Eef, with some covers for october

There are hardly any new male singer-songwriters these days. Perhaps loads are getting released, not many if any are getting through

Eef Barzelay is an exception, here is a sing-songer that still seems to sing songs to a guitar as if it hadn’t been done before. I know this to be true because the most recent release that’s got through is a cover album. I don’t think in the good end of 5 years has this blog ever posted a cover song, perhaps 1 or 2 in the earlier days of the decade. So things are perhaps more strange than usual, covers and all, but that’s okay, Eef is okay, he’s got your back as you press play and stare at the ceiling, well covered, contented. His songs are contented I guess – a big grinning voice, a sadness at the edges I guess, his album “Girls Come First” helped kill me for a while – poor happy listener for a singer so rich in the kind of tangible tactile social capital that a strong voice can never be denied if it resonates the right way, if it gets through. Somehow different, indifferent like the sound of a wise trunk of feeling, standing out in an opaquely breathing forest of not much but beauty right now, accidentally catch your attention, that’s what the new few new singer-songers are doing.

If you don’t believe me, believe the fans who suggested the songs for Eef to cover to compile his album of Fan Chosen Covers 4, the fourth instalment of what must be the sign / signal of someone you might really like soon if you listen up a little.

Hipster Folk Revival!

Another soul just got a little saved and well-distracted by its discovery of Sandy Denny. So we’re talking 1970s, that myth of time, where it seems there was some sort of revolution in music fanaticism and the actual listenership partly turned away from the many modernisations of popular gospel and attended more towards the only thing that still held existential substance: the folk music. It’s astonishing, finding repose and a final -peace- in company of these singers like Shirley Collins singing very old songs, recommended merely exclusively by to 90s-born like me. It’s astonishing to have a perspective on the folk revival in 2015, it’s beyond comprehension how exactly we are to make sense of ‘revival’ as it was experienced in the 1970’s trending hash tags of a connection that controversially turned electric, uncontroversially accepted.

So we’re talking Sandy Denny and this song that may have changed your life, now:

I’ve always been one for honesties, so I shall admit that this is a 7 hour impulsive moment I want to share, and a moment in which I want to discover a lot lot more about the 1970s and folk rock music, I want to find people who lived through an interesting thought and I want to know what made it tick, I don’t want to know facts, I just want to feel like they felt because I think maybe I’m feeling something similar right now. I want to find the people who know why Fairport Convention were one of the most influential British bands of the 60s. The only music genre that makes sense in hipster-discussion anymore is Folk, the only genre that I am sincere with until the end, I am not at all insecure about vaguely saying Folk, it’s an unwavering category and I recognise it’s the word that we use to describe so much of everything that sounds even slightly traditional or instrumental or lyrical, whatever the culture or language or people from which -it- is derived..

This was a meditation that someone did, sound-doodling all the while with that hug of a chorus of It’ll Take A Long Time . A sensible follow-up was checking wikipedia on Sandy Denny and confirming that that she was (1947-1978) alive and this reminds you how time flies and ends and 1970s.

The following counts as a review because its audience are people who want to experience some kind of review on music, the holistic etymology of review supports this, reviews make you want to listen to the song again (and stop attending to the review), and reviews isolate any examples and sentiments contained within the song, highlighting them and/or mediating and/or juxtaposing them.

# (Time, Long, Folk, Revival, Sandy Denny)

Pega Monstro Right Now And Aspiring To Describe

The first of the last two songs on their newest album sound like the soundscape of your headspace when you transfix upon a band whose members are so engrossed in their instruments that they actually accumulate you, they play you hard like they strum and hit drums hard and fast, unlike you would imagine if you tried, you just watch, stop abstracting, their sound hits you in that gullet you washed up in and around before you stayed still – the sister’s vocals are the sisters vocalising a kind of visceral fist, unclenching in the other hand, the guitar chords are acquainted with, that’s all you need, that’s all you’ll ever know, the sisters’ vocals are awry alive and really filling your throat with something feeling as our mouths opened a little, gazing while they gaze the other way, engrossed all over again; the first of the last two songs on their newest album is the heaving sanctuary of sounding a daze of a sole thing taken care of gently rocking, securely softening and transfixed, I get the language at last.
If the first song of the last two songs on this album sculpt the sense of how we felt so coaxed and dazed in opposition to this band’s perpetual dance-hard rock sound, then let the second song be some kind of online transcription of what the latter actually sounded like – of what the actual fuck, some aural stimulation by way of protruding ideas to just lose it all, stop pretending, stop reading into the fact that the gig was great and it did great things and need more be said?

