds like my futurist nightmares born into sound.

When the acid-trip two-part closer of ‘Where do I Begin’/’Private Psychedelic Reel’ lollops into my senses I feel every Sunday morning through time creep up on me at once. Tiredness and elation, and summer outside despite grey clouds and heat-less rooms. The songs never fail to turn me out and wring me dry, at first through Beth Orton’s sympathetic refrain, later from a Formula 1 fuelled emotional car-crash of beats and love. And I start a beautiful week with a beautiful mind.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: