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Man, it's fine. Influences, The Pixies and Jon Spencer. This is su current-day version.

We now have evidence both incontrovertible and danceable that Sharleen Spiteri should stop writing songs with immediate effect! But don't let me lose my thread. Take my wife. Take 'I Will Survive', 'Oh! For my wife, and her sisters, and her female friends, these are songs seemingly designed for male-baiting such fun, and so hilariously badly-taken.

These are 30 1 plan b songs for letting someone know where they stand, or for giving fair warning of who the fuck you think you're dealing with. JoJo's boy has clearly been a right twat and a dirty stop-out too. Sung from the edge of a dancefloor towards a moodily motionless boyfriend, 'Leave' is raw, new emotion blown out of proportion and honed to brutal finitude.

The martyrdom of wounded love and a sacrifice barely noticed combines with the infuriating irrefutability of teenage logic for the odd, defiant pay-off: "You 're just a waste of time". Pitched exactly between townie and punka 1 0- year-old girl chic, JoJo looks exactly right to play the protagonist. Gloriously unsaddled with Anastacia or Kylie's world-weariness, it seems she's enjoying the hate way more than any affection she ever felt - the jutted chin insisting that every second without him will be so much more full.

And the cold rationale of dismissing someone as 'just a waste of time'? Only the young could be so efficient, so clear and so numb. Such clarity makes great records. There is no will singles club Words: Neil Kulkarni Illustration: Lady Lucy more thorough, as unkillable and as total as that of a teenager. Sometimes we're lucky, and they translate for us. Wish Dre would bless a few others not just Obie and 50 Cent with the same care and attention he gives to Mathers.

Jojo's boy has clearly been a right twat and a dirty stop-out too In the unreal world of the indie ghetto, things go from bad to worse. Indiepopslashrock is so busy going nowhere that the desperation's starting to seep through the stitching. It looks flustered, knackered out from hitting its head on the brick wall of its limitations. So the records that reveal quite how quickly the new wave of new wave has become the same old shite are coming thick and fast. It's a song that's bad from start to finish in every possible way.

Lyrics grasp for profundity through vagueness, a grubby wash of reverb over everything that seems to put Thatcher back in power as it gets deeper oh, how they wish. There's a vocalist you actually want to bully into suicide and the most painful moment of white-boy funk I've ever heard. A band seemingly designed to piss off every unsigned band in the country with their utter undeserved leeway to make music and be heard.

Shut these motherfuckers up - somebody. I'll pay. ABBA bridge.

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And then The fucking Monkees!!! But better! Betty Boo better. Ace voices. Rattling along now. Mark E Smith should be involved. But WOW -the doom entombed deep within Girls Aloud's eyes, the reckless effort it's pushing against, charges a record as wonderful as 'Love Machine' with an extra grit to the glam.

There's a push and shove to the perfection that gets you onside because it's good to hear people trying their best. Even as they apprehend the Girls Aloud project's ultimate futility and its present-day grind, they squeeze such immortality from the rush to life. And for those who'd seek to attack the pop-minded and are suspicious of being thrilled by melody as opposed to sonic detail?

I'd simply say that pop eclipses so much rock right now because it frequently crams way more invention, soundscaped wow and spontaneous magic into a hook-laden three minutes as yer 'experimental' hobbyists spread over their entire careers. Pop gets dissed cos it feels no need to wrap up that magic in the disabling smog of righteous smarm, woolly mysticism and charitable self-indulgence that surrounds the lore of rock creativity.

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  • Rock aims for timelessness and ends up instantly forgettable. Pop knows its shelf life and so hits immortality.

    Pop makes money, rock makes sense; pop uses everything it can to avoid meaning, rock 'interprets' its sources, explicates, connects, etc, etc. Bands and critics alike perpetuate such snobbish diktats of basic rockcrit, including those writers who imagine they're defending pop by trumpeting its ephemerality - the best pop is the absolute opposite of fluff.