Said like a true inconsequence, nothing ends well except this album right now and right now again, everything ends well like this album right now and right now again –

go head see Pega Monstro for y’selves, get blown away and write your memory around it like right now again –

Rose, and who are you?

I’ve had this song in my pocket full of seeds for a few now, one of those songs that points out to me the fact that -here I am- and it’s great because it has this staccato poke going on as if the song is poking me (as opposed to prodding me): here. I. am. like a beak pecking at me underneath an adorable bird’s expression. eep! eep! And I’m a heron nodding to the song

Or alternatively like the photo sieves through a though^t, like two firm shoes-that-know-what-shoes-are shoes kicking (as opposed to touching) to the toes of each other, another staccato thought process assuring me here. I. am. like your friend’s children clapping in your ears beside the big roaring sea. And you’re the waving clapping before the feet get covered

Most likely sometimes like the space bar over and over hitting down (as opposed to pressed) every other second – the rhythm of an essay being written, of an assignment being gulped to be later -click!- here. I. am. And I’m still typing, each space is an assertion, dance to all the self-explanatory life, think later, reflect later, later later later later.

-Later- perpetually through the breath of how she sings the ending of “rose”, prolonged, more delay; the convention congruence confrontation between those staccato kids clips clops space bars heron beaks of imminent attention there (t)here t. t. t. turns to words like remembering -> remembring, who knew remembering could sound so short like a flicker, sing you’ll miss it &&&&& the delayed, sustained notes where her voice leaves a little longer over the others, every three units of time, a recollection, wow! Here I aaaam! I suppoose, yes I caan – > it’s all developing slowly from the immaterial indeterminate of a pronoun or a verb towards a little blue for a little bit before the rose vs. remembering, rose vs. remembering, rose vs. remembering.

Space bars of appreciation for this:

Music that is composed for a performance of The World is Round by Gertrude Stein, in Baltimore.

the artist behind it is Flock of Dimes (Jenn Wasner)

so check check check!

ty, george


I’m a sucker for a song or songs with lyrics about parts of cars, I think there’s some complex reasoning for that, engineering vehicular semantic fields perhaps resonate with the way I am taught to look at myself, as if we’re all drivers and the brain’s in the driving seat. Bullshit. This is the kind of thought that occurs to me during a gig except the thought takes one tenth of the time and words and expresses itself with some kind of twitch of my limbs, the kind of sway/nod/tap thing you do when you’re dancing but not quite dancing, just moving to the music.

These songs do that really well actually, transporting the listen into another place, from brightly lit bedroom to dark feeling 9pm gig in the town, friends doing something similar somewhere nearby. This album of Luckless(‘)totals(,) the kinda thing that seems a timeless genre, that heavy-feeling slow rock music orchestrating a kind of emotional meditation in the rhythm of the sensuous population we are and will continue to be, since as long as I can remember.

This is vintage communication of a melodic mind – something pretty prominent right now – her voice that has that unhurried integrity to it – nothing-gets-crossed-out sort of intonation between the lines, between the chords, drawing broad lines between pronouns, each finger fairly visible on the guitar’s mouth, teasing out the embrace from between the bit where we watch her words move and the bit where it all opens up into a strong relaxing endlessly comforting instrumental wave of untiring -ccccccymballlllll- trust and untensed and emotional like a long day, somewhere in between a bed and body looking up at a stage where all the music is making itself so very unimaginably real

Better Than Being Blue is surrounded and surmounted by equal signs of firm-headed rock variants, an album, a kind of anagram of some kind of melancholic source that transforms from solitary to sick to solids over the course of their durations: by the end your organs are pummelled softly with something not too dissimilar to your present unchanged understanding of what it is to have a sense of driving rhythm, driving purpose, driving metaphors sentence structures you know you always get them somehow through the lines.

Roll on -thanks for being submitted and sorry I didn’t see because I was doing my exams, this isn’t the only one, there’s a ton of submissions in May that caught the inbox whilst I was absent in the working world.


