Last night I was soo tired, had had such shit day at work (got home at 9pm) and was generally fed up, it was all I could do to get loaded on gin and bennies, surf a bit, and go to bed.


This morning I discover that at some point, in response to this, I wrote:

At the risk of sounding like a codger, but your supposition that back in 19-dickety-2 or whenever the “the album is a totally arbitrary concept” is based on, disregards the more modern idea of “the album as a work”. Not necessarily something as annoying and fatuous as a “concept album”, but nevertheless something which transcends its status as a time-based compilation of singles and b-sides.

Having said that, though, even my own albums which are ostensibly concept albums (just don’t actually call them that… more a meta-song, an ephemeral grouping of tracks in a particular order designed to impart some meaning or moment or fleeting feeling or other to the listener) there’re still the “single tracks” too which can be pulled out and listened in fragante delicto*.

* ?

So um, I find myself at the commencement of a third paragraph, my previously ingested brace of martinis have sent my point scurrying off into the hinterland. Oh wait, were they just talking about hip hop albums, which surely everyone agrees are heavily infiltrated with unlistenable filler, and that’s not including those fucken ubiquitous skits.

[break for air and martini]

I’ve experimented on this. Play “Word on a Wing” from Bowie’s Station To Station; it’s not the same without being preceded by Golden Years and the bizarely theatrical title track. Not at all. So in conclusion, don’t lump our precious albums in with your “mediums to transmit the next pop chart-bound single and a couple of remixes”. Right pass the Werthers Originals.

So yeah.. sorry, Robyn.

Labels: debauchery