Hugs and Kisses #17: An Examination of Everett True's Desktop, Pt 2

For the second week in a row, Everett True examines the contents of his desk. His desk is inherently more interesting than yours because. . . it's in the UK. Or something.

Hugs And Kisses

The Outbursts of Everett True

THIS WEEK: Another (partial) examination of the contents of Everett True's desktop

ADDENDA: It's not like these are the only contents on my desk - there's a partially eaten fruit salad, a cache of un-cashed Village Voice cheques that I have no idea what to do with, blackcurrant juice, pens, an ancient printer, a flock of postage stamps, notes to myself pertaining Plan B's albums of the year 2007, and a stack of Joyce Raskin books - but I figured it might be better to deal with the items that could, perhaps, be of more interest to the casual online Village Voice reader rather my private life. Understood?


ITEM SEVEN: A promotional CD album for upcoming London band The Wave Pictures: the minimal, black and white sleeve features songtitles like 'Just Like A Drummer' and 'Friday Night In Loughborough', and even if I didn't love this band dearly, I would simply on the basis of these phrases. The Wave Pictures write songs that talk about hipsters the way critics once talked about beatniks, and write Richard Brautigan-like flurries of prose which they dress up in nasal English accents and parade as 'lyrics' over streams of chugging guitar and sparse percussion that sometimes recall my early Eighties crush (suave, articulate Subway Sect singer) Vic Godard and sometimes recall their continental champions and playmates Herman Düne and sometimes recall Jonathan Richman (because doesn't everything?). The Wave Pictures have already released around six homemade albums, at least two of which caused my heart to flitter gibbet. This one is for other folk. I hope these other folk appreciate it.

ITEM EIGHT: A sealed copy of Riot Grrrl: Revolution Girl Style Now! - Black Dog Publishing's contribution to the ongoing coffee table book revolution. It's still sealed because I've already had an opportunity to look at a copy - I thoroughly enjoyed it, carping about the lack of recognition given to my own role back in the heady days of 1992 aside - and am wondering whether or not to pass it off as a gift. I mean, do I really need it? It's a fine book: six or seven editors giving six or seven differing viewpoints and versions of what happened (which is exactly how I like to read about events), and it's also nice that sometimes the slipstream is documented: but don't I already know what is contained within, and also possess most of the original literature and music that is so painstakingly documented? I'll probably keep it, though: leaving aside an appalling Cazz Blase essay that seems to be a simple exercise in fan worship to Simon Reynolds, the contributors - particularly Julia Downes' meticulous and enthusiastic prose - have some fascinating perspective that can still startle, 15 years on from origin. I'm damned if I'm going to wear it as a badge of pride and leave it lying around the bathroom, though.


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