(it’s good to have been writing regularly over the last few! hello from me and marcus and please continue your submissions and support, it means good, f’real)

To sleep in this room of feeling again

These songs are both sung by artist with a vocal ability to bowl you completely over from whatever you were doing previously. They are similar, they both tremolo, domino by thoughts fall over in worship as their lyrical poignancy picks all the death of me up from the dissatisfied, the detraction, and stands abstract things upright so that I can look them straight in the eye. These words accompany the moments that caught me most; the curation I am so fortunate to be able to organise the strands of thought: I can loop these strands until there’s literally no unexpected anomaly of discomfort: this is meditation as the waves pass through the listen with such emotional honesty, furnishing my room with more than just a “”, more than just a fleeting forgettable sound file: these are example songs of artists who have successfully broken out of the analytical framework that fell over them in the first place

every artist finds a challenge in being fulfilled and announcing herself to the universals of a monopoly: I am forever fulfilled in my creativity and my yearning to be heard but somehow the kings will never know me.

I’m real and I want to share a space in which thoughts have sounds and in which the music we are all obsessed with is able to express those thoughts. If this is a review then let it be known that it is a review amongst many, just like songs stay in your head and overlap with another and may not be extricated from the memories and the people and the feelings and the contexts with whom you understood them; those songs, these songs that fall upon us here in infinitely opaque conjunction.

If the music world was a room it would be, yes, refurbished, attractive for a moment, it would speed your breathe whence you open its modern door, you see the beautiful shine and it holds your attention span for a very discreet duration. It would also be a bit dead; sterile when you need its energy, racing with a pointless reflection through the metallic window when once you need its sleep. That is, unmoving when you need its life, sporadic when you need its stability. It is a room in which you take the pillow between your teeth until the polyester feathers are flying disparately in the air-conditioned space between your forehead and the white ceiling, your memories and mind contained in music files, your spirituality sufficed in the uploads still faintly visible through the slight speakers.

With that, we return to a point of meaning amongst a constellation of purpose retained for one individual, might as well be me now I’m writing,  might as well be the only starting-parameter available; the bit where the 2nd person still seems to care in an environment quite sparse of such emotion if only left alone now, with the screen covering the eyes, the pillow functioning fine, but without promise.

Instructions that succeed the aforementioned starting point, by number:

1. at some point during indeterminacy be taken over by a new existential discovery.mp3 on ?.com
2. at some other point during emotional indeterminacy be taken over by an old existential discovery.mp3 on ?.com
3. recollect both points
4. reflect upon the duration of seconds of the .mp3 during which your heart potentially leaps most, your skin wakes up the most
5. isolate these durations within the avenues of a music software programme
6. allow your motivation and breadth of attention to be lead by aforementioned body language concerning examples of skin and heart
6. continue being alive until a convenient moment of feeling some other kind of impulse that is not related to (1-5)
7. export and upload the output of your motivation and attention that contains both original .mp3 points
8. realise that you are human through the optimal categorisation of your previous human time; ‘I’m George and I review… etc.’
9. Spare many a small prayer for the humans with whom you’ve related to over the course of (1-8); mention the names of those whose commodification you have most obviously come to know in name and file and duration, within the footnotes; write a symbolic abstract that needs no translation thereafter.

And so, we are here, number 8, a vertical infinity from one perspective – I understand that reviewing music does not need words and does not need stress or over-thinking at all. The music world can not need such species of anxiety, those species are the objects of evolution and extinction of an economic system that we increasingly do not belong to in laptop-screen light of our post-2012 stasis / saturation.


Annie Eve – Elvis (live)
((mothers)) – fat chance (live)


I’m real and I review music and it’s long since I did so by likening one artist to another. I am magnetically repelled from many facets of the ‘music world’; I’m not sure such a world exists as it may have done so, so naively and effectively in the past. During the years 2007 and 2012, music consumption exponentially saturated itself through the exponentially increased accessibility of internet outlets. This has done wonders for the democracy of expression and the once-inhibited silence of a hidden artist, it has done nothing for the pre-existing monopolies of music production and music categories. And so, the latter is forever more absurd and alienating of the human creative and the ‘music’ that she embarks upon.

I have heard, I am read.

Thanks and take care, welcome to the room and goodbye when you leave.