    The problem is rock's constant desire to be seen as 'breaking the rules'. Pop knows there are rules and that cliches are only so because they're true and they work. And so pop will always be seen as hostile to rock's artistic pretensions. This whole wrongheaded battle between pop patronisingly celebrated for its supposed falseness and superficiality and rock condemned to the unambiguous confines of 'passion' and 'honesty' must cease now, perhaps with the realisation that, queerly, the best pop is blood'n'guts and the best rock is plastic.

    The problem is the fucking middle ground. It's the people like cunting Robbie Williams who wanna make pop 'serious' sniffing a Mercury and a spot on Later. It's the people who want to popularise true experimental music by wrapping the sound of Zoviet France around the dull thud of foursquare rock see Radiohead, Coldplay, Elbow, Interpol and cunting U2. Why be happy with that careerist compromise?

    If you're gonna go interstellar then go interstellar. Pop could contain and discipline you.

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    Anti-pop could spin you out forever and set you free on yourself. Either way, excel, accelerate towards your own peculiar dead end and out the other side. There's too much swimming with the shoal right now - chancers hoping to get enough right ie: enough recognisable to be waved through.

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    I just wanna dance to 'Love Machine', thanks. I'm through with seeing things how they are. I need a better world by the time I've finished this fag. Next month, singles of and a death list for the New Year revolution. And, having lovingly nurtured a buzz of their own 1 2-inchers, when the time came to answer the demands for a debut album proper, it wasn't enough to consolidate their rep, and make a dramatic entrance.

    Or, "What the Butler Heard". Completely ersatz, maybe, but also entirely evocative of a world that never was.

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    This is quality engineering, midnight cruise music, unhurried electro bass, spikes and washes of guitar, not a single unnecessary detail to clutter the aerodynamics. Munk feat. For four-and-a-half unmatched minutes, entire clubs are reduced to movie heroine hysterics, tied to the track and left to face what sounds no more or less than the death wish made flesh, a turbo-charged 'Trans- Europe Express'. Playful synths and collapsible drumming, Raincoats style. The screeching desperation of no wave originators, Mars. Theoretical Girls, pummelled down and trampled.

    Insane noise that keeps you from going insane. A transitory riff clawed out of Joy Division's doomed splendour and dissolving into a pool of doodling fanfare. It's colourful, join-the- dots music, packaged in a mean monotone sleeve.

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    The artwork says much for the music's fantasy-bound sound: eyeballs, ice cream, dandelion clocks and dripping paint. Hear it from the band why their noise matters: How did you come to make music together? Lorna drums : "It seemed logical -we wanted to make a racket. The product was so intense at first we had two other members making vocal noises , I wasn't sure I wanted to do it again. But we persisted. It's natural for humans to seek order and patterns, so eventually form came from chaos.

    Also the city is broke, so they rent empty spaces for little money. But elsewhere, the tone is muted, the tempo arrested. Moody vocoder atmospherics get stitched with straining guitars and syncopated video game bleeps, bass pulses and eeky preening falsettos - disco cliches cut and pasted into brutal new arrangements. We like to listen to albums that have different shades. Where something happens.

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    Where there are different structures, songs and developments. They might not feel at home soundtracking fashion shows, but the ostentatious sophistication and affected eccentricity of Aperitivo has seen them embraced by the style set. As for the future, well, it's easy to forget Gomma is still a young label, such is its success rate: add hip-hop tricknologist Mocky and great dancefloor hope Headman to the roll call thus far, and another surge of nonconformist talent is massing for release Hiltmeyer Inc.

    Ghosts raised and demons laid, from this point on Modica and Imbery are determined to define the now, not revise the past: "There is less time to look back. Now concentrate on fresh music. What does this mean? We're not part of the no wave scene, we're not from New York, and so the need for a new term was necessary. What Wave comes out of [the city's] invisible fabrics, along with personal influences, such as being influenced by the same music that influenced DNA and arriving at that sound via a different route.

    Tom synths : "Any strong emotion -we don't want apathy. I don't care if it's hatred. I have a friend whose dad is an ex-punk. He says the difference between gigs now and those 25 years ago is that there was always this feeling of encroaching violence, a real dread that anything could happen.